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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a17f5dd --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67857 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67857) diff --git a/old/67857-0.txt b/old/67857-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8a6424a..0000000 --- a/old/67857-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6745 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Kuningattaren lähetti, by Rafael -Sabatini - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Kuningattaren lähetti - -Author: Rafael Sabatini - -Translator: Alpo Kupiainen - -Release Date: April 17, 2022 [eBook #67857] - -Language: Finnish - -Produced by: Tapio Riikonen - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KUNINGATTAREN LÄHETTI *** - - - - - -KUNINGATTAREN LÄHETTI - -Kirj. - -Rafael Sabatini - - -Englanninkielestä ["St. Martin's Summer"] suomentanut - -Alpo Kupiainen - - - - - -Hämeenlinnassa, -Arvi A. Karisto Oy, -1923. - - - - -SISÄLLYS: - -Käskynhaltija -Lähetti -Leskimarkiisittaren myöntyväisyys -Condillacin linna -Garnache menettää malttinsa 44 -Garnache säilyttää malttinsa -Ansa viritetään -Ansa laukeaa -Rekryytti -Valérien vartija -Omantunnon asia -Pikalähetti -Florimondin kirje -Neuvottelu -Yllätys -Garnache lähtee Condillacista -Vallihaudassa -Florimond de Condillac -Haamu astiakaapissa -Kirkon velvollisuudet -Garnache tuomarina -Martin päivän aatto - - - -Käskynhaltija - - -Hänen majesteettinsa käskynhaltija Dauphinén maakunnassa kreivi de -Tressan istui mukavasti, purppuranpunainen nuttu täysin avoinna. - -Hänen tekotukkansa — jota hän käytti pakosta eikä muodin vuoksi — -virui pöydällä tomuisten paperien seassa. Hänen pienellä lihavalla -nenällään, jonka nipukka oli punainen ja pyöreä kuin kirsikka, olivat -sarvisankaiset silmälasit. Hänen silmänsä olivat kiinni ja suu auki, -ja joko suusta tai nenästä — tai kenties molemmista — kuului römeä -kuorsaus, joka ilmaisi, että herra käskynhaltija ahersi uutterasti -kuninkaansa palveluksessa. - -Taempana, vaatimattomamman pöydän ääressä kahden ikkunan välissä -suoritti kalpeakasvoinen, nukkavieruun takkiin puettu kirjuri -vähäpätöistä vuosipalkkaa vastaan velvollisuuksia, joista käskynhaltija -nautti suhteettoman suuria tuloja. - -Äkkiä häilähtivät hopeisilla liljankukilla koristetut raskaat siniset -samettiverhot kahisten syrjään ja kreivi de Tressanin hovimestari -mustassa puvussaan, jonka rintamuksella kelluivat hänen raskaat -virkaketjunsa, astui korskeasti huoneeseen. - -Kirjuri laski kynän kädestään ja loi säikähtyneen katseen uinailevaan -herraansa. - -— Shh! hän kuiskasi totisena, — hiljaa, herra Anselme! - -Anselme pysähtyi. Hän käsitti tilanteen vakavuuden. Hänen ryhtinsä -menetti jonkin verran arvokkuuttaan, ja hänen kasvojensa ilme muuttui. -Sitten hän sai takaisin osan äskeistä päättäväisyyttään. - -— Hänet täytyy kuitenkin herättää, hän julisti matalalla äänellä ikään -kuin peläten tehdä sitä, minkä sanoi välttämättömäksi. - -Kohtalo tuli hänen avukseen. Jossakin lähettyvillä pamahti ovi kuin -tykinlaukaus. Hiki kihosi kirjurin otsalle. Hän vaipui rennosti -taaksepäin tuolillaan, uskoen joutuneensa perikatoon. Anselme säpsähti -ja puraisi etusormeaan äänetöntä kirousta kuvaavalla tavalla. - -Käskynhaltija liikahti. Hänen kuorsauksensa kärjistyi äkilliseksi, -tukehtuneeksi röhinäksi ja katkesi siihen. Hänen luomensa avautuivat -verkalleen kuin pöllön, paljastaen vaaleansiniset silmät, jotka ensiksi -kiintyivät kattoon ja sitten Anselmeen. Samassa hän suoristautui -puhkuen ja rypistellen otsaansa ja penkoen käsillään papereita. - -— Tuhat tulimmaista! Miksi minua häiritään Anselme! hän mutisi -vaikerrellen, vielä puolinukuksissa. — Mitä hittoa te haluatte? Ettekö -ollenkaan ajattele kuninkaan asioita? Babylas, hän kääntyi kirjuriinsa, -— enkö sanonut teille, että minulla on paljon työtä ja että minua ei -saanut häiritä? - -Tällä miehellä, joka ei tehnyt mitään, oli suurena turhamaisuutena -tekeytyä Ranskan ahkerimmaksi ahertajaksi, eikä mikään yleisö — eivät -edes hänen omat palvelijansa — ollut hänelle liian alhaisia hänen -esittääkseen heille tätä lempiosaansa. - -— Herra kreivi, virkkoi Anselme mitä vaatimattomimpaan ja nöyrimpään -sävyyn, — en olisi suinkaan rohjennut tunkeutua toimistoonne, jos asia -olisi ollut vähemmän tärkeä. Mutta Condillacin leskimarkiisitar odottaa -alhaalla. Hän pyytää heti päästä teidän ylhäisyytenne puheille. - -Käskynhaltijassa tapahtui heti muutos. - -— _Madame la douairière_ täällä? hän huudahti. — Pankaa nämä -napit kiinni, lurjus. Nopeasti! Sopiiko minun tällä tavoin -vastaanottaa ylhäinen rouva? Sopiiko minun...? Babylas, kuvastin -yksityishuoneestani! Joutukaa! - -Kirjuri poistui kuin leimaus ja palasi salamana. - -Babylas piti kuvastinta ja Anselme järjesti käskynhaltijan tekotukkaa, -sillä välin kun Tressan itse väänteli mustia viiksiään — kuinka ne -säilyttivät värinsä, oli salaisuus hänen tuttavilleen — ja kampasi -useista leuoistaan versovaa parrantupsua. - -Hän vilkaisi vielä kerran kuvastimeen, otti kasvoilleen hymyn ja käski -Anselmen osoittaa vieraan sisälle. Sitten hän käski kirjurin mennä -hiiteen, mutta tarkemmin ajateltuaan huusi hänet ovelta takaisin. Hänen -turhamaisuutensa vaati ilmaisua. - -— Odottakaahan, hän sanoi. — On kirjoitettava kirje. Kuninkaan -asiat eivät siedä viivytystä — eivät kaikkien Ranskan -leskimarkiisittarienkaan tähden. Istukaa paikallenne. - -Babylas totteli häntä. Tressan seisoi selin avoimeen oveen. Hänen -jännittyneinä kuuntelevat korvansa olivat erottaneet naisen puvun -kahinan. Hän rykäisi ja alkoi sanella: - -— Hänen majesteetilleen hallitsevalle kuningattarelle, hän vaikeni -ja jäi seisomaan, syvästi miettien, otsa rypyssä. Sitten hän toisti -mahtipontisesti. — Hänen majesteetilleen hallitsevalle kuningattarelle. -Onko se jo valmis? - -— Kyllä, herra kreivi. »Hänen majesteetilleen hallitsevalle -kuningattarelle.» - -Hänen takaansa kuului askeleita ja rykäisy. - -— Herra de Tressan, sanoi täyteläinen ja sointuva naisääni, joskin -sävyltään kopean ylimielinen. - -Kreivi pyörähti heti ympäri, astui askeleen eteenpäin ja kumarsi. - -— Nöyrin palvelijanne, madame, hän tervehti, vieden käden sydämelleen. -— Tällaisen kunnian... - -— On välttämättömyys tuottanut teille, keskeytti vieras ylpeästi. — -Lähettäkää pois tuo mies! - -Sihteeri oli noussut seisomaan kalpeana ja arkana. Hänen silmänsä -laajenivat, kun hän kuuli naisen sanat. Hän odotti hirveätä purkausta -luonnollisena seurauksena siitä, että käytettiin tällaista sävyä -puhuttaessa miehelle, joka oli kotinsa ja koko Grenoblen hirmu. Ja -hänen hengityksensä salpautui hämmästyksestä, kun hän näki, kuinka -säyseä käskynhaltija oli. - -— Hän on sihteerini, Madame. Olimme työssä, kun te tulitte. Aioin -juuri alkaa sanella kirjettä hänen majesteetilleen kuningattarelle. -Käskynhaltijan virka sellaisessa maakunnassa kuin Dauphinéssa ei ole -— _hélas_ — mikään laiskantoimi. Hän huokasi kuten mies, jonka aivot -olivat väsyneet. — Siinä ei jää miehelle aikaa edes syödä ja nukkua -kunnolla. - -— Siinä tapauksessa tarvitsette lepohetken, sanoi nainen kylmän -töykeästi. — Ottakaa se heti ja jättäkää kuninkaan asiat puoleksi -tunniksi syrjään minun asioitteni tieltä! - -Sihteerin kauhistus kasvoi hyppäyksittäin. Aivan varmasti puhkeaisi -myrsky vihdoinkin tuon julkean naisen pään päällä. Mutta käskynhaltija, -joka tavallisesti oli niin tulisen kiivas, vastasi hänelle vain -toisella järjettömällä kumarruksellaan. - -— Lausuitte, madame, juuri ne sanat, jotka pyörivät kielelläni. -Babylas, poistukaa! Ja hän osoitti kädellään kirjurille halveksivasti -ovea. - -Sihteeri otti paperinsa, kynänsä ja mustetolpponsa ja meni tiehensä -arvellen, että maailman loppu oli käsillä. - -Kun ovi oli sulkeutunut hänen jälkeensä, kumarsi käskynhaltija taas, -hymyillen typerän näköisenä, ja siirsi tuolin vieraalleen. Tämä seisoi -takan edustalla, ratsupiiska kainalossa, vetäen käsistään upeita -ratsastuskäsineitään. Hän oli solakka, sopusuhtainen nainen; hänen -kasvonsa olivat uljaan kauniit, vaikka hän oli jo hyvän aikaa sitten -sivuuttanut elämänsä kevään. - -Käskynhaltija tarkkaili häntä salavihkaa ihailevasti, hypistellen -partaansa lyhyillä, paksuilla, veltonnäköisillä sormillaan. - -— Jospa tietäisitte, markiisitar, kuinka olen iloinen, kuinka... - -— Koetan kuvitella sitä mielessäni, mitä hyvänsä se lieneekin, -keskeytti toinen, ja hänen sanansa olivat yhtä ynseän ylimieliset kuin -koko hänen käytöksensä. — Nyt ei ole aikaa siroitella kaunopuheisuuden -kukkasia. Meillä on ankara pulma edessämme. - -Käskynhaltijan kulmakarvat kohosivat ja silmät menivät levälleen. - -— Pulma? hän sanoi, ja kun hän kerran avasi suunsa tätä yhtä sanaa -varten, jäikin se ammolleen. - -Markiisitar naurahti veltosti; hänen huulensa kaareutuivat ja kasvonsa -vääntyivät omituisesti. Hän alkoi koneellisesti vetää jälleen käsiinsä -hansikkaitaan, jotka juuri oli riisunut. - -— Näen kasvoistanne, kuinka hyvin te ymmärrätte minua, hän ivasi. — -Selkkaus koskee neiti de La Vauvrayeta. - -— Johtuuko se Pariisista — hovista? Kreivin ääni oli masentunut. - -Rouva nyökkäsi. — Havaintokykynne on ihmeellisen tarkka tänään, Tressan. - -Käskynhaltija työnsi vähäisen partatupsunsa hampaittensa väliin, kuten -hän tavallisesti teki ollessaan hämillään tai mietteissään. — A—h! hän -huudahti vihdoin, ja se kuulosti sisäänpäin vedetyltä, käsittämisestä -aiheutuvalta henkäykseltä. — Selittäkää tarkemmin! - -— Mitä selittämistä siinä on? Te tunnette jutun pääpiirteet. - -— Mutta minkäluontoinen on selkkaus? Millä tavoin se uhkaa, ja kuka on -siitä teille ilmoittanut? - -— Eräs pariisilainen ystäväni lähetti minulle siitä tiedon, ja hänen -sanansaattajansa toimi hyvin, sillä muutoin olisi herra de Garnache -ollut täällä ennemmin kuin hän, enkä minä olisi edes saanut onneksi -etukäteen hänen varoitustaan. - -— Garnache? virkkoi kreivi. — Kuka on Garnache? - -— Leskikuningattaren lähetti. Hänen majesteettinsa on lähettänyt hänet -tänne huolehtimaan siitä, että neiti de La Vauvraye saa oikeutta ja -pääsee vapaaksi. - -Tressan alkoi äkkiä ähkiä ja väännellä käsiään. - -— Miten kuningatar on saanut tietää — neiti de Vauvrayen — hm asemasta? -hän kysyi. - -Markiisitar pyörähti häneen päin vihan vimmassa. - -— Tyttö sai erään petturin viemään kirjettä. Siinä on kylliksi. -Jos sattuma tai kohtalo joskus toimittaa sen miehen käsiini, niin -jumal'auta! hän joutuu hirteen ripittämättä. - -Sitten hän hillitsi kiukkunsa. - -— Tressan, hän sanoi muuttuneella äänellä, — olen vihannesten -ympäröimä. Mutta ettehän te hylkää minua? Te olette puolellani loppuun -saakka — niinhän, ystäväni? Teihin voin ainakin luottaa? - -— Kaikessa, madame, vastasi kreivi, markiisittaren katseen lumoamana. — -Kuinka suuren joukon tämä Garnache tuo mukanaan? Oletteko ottanut siitä -selvää? - -— Ei yhtään miestä, riemuitsi rouva. - -— Ei yhtään miestä? kertasi Tressan kauhistuneena. - -Hän nosti äkkiä kätensä taivasta kohti ja jäi seisomaan hervottomana ja -tyrmistyneenä. - -Sitten hän katsahti vieraaseensa. — Aiotteko vastustaa häntä? - -Markiisitar tuijotti sekunnin ajan häntä silmiin ja naurahti sitten -hieman ilkeästi. - -— Olettepa te hupsu, hän tiuskaisi. — Pitääkö teidän kysyä, aionko -vastustaa — minä, jolla on Dauphinén lujin linna? - -Käskynhaltija puhalsi poskensa pullolleen ja alkoi taaskin pureksia -partaansa. - -— Madame, jos tämä mies saapuu ilman sotaväkeä ja te vastustatte hänen -tuomiaan määräyksiä, niin mitä luulette siitä koituvan? - -— Hän vaatii teiltä sotaväkeä ampuakseen muurini mäsäksi, vastasi -markiisitar tyynesti. - -Tressan katsoi häntä silmiin voimatta oikein uskoa korviaan. — Te -käsitätte sen? hän huudahti. - -— Lapsikin kai sen käsittäisi. - -Markiisittaren paatunut yltiöpäisyys vaikutti kreivin pelkoon kuin -tuulenpuuska hehkuviin hiiliin. Hänet valtasi äkkiä pelottavan raju -vimma kuten ainakin miehen, joka on ahdistettu epätoivon partaalle. - -— Entä minä sitten, madame? hän kuohahti. — Entä minä? Onko minun -mentävä tuhoon, vankilaan ja kenties hirteen kieltämällä häneltä -sotaväkeä? Sillä juuri siihen te tähtäätte. Onko minun tehtävä -itsestäni henkipatto? Onko minun, joka olen ollut Dauphinén -käskynhaltija viisitoista vuotta, päätettävä päiväni alennustilassa -tukeakseni naista, joka suunnittelee koulutyttöheilakan naittamista? -_Seigneur du Ciel!_ hän kiljui. - -Markiisitar de Condillac silmäili häntä, kasvot rauhallisina, katse -kylmänä. Tressanin purkauksen päätyttyä hän poistui takan luota ja meni -ovelle, napautellen ratsupiiskallaan keveästi kuvettaan. - -— _Au revoir_, herra de Tressan, hän hyvästeli kylmästi, selin kreiviin. - -Sen kuullessaan Tressan keskeytti kuumeisen kävelynsä ja nosti päänsä -pystyyn. Hänen raivonsa sammui kuin tuulenpuuskan puhaltama kynttilä. -Ja sen sijalle hiipi hänen sydämeensä uusi pelko. - -— Madame, madame! hän huudahti. — Malttakaa! Kuunnelkaa minua! - -Markiisitar pysähtyi ja loi Tressaniin olkansa yli halveksivan katseen. -Hänen punaiset huulensa olivat kaartuneet pilkalliseen ilmeeseen, ja -hänen jokaisesta piirteestään kuvastui röyhkeys. - -— Minusta tuntuu, monsieur, että olen kuullut hieman enemmän kuin -kylliksi. Olen varma ainakin siitä, että te olette ystäväni vain -hyvällä säällä, ainoastaan sanoissa valmis auttamaan. - -— Voi, ei, madame! huudahti kreivi, ja hänen äänessään oli -loukkaantunut sävy. — Markiisitar, en tarkoittanut, mitä sanoin. -En ollut oma itseni. Antakaa minun sovittaa se — antakaa vastaisen -toimintani hyvittää tämä valitettava poikkeus todellisesta -olemuksestani! - -Hän syöksähti eteenpäin ja tarttui markiisittaren ojentamaan käteen. - -— Tiesinhän, Tressan, sanoi tämä, — ettette ollut oma itsenne ja että -kun ajattelisitte sanojanne, ei uljas ja uskollinen ystäväni hylkäisi -minua. - -Tressan kumartui ja painoi mäiskähtäviä suudelmia rouvan kylmälle -käsineelle. - -— Madame, hän vakuutti, — saatte luottaa minuun. Se pariisilaislurjus -ei saa minulta ainoatakaan miestä, se on varma. - -Markiisitar tarttui hänen olkapäihinsä ja piti häntä edessään. Rouvan -kasvot olivat säteilevät, hurmaavat, ja hän katsoi kreiviä silmissään -niin hellä ilme, jollaista tämä ei ollut niissä nähnyt muutoin kuin -joskus hurjissa haaveissaan. - -— En tahdo kieltäytyä ottamasta vastaan teidän noin ritarillisesti -tarjoamaanne palvelusta, selitti markiisitar. — Menettelisin huonosti, -jos loukkaisin teitä torjumalla sen. - -— Markiisitar, intoili Tressan, — Tämä ei ole mitään verrattuna siihen, -mitä olisin valmis tekemään, jos tilaisuus tarjoutuisi. Mutta kun tämä -on suoritettu, kun olette saanut toteutetuksi tahtonne neiti de La -Vauvrayehen nähden ja kun häät on vietetty, niin sitten — rohkenenko -toivoa..? - -Ääneen hän ei lausunut sen enempää, mutta hänen pienet, siniset -silmänsä olivat siksi kaunopuheiset, että sanat olivat tarpeettomia. - -Heidän katseensa sattuivat vastakkain: markiisitar piti häntä edelleen -käsivarren matkan päässä lujalla ja jäntevällä otteella. - -Kun hän katseli Dauphinén käskynhaltijaa, hän näki edessään pelkän -surkean sammakon, ja hänen sieluaan puistatti, kun hän ajatteli, mihin -tuo mies oli viitannut. Mutta hänen katseensa ei värähtänyt, ja hymy -pysyi hänen huulillaan, ikään kuin Tressanin inhottavaa ojennusta olisi -verhonnut henkinen kauneus, jonka vain hänen silmänsä erotti. Hänen -poskilleen lehahti heikko puna, ja kun se on rakkauden väri, käsitti -Tressan sen merkityksen väärin. - -Markiisitar nyökkäsi kreiville, tukahdutti naurunsa, joka pani miehen -pään pyörälle toivosta, riistäytyi irti ja kiiti ovelle nopeasti, -melkeinpä kainosti, tuntui Tressanista. - -Sinne hän pysähtyi hetkiseksi, luoden kreiviin ujostelevan silmäyksen, -joka olisi sopinut puolta nuoremmalle tytölle kuin hän, mutta joka -hänen loistavan kauneutensa nojalla ei tuntunut sopimattomalta -hänellekään. - -Hän soi kreiville ihastuttavan hymyilyn, ja ennen kuin kreivi ennätti -avaamaan hänelle ovea, hän oli työntänyt sen auki ja kadonnut. - - - - -Lähetti - - -On tavallista, että nuoret antavat harkitsemattomia lupauksia, etenkin -kun pyytäjä on nainen. Varttuneessa iässä, kuten herra de Tressan oli, -ei sellaista saisi koskaan tapahtua. - -Niin kauan kuin hän oli ihastuksensa vallassa, niin kauan kuin -markiisittaren läheisyys hurmasi häntä, hän ei tuntenut minkäänlaista -katumusta, eivätkä huolet vaivanneet hänen mieltään. - -Tuli ilta, ja hänen ympärilleen laskeutui hämärä, jota vähensi vain -liedessä hehkuvien kekäleiden hohde. Hän komensi valoa huoneeseen -ja Babylasin luokseen. Valoa tuotiin ja Babylas tuli. Hän lähetti -palvelijan, joka oli sytyttänyt vahakynttilät, noutamaan Grenoblen -vartioväen komentajaa, kapteeni d’Aubrania. - -Ennen tämän saapumista hän keskusteli Babylasin kanssa siitä, mitä -hänen mielessään liikkui, mutta huomasi sihteerinsä erittäin tylsäksi -ja mielikuvitukseltaan perin köyhäksi. Niin ollen oli hänen pakostakin -turvauduttava vain omaan itseensä. Hän istui synkkänä ajatuksissaan, -vaivaten järkeään hyödyttömästi, kunnes kapteeni ilmoitettiin. - -Vaikka hänellä ei vielä ollutkaan minkäänlaista määrättyä suunnitelmaa, -kävi hän suinpäin käsiksi ensimmäisiin valmistelutoimenpiteisiin -tarkoituksensa saavuttamiseksi. - -— Herra kapteeni, hän aloitti hyvin vakavana, — minulla on syytä -luulla, ettei kaikki ole niin kuin olla pitäisi Montélimarin piirin -kunnailla. - -— Onko siellä levotonta, monsieur? kysyi kapteeni hätkähtäen. - -— Ehkä on, ehkä ei, vastasi käskynhaltija salaperäisesti. — Täydelliset -määräykset saatte huomenna. Tällä välin valmistautukaa lähtemään -Montélimarin lähistölle mukananne parisataa miestä! - -— Parisataa, monsieur! huudahti d’Aubran. — Mutta silloinhan Grenoble -jää ilman sotilaita. - -— Entä sitten? Todennäköisesti emme niitä täällä tarvitse. Pankaa -valmistautumismääräyksenne kiertämään jo tänä iltana, että miehenne -ovat lähtövalmiina hyvissä ajoin huomenna! Suvainnette tulla luokseni -varhain aamulla saamaan ohjeita. - -Ihmetellen poistui kapteeni d’Aubran tehtäviinsä ja käskynhaltija -illalliselle mielissään ovelasta tempusta, jolla hän aikoi toimittaa -vartioväen pois Grenoblesta. - -Mutta seuraavana aamuna hän ei enää ollutkaan niin tyytyväinen tähän -ajatukseen. Hänen harkitsematon lupauksensa oli alkanut häntä vähän -harmittaa. - -Kun kapteeni d’Aubran ilmoitettiin, käski hän palvelijansa pyytää -tätä tulemaan uudestaan tunnin kuluttua. Lupauksen aiheuttama harmi -oli muuttumassa peloksi ja kalvavaksi katumukseksi. Hän istui -työhuoneessaan paperikasojen peittämän kirjoituspöytänsä ääressä, pää -käsien varassa, ajatukset sekavina, pinnistäen kiihkeästi aivojaan -keksiäkseen jonkin keinon selviytyä asiasta. - -Sellaisessa tilassa hän oli, kun Anselme työnsi syrjään oviverhon ja -ilmoitti, että alhaalla oli joku Pariisista saapunut herra de Garnache, -joka pyrki heti herra käskynhaltijan puheille valtion asioissa. - -Tressan vavahti, ja hänen rohkeutensa lannistui. Mutta äkkiä hän sitten -epätoivoisena karkaisi luontoaan. - -— Opastakaa sisään herra de Garnache! hän sanoi hienon ylväästi, -miettien mielessään, mitä ja miten oli puhuttava. - -Ovi avautui, verho vetäistiin sivulle, ja Anselme ilmoitti: — Herra de -Garnache! - -Tressan kääntyi ympäri, kun tulokas astui reippaasti huoneeseen ja -kumarsi hattu kädessä, niin että sen punainen töyhtö lakaisi lattiaa, -ojentautuen sitten ja sallien käskynhaltijan tehdä hänestä arvionsa. - -Tressan näki edessään kookkaan miehen, jonka tanakka vartalo hoikkeni -vyötäisiltä alaspäin ja joka ensi silmäyksellä näytti olevan -pääasiallisesti nahkaan puettu. Toisessa kädessään hän piti leveätä -mustaa, punatöyhtöistä hattuaan, toisessa pientä pergamenttirullaa; -ja hänen liikkuessaan kuuluva nahan narina ja kannusten kilinä oli -mieluista musiikkia sotaisen ihmisen korvasta. - -Miehen nenä oli kaareva ja jokseenkin iso; silmät siniset, -teräksenkirkkaat ja hieman kaukana toisistaan. - -Käskynhaltijaa, joka tarkasteli häntä vastustajan silmillä, ei hänen -ulkomuotonsa miellyttänyt. Mutta, hän kumarsi kohteliaasti, heilauttaen -käsiään ilmassa ja muristen: - -— Valmis palvelemaan teitä, herra de? - -— Garnache, täydensi reipas, metallisointuinen ääni, ja nimi kuulosti -hänen huuliltaan samanlaiselta kuin kirous. — Martin Marie Rigobert de -Garnache. Tulen luoksenne hänen majesteettinsa kuningattaren käskystä, -ja tämä valtakirjani selvittää teille asiani. Hän ojensi Tressanille -kädessään olevan asiakirjan, jonka Tressan otti vastaan. - -Salakavalan käskynhaltijan piirteissä tapahtui muutos. Tähän asti -olivat hänen pyöreät kasvonsa olleet kysyvän näköiset, mutta kun -pariisilainen ilmoitti olevansa kuningattaren lähetti, antoi -Tressan niille ihmettelyn ja kunnioituksen ilmeen, joka olisi ollut -luonnollinen, jollei hän olisi jo etukäteen tietänyt, mikä mies herra -de Garnache oli ja millä asialla hän saapui. - -Hän siirsi tuolin vieraalleen, meni takaisin kirjoituspöytänsä ääreen -ja avasi Garnachen antaman käärön: Tulokas istuutui, veti miekkansa -kannikkeen niin, että voi nojata molemmin käsin kahvaan, ja istui -jäykkänä ja liikkumattomana, odottaen, että herra käskynhaltija -suvaitsisi puhua. - -Tressan käänsi paperin huolellisesti kokoon ja antoi sen takaisin -omistajalleen. Se oli tavallinen muodollinen suosituskirje, jossa -mainittiin, että Garnache saapui Dauphinén valtion asioissa, ja -käskettiin herra de Tressanin antaa hänelle kaikkea sitä apua, jota hän -tehtäväänsä suorittaessaan mahdollisesti tarvitsisi. - -— _Parfaitement_, hyrisi käskynhaltija. — Ja jos te, monsieur, nyt -suvaitsette ilmoittaa minulle, minkälaatuinen asianne on, olen kokonaan -käytettävissänne. - -— Sanomattakin on selvää, että tunnette Condillacin linnan, alkoi -Garnache, käyden suoraan käsiksi asiaan. - -— Aivan niin. Käskynhaltija nojautui taaksepäin, ja häntä huolestutti, -kun hän huomasi, että hänen suonensa tykytti hieman liian nopeasti. -Mutta hän hillitsi ilmeensä, säilyttäen ne rauhallisina ja -hyväntahtoisina. - -— Ehkä tunnette sen asukkaat? jatkoi vieras. - -— Kyllä. - -— Läheisestikö? - -Käskynhaltija suipisti suutaan, kohautti kulmakarvojaan ja liikautti -hitaasti pulleita käsiään. - -— Minun käsittääkseni te aiotte kertoa minulle omista asioistanne -ettekä tiedustella minun asioitani. - -Garnache nojautui taaksepäin tuolissaan ja hänen silmänsä kapenivat. -Hän vainusi vastustusta, ja pahimpana kompastuskivenä hänen urallaan -oli ollut, ettei hän oppinut sietämään vastustusta keltään. - -— Te erehdytte tarkoituksestani, monsieur, hän vastasi sivellen -vankkaa leukaansa laihalla, ruskealla kädellään. — Koetin vain saada -selville, missä määrin te jo tunnette sikäläisiä oloja, säästyäkseni -selostamasta teille jo tuttuja tosiseikkoja. Mutta, monsieur, olen -valmis noudattamaan toista menetelmää, joka teistä on mieluisampi. - -— Niinpä siis: asiani on lyhyesti esitettynä seuraava. Markiisi de -Condillac-vainajalta jäi kaksi poikaa. Vanhempi, Florimond — joka -on nykyinen markiisi ja joka on isänsä kuolemasta saakka ollut -ja on edelleenkin poissa täältä, sodassa Italiassa — on nykyisen -leskimarkiisittaren poikapuoli; markiisitar on nuoremman pojan, Marius -de Condillacin, äiti. - -— Jos huomaatte, että esitykseni on jossakin kohdassa virheellinen, -niin pyydän teitä, monsieur, hyväntahtoisesti oikaisemaan sen. - -Käskynhaltija kumarsi juhlallisesti, ja herra de Garnache jatkoi: - -— Tämä nuorempi poika — luultavasti hän nykyisin on yhdennelläkolmatta -ikävuodellaan — on ollut jossakin määrin hurjapäinen. - -— _Bon Dieu_, ei. Olisi liian tylyä käyttää hänestä sellaista -nimitystä. Hieman varomaton silloin tällöin, vähän harkitsematon, kuten -nuoret yleensä. - -Hän olisi puhunut enemmänkin, mutta pariisilaista ei haluttanut tuhlata -aikaa sanasaivartelmiin. - -— No hyvä, hän keskeytti. — Sanokaamme: hieman ajattelematon. Asiani -ei koske herra Mariuksen moraalin vakavuutta eikä sen puutteita. Tämä -hänen ajattelemattomuutensa, jota te väheksytte, näkyy riittäneen -vieroittamaan hänet isästään, mikä vain oli omiaan tekemään hänet -sitäkin rakkaammaksi äidistä. Minulle on kerrottu, että markiisitar on -hyvin komea nainen ja että poika on ihmeellisesti hänen näköisensä. - -— Kaunis nainen — ylevä, loistava nainen, huoahti käskynhaltija -viehättyneenä. - -— Hm! Tuikeana Garnache pani merkille tämän hurmaantuneen ilmeen. -Sitten hän jatkoi kertomustaan. - -— Markiisivainajan naapuri, myös manalle mennyt herra de La Vauvraye, -oli hänen hyvin läheinen ja arvossapidetty ystävänsä. Herra de La -Vauvrayella oli ainoastaan yksi lapsi, tytär, perimässä hänen varsin -huomattavan omaisuutensa — todennäköisesti koko Dauphinén suurin, -mikäli olen saanut tietää. Hänen sydämensä hartain toivo oli, -että koko hänen ikänsä kestänyt läheinen ystävyys muuttuisi vielä -läheisemäksi suhteeksi seuraavassa polvessa — mikä toivomus sai perin -altista vastakaikua herra de Condillacin sydämessä. Florimond de -Condillac oli siihen aikaan kuusitoista- ja Valérie de La Vauvraye -neljätoistavuotias. Nuoruudestaan huolimatta heidät kihlattiin ja he -oppivat rakastamaan toisiaan, odottaen sen suunnitelman toteutumista, -josta heidän isänsä olivat sopineet. - -— Monsieur, monsieur, vastusti käskynhaltija, — kuinka voitte väittää -noin paljon? Kuinka voitte sanoa, että he rakastivat toisiaan? Millä -perusteilla voitte väittää tuntevanne heidän sisimpiä ajatuksiaan? - -— Neiti de La Vauvrayen todistuksen perusteella, oli eittämätön -vastaus. — Kerron teille vain samaa, mitä hän itse kirjoitti -kuningattarelle. - -— No niin — jatkakaa, monsieur! - -— Tämä avioliitto tekisi Florimond de Condillacista Dauphinén -varakkaimman ja mahtavimman aatelismiehen — yhden Ranskan varakkaimpia; -ja se ajatus miellytti vanhaa markiisia, koska se seikka, että hänen -poikiensa maalliset omaisuudet tulisivat olemaan niin erisuuret, -osoittaisi, että hän paheksui nuoremman poikansa käytöstä. Mutta ennen -naimisiinmenoaan ilmoitti Florimond haluavansa nähdä maailmaa, kuten -sellaiselle nuorelle miehelle, jolla myöhemmin tulisi olemaan niin -suuri vastuunalaisuus, olikin sopivaa ja asianmukaista. Hänen isänsä -käsitti tällaisen menettelyn viisauden eikä pannut kovasti vastaan, -ja kahdenkymmenen ikäisenä lähti Florimond ottamaan osaa Italiassa -käytäviin sotiin. Kaksi vuotta sen jälkeen, vähän enemmän kuin kuusi -kuukautta takaperin, kuoli hänen isänsä ja muutamia viikkoja myöhemmin -seurasi herra de La Vauvraye ystäväänsä hautaan. Viimeksimainitulla -ei ollut kaukonäköisyyttä, minkä seikan nojalla koko tämä pulma on -voinut syntyä, ja hän arvosteli väärin Condillacin leskimarkiisittaren -luonnetta, uskoen hänen hoivattavakseen tyttärensä Valérien Florimondin -palaamiseen saakka, jolloin häät luonnollisesti heti vietettäisiin. -Otaksuttavasti on kaikki, mistä olen puhunut, teille jo ennestään -tuttua. Mutta tästä ikävästä kertaamisesta saatte kiittää omaa -haluttomuuttanne vastata kysymyksiini. - -— Ei suinkaan, monsieur; vakuutan, että esityksessänne on minulle -paljon kokonaan uutta. - -— Se ilahduttaa minua, herra de Tressan, sanoi Garnache hyvin -vakavasti, — sillä jos kaikki nämä tosiseikat olisivat olleet -tiedossanne, olisi hänen majesteetillaan kuningattarella ollut -oikeus vaatia selitystä siitä, minkä vuoksi te ette ole sekaantunut -Condillacin tapahtumiin. - -— Mutta jatkakaamme! Kun markiisitar de Condillac ja hänen kallis -Mariuksensa huomasivat Florimondin poissa ollessa olevansa tilanteen -herroja, he alkoivat parhaansa mukaan käyttää sitä omaksi edukseen. -Neiti de La Vauvraye, joka nimellisesti on heidän holhottavanaan, -on tosiasiallisesti heidän vankinsa, ja hänelle on esitetty rumia -suunnitelmia, joiden mukaan hänen on mentävä naimisiin Mariuksen -kanssa. Jos leskimarkiisitar saisi tämän toteutetuksi, niin hän -nähtävästi turvaisi pojalleen mukavan ja arvokkaan tulevaisuuden, -samalla tyydyttäen hillittyä vihaansa poikapuoltaan kohtaan. - -— Mutta neiti vastustaa heitä, ja siinä hän on saanut tukea -onnellisesta seikasta, joka on johtunut markiisittaren luonteen -pääpiirteeltä näyttävästä ylimielisestä röyhkeydestä. Markiisin -kuoleman jälkeen on Condillac kieltäytynyt maksamasta kymmenyksiä -kirkolle, ja piispaa on pilkattu ja solvattu. Huomattuaan -nuhteet turhiksi vastasi tämä prelaatti julistamalla Condillacin -kirkonkiroukseen, riistäen kaikilta sen asukkailta papiston avun. Niin -ollen eivät he löydä ainoatakaan pappia, joka rohkenisi mennä sinne, ja -vaikka he olisivat halunneetkin pakottaa neidin avioliittoon Mariuksen -kanssa, ei heillä olisi ollut siihen tarvittavia keinoja. - -— Florimond on edelleen poissa. Meillä on hyvät syyt uskoa, että isän -kuolema on pidetty häneltä salassa. Häneltä silloin tällöin saapuvien -kirjeiden nojalla on varmaa, että hän ainakin kolme kuukautta sitten -oli hengissä ja terveenä. On lähetetty sanansaattaja etsimään häntä -ja kehottamaan häntä heti palaamaan kotiin. Mutta odoteltaessa -hänen saapumistaan on kuningatar päättänyt ryhtyä tarpeellisiin -toimenpiteisiin neiti de La Vauvrayen vapauttamiseksi vankeudesta, -ettei hänen tarvitsisi enää kiusaantua rouva de Condillacin ja hänen -poikansa käsissä — _enfin_, ettei hän enää olisi minkäänlaisen uhan -alaisena. - -— Asiani, monsieur, on ilmoittaa teille nämä tosiseikat ja pyytää -teitä lähtemään Condillaciin sekä tuomaan sieltä neiti de La Vauvraye, -jonka minä sitten saatan Pariisiin ja jätän hänen majesteettinsa -kuningattaren suojelukseen siihen saakka, kunnes uusi markiisi palaa -vaatimaan häntä omakseen. - -Lopetettuaan puheensa nojautui herra de Garnache taaksepäin tuolissaan, -pannen jalkansa ristiin ja tarkkaillen käskynhaltijan kasvoja -odottaessaan hänen vastaustaan. - -Hän näki, kuinka noille tylsille kasvoille levisi synkkä neuvottomuuden -ilme. Tressanin oli kauhean paha olla, ja hänen kasvonsa menettivät -suuren osan tavallista verevyyttään. Hän koetti kierrellen voittaa -aikaa. - -— Eikö teistä tunnu siltä, monsieur, että tämän lapsen — neiti de La -Vauvrayen — sanoille on annettu liian paljon arvoa? - -— Tuntuuko teistä, että asianlaita on niin — että hän on liioitellut? -kysäisi herra de Garnache puolestaan. - -— Ei, ei suinkaan. Sitä en väitä. Mutta — mutta — eikö olisi parempi -— enemmän — hm — tyydyttävää kaikille asianomaisille, jos te itse -menisitte Condillaciin ja esittäisitte asianne henkilökohtaisesti, -vaatien neiti de La Vauvrayeta mukaanne? - -Pariisilainen katseli häntä hetkisen, nousi sitten äkkiä pystyyn ja -siirsi miekkansa kantimen takaisin tavalliselle kohdalleen. Hänen -otsansa meni synkkiin ryppyihin, mistä käskynhaltija päätti, ettei -hänen ehdotuksensa herättänyt tyydytystä. - -— Monsieur, virkkoi pariisilainen hyvin kylmästi sellaisen miehen -tapaan, jonka mielessä alkaa viha herätä, — sallikaa minun sanoa -teille, että olen ensimmäistä kertaa eläissäni missään sellaisessa -puuhassa, johon on sekautunut naisia — ja olen lähes nelikymmenvuotias. -Tämä tehtävä, sen voin teille vakuuttaa, ei ollut mieleiseni. Ryhdyin -siihen sen tähden, että sotilaana, jolle oli annettu määräys, en -kovaksi onnekseni voinut siitä kieltäytyä. Mutta minä aion, monsieur, -pitää tiukasti kiinni saamieni käskyjen sanamuodosta. Jo tähän mennessä -olen nähnyt vaivaa enemmän kuin kylliksi tämän neidon asioissa. Te -olette kuullut sanomani. Minä vietän tämän päivän Grenoblessa ja nautin -hyvin ansaittua lepoa. Tähän aikaan huomenna olen valmis lähtemään -paluumatkalle. Silloin on minulla kunnia saapua uudelleen luoksenne -saadakseni teiltä neiti de La Vauvrayen huostaani. Odotan, että hän on -täällä luonanne valmiina lähtemään mukaani huomenna puolenpäivän aikaan. - -Hän kumarsi, heilauttaen töyhtöhattuaan ja olisi poistunut samassa, -mutta käskynhaltija pidätti häntä. - -— Monsieur, monsieur, huudahti käskynhaltija surkeasti peloissaan, — te -ette tunne Condillacin leskimarkiisitarta. - -— Enpä tietenkään. Entä sitten? - -— Entä sitten? Jos tuntisitte hänet, niin tietäisitte, ettei hän ole -talutettava nainen. Voin kyllä kuningattaren nimessä käskeä häntä -luovuttamaan neiti de La Vauvrayen. Mutta hän vastustaa minua. - -— Vastustaa teitä? kertasi Garnache, katsellen otsa rypyssä silmiin -tätä lihavaa miestä, jonka kiihtymys oli myös saattanut nousemaan -pystyyn. — Vastustaa teitä — teitä, Dauphinén käskynhaltijaa? Te -laskette leikkiä. - -— Mutta varmasti hän tekee niin, intti toinen kiihkeästi. — Odotatte -turhaan näkevänne tyttöä huomenna, jollette itse mene Condillaciin -häntä noutamaan. - -Garnache suoristautui, ja hänen vastauksensa sävy oli lopullisen jyrkkä. - -— Te olette tämän maakunnan kuvernööri, monsieur, ja tässä asiassa on -teillä lisäksi kuningattaren erityinen valtuutus — niin, olette saanut -hänen määräyksensä. Nämä minun teille esittämäni käskyt te suoritatte -osoittamallani tavalla. - -Käskynhaltija kohautti olkapäitään ja pureskeli sekunnin ajan partaansa. - -— Teidän on helppo käskeä, mitä minun on tehtävä. Sanokaa pikemmin, -kuinka minun on se tehtävä, kuinka voitan hänen vastarintansa! - -— Olette kovin varma siitä, että kohtaatte vastarintaa — omituisen -varma, huomautti Garnache, katsoen Tressania silmiin. — Mutta onhan -teillä joka tapauksessa sotaväkeä. - -— Niin on hänelläkin ja lisäksi Etelä-Ranskan vankin linna -puhumattakaan koko maailman pirullisimmasta uppiniskaisuudesta. Mitä -hän sanoo, sen hän tekeekin. - -— Ja mitä kuningatar sanoo, sen hänen uskolliset palvelijansa tekevät, -oli Garnachen hyytävän kuiva vastaus. Mielestäni ei meillä ole muuta -puhuttavaa, monsieur. Tähän aikaan huomenna odotan saavani teiltä -täällä huostaani neiti de La Vauvrayen. Näkemiin siis huomiseen saakka, -herra käskynhaltija! - -Ja kumarrettuaan toisen kerran pariisilainen suoristautui, pyörähti -ympäri ja poistui huoneesta. - -Käskynhaltija vaipui takaisin tuoliinsa ja mietti mielessään, eikö -kuolema olisi helppo keino selviytyä tästä kauheasta tilanteesta, johon -sattuma ja hänen Condillacin leskimarkiisitarta kohtaan tuntemansa -onneton ihastus olivat hänet saattaneet. - -Kirjoituspöytänsä ääressä istui sihteeri, joka oli ollut keskustelun -todistajana, ja hän oli melkein yhtä ymmällä kuin Tressankin. - -Tunnin ajan Tressan viipyi paikallaan syviin aatoksiin vaipuneena. -Sitten hänet äkkiä valtasi kiihko, hän päästi yhden tai pari -voimaperäistä kirousta, nousi seisomaan ja käski satuloida hevosen -ratsastaakseen Condillaciin. - - - - -Leskimarkiisittaren myöntyväisyys - - -Täsmälleen kello kaksitoista seuraavana päivänä ilmestyi -herra de Garnache uudelleen käskynhaltijan palatsiin mukanaan -yksityispalvelijansa Rabecque, laiha, tummaverinen, teräväpiirteinen -mies, joka oli hieman nuorempi isäntäänsä. - -Turpea taloudenhoitaja Anselme otti heidät vastaan syvin -kunnioittavasti ja opasti Garnachen heti herra de Tressanin puheille. - -De Garnachen ja käskynhaltijan välinen eilinen keskustelu oli saanut -ensinmainitun melko lailla epäilemään, ettei neiti de La Vauvrayta -luovutettaisi hänen hoivattavakseen, kuten hän oli vaatinut. Hänen -mielensä keveni sen vuoksi melkoisesti, kun hänet saatettiin Tressanin -huoneeseen ja hän tapasi siellä matkapukuisen naisen, jolla oli vaippa -yllään ja hattu päässään ja joka istui tuolilla ison takan ääressä. - -Huulillaan sydämellinen tervetuliaishymy Tressan tuli häntä vastaan, ja -he kumarsivat toisilleen muodollisen tervehdyksen. - -— Kuten näette, monsieur, alkoi käskynhaltija, heilauttaen pulleaa -kättänsä naiseen päin, — on teitä toteltu. Kas tässä holhottinne. - -Sitten hän kääntyi naiseen päin ja esitteli. — Tämä on herra de -Garnache, josta olen teille jo puhunut ja jonka on hänen majesteettinsa -kuningattaren käskystä saatettava teidät Pariisiin. - -— Ja nyt, hyvät ystävät, vaikka seuranne tuottaakin minulle varsin -suurta huvia, en ole pahoillani siitä, että lähdette pian, sillä -minulle on kasautunut hirveästi työtä. - -Garnache kumarsi naiselle, joka vastasi hänen tervehdykseensä -taivuttamalla päätään. Pariisilainen loi häneen valppaan katseen -terävistä silmistään. - -— Hyvä! hän sanoi. — Koska olette valmis ja käskynhaltija haluaa -mielellään päästä meistä eroon, niin lähtekäämme kaikin mokomin -liikkeelle. Edessänne on pitkä ja rasittava matka, mademoiselle. - -— Minä — minä olen siihen valmis, tämä änkytti. - -Garnache astui sivulle ja kumarsi syvään, heilauttaen samalla hattuaan -oveen päin. Tätä kehotusta mennä edeltäpäin noudatti nainen nopeasti, -kumarsi Tressanille ja lähti astumaan huoneen poikki. - -Hieman kapenevin silmin Garnache seurasi häntä terävällä katseellaan. -Äkkiä hän vilkaisi Tressaniin levottomuutta herättävästi. Sitten hän -suoristautui ja puhutteli naista hyvin jyrkästi. - -— Mademoiselle! - -Tämä pysähtyi, pyörähti häneen päin ja näytti arastelevan ja karttoi -Garnachen katsetta. - -— Epäilemättä on käskynhaltija ilmoittanut teille, kuka olen. Mutta -mielestäni on teidän hyvä saada siitä varmuus. Ennen kuin antaudutte -hoivattavakseni, olisi teidän järkevää varmistautua siitä, että minä -todella olen hänen majesteettinsa kuningattaren lähetti. Tahtoisitteko -olla ystävällinen ja silmätä tätä? - -Puhuessaan hän veti taskustaan kuningattaren omin käsin kirjoittaman -kirjeen, käänsi sen ylösalaisin ja ojensi sen naiselle. Käskynhaltija -katseli tylsännäköisenä muutaman askelen päästä. - -— Mutta varmistautukaapa, mademoiselle, tosiaankin siitä, että tämä -herrasmies on juuri sama, joksi olen häntä sanonut. - -Näin kehotettuna tyttö otti kirjeen. Hänen katseensa osui sekunnin -ajaksi Garnachen välkkyviin silmiin, ja hän vapisi. Sitten hän' -loi katseensa kirjoitukseen ja silmäili sitä hetken samalla kun -pariisilainen tarkkaili häntä tutkivasti. - -Pian hän ojensi kirjeen takaisin. - -— Kiitos, monsieur! Muuta hän ei virkkanut. - -— Oletteko nyt varma siitä, että kaikki on kunnossa, mademoiselle? -kysyi Garnache, ja hänen kysymyksessään värähti iva, joka oli liian -hieno sekä naiselle että käskynhaltijalle. - -— Olen aivan varma. - -Garnache kääntyi Tressaniin päin. Hänen silmissään väikkyi hymy, mutta -se ei ollut miellyttävä, ja kun hän alkoi puhua, kumahteli hänen -äänessään myrskyn lähestymistä ennustava värähtely. - -— Neiti on saanut omituisen kasvatuksen. - -— No? äänsi Tressan ällistyneenä. - -— Olen kuullut, monsieur, että jossakin itämailla asuu kansa, joka -lukee ja kirjoittaa oikealta vasemmalle; mutta ikinä en ole kuullut -mainittavan kenenkään koulutuksen — ainakaan Ranskassa — olleen niin -kummallisen, että hän lukee kirjoitusta ylösalaisin. - -Tressan oivalsi, mihin toinen tähtäsi, ja kalpeni hiukan. - -— Neidin kasvatus on ollut huolimatonta — mikä ei ole suinkaan -tavatonta näillä main. Hän tuntee sen ja koettaa salata sitä. - -Silloin puhkesi myrsky valloilleen. Ja seuraavina hetkinä räiskyi ja -jyrisi peloittavasti. - -— Te valehtelija! Te kirotun julkea valehtelija! mylvi Garnache -jyrkän paheksuvasti, astuen askelen käskynhaltijaa kohti ja pudistaen -pergamenttia aivan hänen kasvojensa edessä uhkaavasti, ikään kuin se -olisi muuttunut hyökkäysaseeksi. — Voidakseenko salata sen, ettei -häntä ole opetettu kirjoittamaan, hän lähetti kuninkaalle monisivuisen -kirjeen? Kuka on tämä nainen? Ja sormi, jolla hän osoitti tyttöä, -vapisi raivosta, jonka hänen pettämisekseen punottu juoni oli hänessä -herättänyt. - -Tressan koetti turvautua loukattuun arvokkuuteen. Hän suoristautui, -nykäisi niskansa takakenoon ja katseli pariisilaista äkäisesti silmiin. - -— Koska käytätte tällaista kieltä minulle, monsieur... - -— Käytän teille — kuten kaikille ihmisille — sellaista kieltä kuin -minusta on parasta. Te kurja roisto! Hän meni tytön luokse ja kohotti -kädellään karkeasti hänen leukaansa, niin että hänen oli pakko katsoa -häntä silmiin. - -— Mikä on nimenne, letukka? hän kysyi. - -— Margot, sopersi nainen purskahtaen itkuun. - -Garnache päästi irti hänen leukansa ja kääntyi toisaalle, tehden -halveksivan liikkeen. - -— Laittautukaa tiehenne! hän komensi tylysti. — Laittautukaa takaisin -keittiöön ja sipulipellolle, josta teidät otettiin! - -Ja tyttö, joka tuskin uskoi selviytyvänsä niin onnellisesti, poistui -niin nopeasti, että se näytti melkein naurettavalta. Tressan ei osannut -sanoa mitään, ei sanaakaan pidättääkseen häntä, teeskentely oli turhaa, -sen hän käsitti. - -— Ja nyt, herra käskynhaltija, puhui Garnache, kädet puuskassa, silmät -tähdättyinä miehen kasvoihin, — näyttää siltä, että minun on itseni -käytävä asioihin käsiksi. Minun on itseni mentävä Condillaciin. Jos -minua siellä vastustetaan, niin odotan saavani teiltä tarpeelliset -välineet sen vastustuksen nujertamiseksi. - -— Ja pitäkää mielessänne tämä: Olen tahtonut jättää avoimeksi -kysymyksen siitä, oletteko te ollut mukana tässä juonessa, jolla on -tarkoitettu pettää kuningatarta pettämällä minua, hänen edustajaansa. -Mutta vallassani on ratkaista se kysymys milloin hyvänsä — millä tavoin -parhaaksi näen. Jollen, monsieur, tästä lähtien huomaa, että te — -kuten uskon — toimitte kuten horjumattoman uskollisen alamaisen tulee, -niin ratkaisen tämän kysymyksen julistamalla teidät kavaltajaksi; -ja kavaltajana pidätän teidät ja vien teidät Pariisiin. Herra -käskynhaltija, minulla on kunnia sanoa teille jäähyväiset! - -Hänen poistuttuaan viskasi herra de Tressan tekotukan päästään -ja pyyhki hikeä otsaltaan. Hän kävi vuoroin lumivalkeaksi ja -tulipunaiseksi, käveli raivon vallassa huoneessa edestakaisin. Niiden -viidentoista vuoden aikana, jotka olivat kuluneet siitä, kun hänet -korotettiin tämän maakunnan kuvernööriksi, ei kukaan ollut käyttänyt -hänelle sellaista sävyä eikä puhutellut häntä sellaisin sanoin. - -Hänen mielensä vaati verta, murha pyrki viekoittelemaan hänet -liittolaisekseen. Mutta hän torjui sen ajatuksen, niin kiukuissaan kuin -olikin. Toisenlaisilla aseilla oli hänen taisteltava tuota lurjusta -vastaan, tehtävä tyhjäksi hänen puuhansa ja pakotettava hänet palaamaan -Pariisiin ja ottamaan vastaan kuningattaren viha voitettuna ja asiaansa -toimittamatta. - -— Babylas! hän kiljaisi. - -Sihteeri ilmestyi heti. - -— Käske Anselmen heti tuoda kapteeni luokseni! - -Babylas kumarsi ja meni suorittamaan asiaansa. - -Saatuaan puretuksi osan pahaa tuultaan Tressan yritti hillitä itseään. -Hän pyyhkäisi vielä nenäliinalla kasvojaan ja päätään ja sijoitti -sitten tekotukan taas paikalleen. - -Kun d’Aubran astui sisään, oli käskynhaltija rauhallinen ja saavuttanut -tavallisen, tärkeän arvokkaan ulkonäkönsä. - -— Kas niin, d’Aubran, hän sanoi. — Te lähdette Grenoblesta tunnin -kuluessa ja viette miehenne Montélimariin. Majoitatte heidät sinne ja -odotatte minulta lisämääräyksiä. Babylas antaa teille sikäläisille -viranomaisille jätettävän kirjeen, jossa heidät velvoitetaan hankkimaan -teille sopivat asunnot. Saavuttuanne sinne, d’Aubran, ja odottaessanne -määräyksiäni käytätte aikanne tunnustellaksenne vuoriseutujen -mielialaa. Ymmärrättekö? - -— En täydelleen, tunnusti d’Aubran. - -— Ymmärrätte paremmin vietettyänne Montélimarissa viikon päivät. -Luonnollisesti voi ehkä olla kysymyksessä väärä hälytys. Mutta yhtä -kaikki on meidän huolehdittava kuninkaan eduista ja oltava varuillamme. -Kenties meitä jälkeenpäin syytetään siitä, että olemme pelästyneet -varjoja; mutta parempi on pitää varansa siitä hetkestä alkaen, jolloin -varjo näkyy, kuin odottaa siksi, kunnes todellinen vaara on niskassamme. - -Käskynhaltijan sanoihin tuntui sisältyvän niin paljon salattua -merkitystä, että vaikkakaan d’Aubran ei ollut tyytyväinen lähtiessään -asialle, jota hän niin vähän tunsi, hän kuitenkin alistui noudattamaan -saamiaan määräyksiä ja puolen tunnin kuluttua hän oli rumpujen -päristessä marssimassa Grenoblesta kaksipäiväisellä matkallaan -Montélimariin. - - - - -Condillacin linna - - -Sillä aikaa kun d’Aubran joukkoineen riensi länteenpäin Grenoblesta, -ratsasti de Garnache yhä palvelijansa seuraamana ripeästi -päinvastaiseen suuntaan, kohti Condillacin harmaita torneja, jotka -kohosivat vieläkin harmaammalle taivaalle Isèren laakson reunalla. - -He ratsastivat eteenpäin äänettöminä, ja Garnachen katse oli -nyt kiintynyt noin kilometrin päässä, joen vastaisella rannalla -sijaitsevaan harmaaseen, jyhkeään rakennukseen. Mentyään sillan poikki -he etenivät loivasti kohoavaa, karua, rosoista rinnettä ylöspäin -Condillaciin. Linna näytti rauhalliselta, vaikka se oli luja ja jykevä. -Sitä ympäröi suojakaivos, mutta nostosilta oli alhaalla, ja sen -ketjuihin syöpynyt ruoste osoitti, että se oli ollut siinä jo kauan. - -Kun ketään ei saapunut heitä vastaan,, ratsastivat matkalaisemme -siltapalkeille, jolloin heidän hevostensa kavioiden kumea kopse sai -portinvartijan kojusta jonkun liikkeelle. - -Huonosti puettu mies — sotilaan ja lakeijan tapainen — tuli heitä -vastaan porttikäytävästä, laahaten veltosti muskettia mukanaan. -De Garnache ilmoitti nimensä, lisäten, että hän tahtoi päästä -markiisittaren puheille. Mies astui syrjään, laskien heidät menemään. -Niinpä de Garnache ja Rabecque ratsastivat karkeasti kivetylle pihalle. - -Useista ovista ilmestyi miehiä, joista jotkut olivat sotilaspuvuissa, -mikä osoitti, että täällä oli jonkin verran vartioväkeä. Garnache ei -heistä suuria välittänyt. Hän viskasi ohjaksensa miehelle, jota oli -ensiksi puhutellut — mies oli astellut hänen rinnallaan — ja hypähti -ketterästi satulasta, käskien Rabecquen odottaa häntä siellä. - -Sotilaslakeija luovutti ohjat Rabecquelle ja kehotti de Garnachea -seuraamaan itseään. Hän opasti vieraan vasemmalla olevasta ovesta, -pitkin käytävää ja eteishuoneen lävitse lopuksi avaraan, synkkään -saliin, jonka seinillä oli tumma tammilaudoitus ja jota valaisi -jyhkeässä takassa räiskyvä valkea sekä goottilaisilla puitteilla -varustetuista ikkunoista tunkeutuva kalpea päivänvalo. - -Heidän astuessaan sisään murisi tulen ääressä viruva, maksanvärinen -koira laiskasti ja muljautti silmiään. Garnache ei ollut -huomaavinaankaan koiraa, vaan katseli ympärilleen. Huone oli kaunis, -sisustettu hillittyyn, ylevään tyyliin. Seinillä riippui Condillacien -esivanhempien kuvia — jotkut niistä olivat tekotavaltaan jotakuinkin -alkeellisia — jotka olivat koristetut muinaisten aikojen aseistukseen -kuuluvilla voitonmerkeillä ja metsästysvälineillä. Keskellä lattiaa oli -tummasta tammesta tehty pitkulainen pöytä, jonka jykevissä jaloissa oli -hyvin runsaasti kaiverruksia, ja posliinimaljakkoon pistetty kimppu -syysruusuja täytti huoneen suloisella tuoksullaan. - -Sitten Garnache huomasi ikkunan ääressä istuvan hovipojan, joka -uutterasti kiillotti haarniskaa. Hän jatkoi työtään, välittämättä -vieraiden tulosta, kunnes mies, joka oli tuonut pariisilaisen sinne, -puhutteli häntä, käskien hänen mennä ilmoittamaan, että markiisittaren -puheille pyrki eräs herra de Garnache, jolla oli sanoma kuningattarelta. - -Poika nousi pystyyn, ja samalla kertaa kohosi eräs toinen henkilö -isosta, takan vieressä olevasta tuolista, jonka karkea selkämys oli -tähän asti piilottanut hänet. Tämä oli noin kaksikymmenvuotias — -tarkalleen kaksikymmentäyksivuotias nuorukainen; hänellä oli kalpeat -siropiirteiset kasvot, musta tukka ja kauniit, tummat silmät; hän oli -loistavasti puettu välkkyvästä silkistä valmistettuun pukuun, joka väri -hänen liikkuessaan läikkyi vihreänä ja purppuranpunaisena. - -Herra de Garnache otaksui olevansa tekemisissä Marius de Condillacin -kanssa. Hän kumarsi hiukan jäykästi ja hämmästyi, kun hänen -kumarrukseensa vastattiin niin ystävällisen sulavasti, että se tuntui -melkein sydämelliseltä. - -— Oletteko Pariisista, monsieur? sanoi nuorukainen ystävällisellä, -miellyttävällä äänellä. — Pelkäänpä, että teillä oli kehnonlainen -matkasää. - -Garnache muisti sään lisäksi muitakin pahoja seikkoja, ja niiden -muistaminen sai hänet lämpenemään, melkeinpä raivostumaan. Mutta hän -kumarsi toistamiseen ja vastasi jotakuinkin kohteliaasti. - -Nuorukainen kehotti häntä istuutumaan vakuuttaen, ettei hänen äitinsä -antaisi kauan odottaa itseään. Hovipoika oli mennyt toimittamaan -asiaansa. - -Garnache noudatti kehotusta ja istuutui lämmittelemään tulen ääreen. - -Hetkiseksi syntyneen vaitiolon keskeytti oven avaamisesta johtuva ääni, -ja molemmat miehet nousivat yhtä aikaa seisomaan. - -Huoneeseen astui loistavan komea nainen, jonka Garnache huomasi -ihmeteltävässä määrin muistuttavan vieressään seisovaa poikaa. Hän otti -lähetin vastaan hyvin miellyttävästi. - -Mutta herra de Garnache oli hänen tuhansia sulojaan kohtaan yhtä -tunteeton kuin kivipatsas. Ripeästi hän kävi käsiksi asiaan. Häntä -ei missään nimessä haluttanut kuluttaa päiväänsä markiisittaren -takkavalkean ääressä keskustellen hupaisista, merkityksettömistä -jutuista. - -— Madame, hän aloitti, — herra de Condillac ilmoitti minulle, että -olette kuullut minusta ja tiedätte, millä asialla olen saapunut -Dauphinéen. En ollut odottanut, että saisin kunnian saapua aivan -Condillaciin saakka; mutta koska herra de Tressan, jonka valtuutin -lähettilääkseni, näkyy epäonnistuneen perinpohjaisesti, on minun ollut -pakko tunkeutua puheillenne. - -Markiisitar oli jo tehnyt suunnitelmansa. Nopeampiälyisenä kuin -poikansa hän oli, kun Garnache ilmoitettiin hänelle, heti oivaltanut -tämän vierailun merkitsevän, että petos, jolla hän oli koettanut päästä -pariisilaisesta eroon, ei ollut onnistunut. - -— Luullakseni, monsieur, hän vastasi nopeasti, silmäillen Garnachea -salavihkaa, — olemme me kaikki neiti de La Vauvrayen asioihin -sekaantuneet henkilöt jollakin tavoin erehtyneet. Hän on kiivas, -äkkipikainen lapsi, ja vähän aikaa sitten satuimme joutumaan sanasotaan -— sellaistahan tapahtuu sopuisimmissakin perheissä. Kiukkunsa -vallassa hän kirjoitti kirjeen kuningattarelle pyytäen, että hänet -siirrettäisiin pois minun holhouksestani. Sen jälkeen, monsieur, on hän -sitä katunut. Te, joka epäilemättä ymmärrätte naisellista mieltä... - -— Älkää ottako sellaista olettamusta pohjaksi, madame! keskeytti -Garnache. — Tunnen naisen mieltä yhtä huonosti kuin jokainen, joka -luulee tuntevansa sitä vähän — siis en yhtään! - -Markiisitar naurahti ikään kuin erinomaiselle pilalle, ja Marius, joka -palatessaan tuolilleen kuuli Garnachen vastauksen, yhtyi nauruun. - -— Pariisi on hieno järjen tahko, hän huomautti. - -Garnache kohautti olkapäitään. - -— Oletan, madame, teidän tahtovan vakuuttaa minulle, että neiti de -La Vauvraye, katuen kirjettään, ei enää halua päästä Pariisiin, vaan -pikemminkin haluaa jäädä tänne Condillaciin teidän kiitettävään -hoivaanne. - -— Olette käsittänyt asian aivan oikein, monsieur. - -— Mutta koska minä olen kuningattaren lähetti, on minun toteltava hänen -määräyksiään, ja niiden mukaan on minun saatettava neiti de La Vauvraye -Pariisiin. Niissä ei ole otettu huomioon mitään muutoksia, mitä -neidin mielessä kenties on tapahtunut. Jos tämä matka nyt on hänestä -vastenmielinen, saa hän siitä syyttää vain omaa harkitsemattomuuttaan, -koska hän itse sitä pyysi. Tärkeätä on vain se, että kuningatar on -käskenyt hänen saapua Pariisiin. Uskollisena alamaisena on hänen -noudatettava kuningattaren käskyä, teidän on uskollisena alamaisena -huolehdittava siitä, että hän sen tekee. Niin ollen, madame, luotan -teidän käyttävän vaikutusvaltaanne neitiin ja järjestävän niin, että -hän on matkavalmiina keskipäivällä huomenna. Nyt jo on yksi päivä -tuhlattu. - -Leskimarkiisitar nojautui taaksepäin tuolissaan ja puri huultaan. -Tämä mies oli liian terävä hänelle. Hänellä ei ollut harhaluuloja. -Garnache oli nähnyt hänen lävitseen, ikään kuin hän olisi ollut -lasia, oivaltanut hänen juonensa ja vilpillisyytensä. Mutta ollen -luottavinaan häneen ja uskovinaan hänen sanansa oli pariisilainen -tehnyt tehottomiksi hänen ainoat aseensa — muut paitsi hyökkäykseen -tarvittavat — ja käyttänyt niitä sitten hänen häviökseen. - -— Monsieur, hän sanoi, — arveletteko voivanne mukautua siihen, minkä -lausuin olevan meidän ja myös neiti de La Vauvrayen toivomuksen, jos -hän itse ilmoittaisi sen teille? - -Garnache loi häneen terävän silmäyksen hymyillen, niin että hänen -huulensa raottuivat ja vankat, valkeat hampaat paljastuivat. - -— No niin, hän virkkoi vihdoin. — En lupaa, että se voi horjuttaa -päätöstäni. Mutta kenties niin, olisin iloinen, jos saisin kunnian -tutustua neiti de La Vauvrayehen. - -Markiisitar meni ovelle, avasi sen ja huusi: Gaston! Vastaukseksi -ilmestyi hovipoika, joka oli ollut huoneessa Garnachen saapuessa. - -— Pyydä neiti de La Vauvrayeta tulemaan heti tänne luoksemme! hän käski -poikaa ja sulki oven. Garnache oli ollut valppaana nähdäkseen jonkin -salaisen merkin tai kuullakseen jonkin kuiskatun sanan, mutta hän ei -ollut huomannut mitään. - - - - -Garnache menettää malttinsa - - -— Te kutsuitte minua, madame, sanoi tyttö, pysähtyen empivänä huoneen -kynnykselle, ja hänen äänessään — miellyttävässä, nuorekkaassa -kontra-altossa — oli halveksiva sointu. - -Markiisitar huomasi tämän onnettomuutta uhkaavan merkin, ja se sai -hänet jo katumaan sitä, että hän oli ryhtynyt niin rohkeaan leikkiin, -kuin de Garnachen ja Valérien saattaminen toistensa seuraan oli. - -Hän vilkaisi huolestuneena Garnacheen. Tämä silmäili tyttöä, katseli -hänen hentoa, joustavaa vartaloaan, joka näytti tavallista pitemmältä -mustassa surupuvussaan, soikeita kasvojaan, jotka nyt olivat kalpeahkot -jännityksestä, hienoja, kaarevia kulmakarvoja, kirkkaita, ruskeita -silmiä ja upeata, ruskeata tukkaa, joka aaltoili mitä viehättävimmän, -valkoisen hilkan peittämänä. Hänen katseensa viipyi ihailevana -kaunispiirteisessä nenässä, viehättävästi muodostuneessa suussa ja -leuassa, huikaisevan valkeassa hipiässä, joka ei pistänyt silmään -ainoastaan kaulassa ja kasvoissa, vaan myös pitkissä, hoikissa, ristiin -pannuissa käsissä. - -Nämä kaikkialla näkyvät ylhäisen syntyperän merkit osoittivat hänelle -varmasti, että nyt häntä ei koetettu pettää väärällä henkilöllä. Hänen -edessään oleva tyttö oli todellakin Valérie de La Vauvraye. - -Markiisittaren kehotuksesta Valérie astui sisälle. Marius kiiruhti -sulkemaan oven ja tarjoamaan hänelle tuolia, osaten käytöksellään -erinomaisesti osoittaa samalla kertaa lämpimiä tunteita ja nöyrää -kunnioitusta. - -Tyttö istuutui ulkonaisesti tyynenä. Kukaan ei olisi voinut aavistaa, -kuinka tavattoman kiihtynyt hän oli katsellessaan miestä, jonka -kuningatar oli lähettänyt häntä noutamaan. - -Syntyi hiljaisuus, sen keskeytti vihdoin Marius, joka nojasi -kyynärpäitään Valérien tuolin selkämykseen. - -— Herra de Garnache on kohtuuton meitä kohtaan, ja hänestä on vaikea -uskoa, ettet sinä enää tahdo poistua luotamme. - -Sitä ei Garnache suinkaan ollut väittänyt, mutta koska se ilmaisi hänen -todelliset ajatuksensa, ei hän välittänyt oikaista Mariuksen sanoja. - -Valérie ei virkkanut mitään, vaan hänen katseensa siirtyi -markiisittaren kasvoihin, jotka rypistyivät uhkaavasti. Garnache pani -merkille, että tyttö oli vaiti, ja veti siitä omat johtopäätöksensä. - -— Sen vuoksi lähetimme kutsumaan sinua, jatkoi markiisitar poikansa -lausetta, — joten voisit itse vakuuttaa herra de Garnachelle, että asia -on siten. - -Tytöstä näkyi vastaaminen olevan vaikeata. Hänen katseensa harhaili -Garnacheen ja luiskahti taas toisaalle kaihtaen miehen läpitunkevia -silmiä. Hänestä tuntui, että pariisilainen kykeni näkemään hänen -ajatuksenakin, ja äkkiä tämä tunne, joka oli häntä pelottanut, muuttui -hänen toivokseen. Jos asianlaita oli siten kuin hän luuli, niin mitäpä -merkitsisi, mitä hän sanoisi? Kaikesta huolimatta Garnache tietäisi, -mitä hän todella ajatteli. - -— Niin, madame, hän lausui vihdoin, ja hänen äänensä oli aivan -ilmeetön. — Niin, monsieur, asia on kuten markiisitar on sanonut. -Haluan jäädä Condillaciin. - -Leskimarkiisittarelta, joka seisoi askeleen, parin päässä Garnachesta, -kuului melkein huoahdusta muistuttava ääni. Garnachelta ei jäänyt -mitään huomaamatta. Hän erotti äänen ja piti sitä helpotuksen merkkinä. -Sitten hän alkoi puhua, kohdistaen sanansa Valérielle. - -— Mademoiselle, on valitettavaa, että liiaksi hätäillen kirjoititte -kuningattarelle, kun nyt olette muuttanut mieltänne. Olen ymmärtämätön -mies, mademoiselle, pelkkä sotilas, jonka tulee totella määräyksiä -saamatta lainkaan ajatella. Minun on käsketty saattaa teidät Pariisiin. -Teidän tahtoanne ei ole otettu huomioon. En tiedä, miten kuningatar -tahtoisi minun toimivan, nähdessään, kuinka vastahakoinen olette; ehkä -hän suostuisi tahtonne mukaan jättämään teidät tänne. Mutta minä en -voi olla niin ylimielinen, että menisin arvailemaan, mitä kuningatar -haluaa. Minä en voi ottaa ohjeekseni muuta kuin hänen määräyksensä, -ja ne jättävät minulle avoimeksi vain yhden toimintamahdollisuuden — -pyytää teitä, mademoiselle, valmistautumaan heti lähtemään mukaani. - -Helpotuksen ilme, joka lehahti Valérien kasvoille, ja vähäinen puna, -joka lämmitti hänen tähän asti niin kalpeita kasvojaan, riittivät -täydelleen vahvistamaan Garnachen epäluulot oikeiksi. - -— Mutta, monsieur, puuttui Marius puheeseen, — teistäkin täytyy -olla selvää, että koska kerran kuningatar on antanut määräyksensä -noudattaakseen neidin toivomuksia, muuttuisivat nyt, kun neidin -toivomukset ovat muuttuneet, myös kuningattaren käskyt niiden -mukaisiksi. - -— Se lienee selvää teistä, monsieur; mutta pahaksi onneksi ovat saamani -määräykset ainoa ohjenuorani, intti Garnache. — Eikö neiti itse ole -samaa mieltä kanssani? - -Valérie oli sanomaisillaan jotakin; hänen katseensa oli innokas, hänen -huulensa avautuivat. Mutta sitten katosi kaikki väri hänen kasvoistaan, -ja hän näytti mykistyvän. Garnache loi syrjäsilmäyksen markiisittareen -ja yllätti hänen kasvoillaan rypistyksen, joka oli saanut aikaan tämän -äkillisen muutoksen. - -Garnache alkoi suuttua; sitten kehittyivät tapahtumat nopeasti. - -— Madame, hän jyrisi, — olen jo kylliksi kauan saanut teiltä -tanssiopetusta. Nyt on meidän luullakseni aika hieman kävellä -tavallisessakin tahdissa, muuten emme pääse vähääkään pitemmälle sillä -tiellä, jota aion mennä — ja se vie minut Pariisiin neidin seurassa. - -— Monsieur, monsieur! huudahti ällistynyt markiisitar, asettuen -säikähtämättä Garnachen eteen; ja Marius vapisi hänen puolestaan, sillä -mies näytti niin hurjalta, että nuorukainen melkein pelkäsi hänen -lyövän äitiään. - -— Olen kuullut tarpeeksi, kivahti Garnache. — Ei enää sanaakaan keltään -täällä Condillacissa! Minä otan tämän naisen mukaani — nyt, heti -paikalla; ja jos kukaan kohottaa sormeaankaan vastustaakseen minua, -niin, taivas olkoon todistajani, se on viimeinen kerta, jolloin hän -ketään vastustaa. Jos ainoakaan käsi tarttuu minuun tai jos edessäni -paljastetaan miekka, niin vannon, madame, palaavani ja polttavani tämän -kapinapesäkkeen perustuksiaan myöten. - -Sokea kiihko oli puhaltanut hänen terävän huomiokykynsä kuin tuhka -tuuleen, hänen kaikkinäkevän valppautensa sokaisi hänen aivojansa -sumentava vihanpilvi. Hän ei huomannut merkkiä, jonka markiisitar -antoi pojalleen, eikä Mariuksen hiljaista hiipimistä ovelle. Hän astui -Valérien luokse. - -— Oletteko valmis, mademoiselle? - -— Olen, monsieur. Tulen mukaanne tässä asussa. - -— Siispä lähtekäämme! - -He kääntyivät yhdessä ovea kohti vilkaisemattakaan -leskimarkiisittareen. Tämä seisoi paikallaan taputtaen koiraa, joka -oli noussut ja tullut hänen viereensä. Hän tarkasteli poistuvia -äänettömästi, ja hänen kauniilla, norsunluunvalkeilla kasvoillaan -väikkyi tuhoaennustava hymy. - -Sitten kuului eteishuoneesta jalkojen töminää ja ääniä. Ovi tempaistiin -rajusti auki, ja huoneeseen syöksyi miehiä, miekat paljaina, Marius -viimeisenä. - -Pelosta parkaisten Valérie horjahti takaisin laudoitettua seinää -vasten, painaen pienet kätensä poskilleen, silmät laajentuneena -levottomuudesta. - -Garnachen miekka singahti tupesta, hänen yhteenpurtujen hampaittensa -lomitse sähähti kirous, ja hän kävi taisteluasentoon. Miehet -pysähtyivät silmäilemään häntä. Marius usutti heitä eteenpäin kuten -koiralaumaa. - -— Käykää kiinni! hän huusi osoittaen Garnachea, ja hänen kauniit -silmänsä kiiluivat raivosta. — Iskekää hänet kuoliaaksi! - -Miehet liikahtivat, mutta samalla hetkellä liikahti myös Valérie. Hän -juoksi heidän eteensä, heidän säiliensä ja uhrinsa väliin. - -— Te ette saa tehdä sitä; ette saa! hän huusi, ja hänen kasvonsa -olivat pingottuneet ja hänen silmissään oli tuskaisa ilme. — Se on -murha — murha, te lurjukset! Muisto siitä, kuinka tämä hento, pieni -nainen seisoi säikkymättä niin monien paljastettujen miekkojen edessä -suojatakseen häntä salamurhaajilta, ei koskaan häipynyt Garnachen -mielestä. - -— Mademoiselle, hän virkkoi tyynesti, — jos vain suvaitsette väistyä -syrjään, niin ensin kuolee heidän joukostaan joitakuita. - -Mutta Valérie ei hievahtanutkaan. Marius puristi kätensä nyrkkiin -kiukuissaan viivytyksen johdosta. Markiisitar katseli hymyillen ja -taputellen koiransa päätä. Häneen Valérie nyt vetosi. - -— Madame, hän huudahti, — te ette sitä salli. Te ette anna heidän tehdä -murhaa. Käskekää heidän panna miekkansa tuppeen! Ajatelkaa, että herra -de Garnache on täällä kuningattaren nimessä! - -— Herra de Garnache lupasi puolestaan näyttää meille joitakin kauniita -tekoja, pilkkasi markiisitar. — Me vain tarjoamme hänelle tilaisuuden -niiden suorittamiseen. Jollei tässä ole kylliksi hänen tavattomalle -uljuudelleen, niin ulkona on lisää miehiä, jotka voimme kutsua tänne. - -Mariuksessa heräsi sääli Valérieta kohtaan — kenties se oli vain -pelkkää sopivaisuuden tunnetta. Hän astui eteenpäin. - -— Valérie, hän sanoi, — sinun ei sovi jäädä tänne. - -— Niin, vie hänet pois täältä, yllytti leskimarkiisitar hymyillen. — -Hänen läsnäolonsa vie rohkeuden komealta pariisilaiseltamme. - -Innokkaana tekemään työtä käskettyä Marius tunkeutui eteenpäin -sotilaittensa ohi kunnes hän oli vain noin kolmen askeleen päässä -tytöstä ja parhaiksi niin kaukana pariisilaisesta, ettei tämä ylettynyt -antamaan hänelle äkillistä pistoa miekallaan. - -Hiljaa ja hyvin varovasti Garnache siirsi oikeaa jalkaansa vähän -kauemmaksi oikealle. Äkkiä hän nojautui sille koko painollaan, joten -tyttö ei enää ollut hänelle esteenä. Ennen kuin kukaan oivalsi hänen -aikomustaan, oli kaikki suoritettu. Hän oli hypähtänyt eteenpäin, -tarttunut nuorukaisen välkkyvän ihokkaan rinnukseen, hypännyt takaisin -suojaan Valérien taakse, paiskannut Mariuksen lattiaan ja laskenut -jalkansa, jossa oli paksun mutakerroksen peittämä ratsastussaapas, -suoraan nuorukaisen pitkälle, sirolle kaulalle. - -— Jos hievautat sormeasikaan, poikaseni, hän ärjäisi, — niin poljen -sinut hengettömäksi kuin rupisammakon. - -Miehet liikahtivat äkkiä eteenpäin, mutta vaikka Garnache olikin -kiukustunut, niin hän pakottautui rauhalliseksi. Jos hän nyt vielä -kerran menettäisi malttinsa, niin hän totisesti saisi nopean kuoleman. -Sen hän tiesi ja toisteli sitä itsekseen, ettei se pääsisi häneltä -unohtumaan. - -— Takaisin! hän komensi niin käskevällä äänellä, että miehet -pysähtyivät ja jäivät suu auki töllistelemään. Takaisin, tai hän on -tuhon oma! Kääntäen miekkansa kärjen alaspäin, hän laski sen keveästi -nuorukaisen rinnalle. - -Neuvottomina katsoivat miehet leskimarkiisittareen saadakseen ohjeita. -Tämä kurottautui eteenpäin; hymy oli haihtunut hänen huuliltaan, ja -hänen rintansa nousi ja laski kiivaasti. - -Garnache tarkkasi markiisitarta valppain silmin. Hän näki, kuinka -huolekas pelko sai naisen kauniit kasvot vääntymään, ja sen nähdessään -hän rohkaistui, sillä hänen henkensä oli sen varassa, kuinka -voimakkaasti hän voisi vaikuttaa markiisittaren tunteisiin. - -— Te hymyilitte äsken, madame, kun aiottiin teurastaa mies teidän -nähtenne. Nähdäkseni ette enää hymyile, kun olen tehnyt ensimmäisen -lupaamani urotyön. - -— Päästäkää hänet! pyysi markiisitar, ja hänen kauhusta väräjävä -äänensä oli tuskin kuiskausta kuuluvampi. — Päästäkää hänet, monsieur, -jos tahdotte säilyttää oman henkenne! - -— Siitä hinnasta kyllä — vaikka saatte uskoa minua, että maksatte liian -paljon noin kurjan olennon hengestä. Mutta te pidätte sitä arvossa, -ja se on minun käsissäni; ja niinpä suonette minulle anteeksi, jos -esiinnynkin kiristäjän tavoin. - -— Hellittäkää hänet irti ja menkää Jumalan nimessä tiehenne. Kukaan ei -teitä estä, lupasi markiisitar. - -Garnache hymyili. — Tarvitsen siitä jonkinlaisia takeita. En suostu -pitämään sanaanne riittävänä, rouva de Condillac. - -— Mitä takeita voin teille antaa? vaikeroi markiisitar, väännellen -käsiään ja tuijottaen poikansa kasvoihin, jotka olivat tuhkanharmaat -pelosta ja raivosta ja jotka pilkottivat Garnachen raskaan saappaan -takaa. - -— Käskekää jonkun miehenne kutsua tänne palvelijani! Jätin hänet -pihalle odottamaan itseäni. - -Käsky annettiin ja yksi murhamiehistä poistui. Jännittyneen, -tuskallisen hiljaisuuden vallitessa odotettiin hänen palaamistaan, -vaikka hän viipyikin poissa vain hetkisen. - -Rabecquen silmät menivät ällistyksestä pystyyn, kun hän näki, -minkälainen tilanne oli. Garnache kehotti häntä riisumaan aseet -saapuvillaolijoilta. - -— Älköönkä teistä kukaan vastustelko älköönkä ahdistako häntä! hän -lisäsi. — Muutoin se maksaa isäntänne hengen. - -Peloissaan leskimarkiisitar toisti empimättä hänen komennuksensa -miehilleen. Kun se oli tehty, nosti pariisilainen jalkansa pois uhrinsa -kaulalta. - -— Nouskaa ylös! hän käski, ja Marius totteli häntä nopeasti. - -Garnache sijoittui pojan selän taakse. — Madame, hän sanoi, — -pojallenne ei tapahdu mitään pahaa, jos hän vain on järkevä. -Mutta jollei hän tottele minua tai jos kukaan Condillacin asukas -käy kimppuumme, niin se merkitsee herra de Condillacin kuolemaa. -Mademoiselle, haluatteko seurata minua Pariisiin? - -— Kyllä, monsieur, vastasi Valérie pelkäämättä, ja nyt hänen silmänsä -säihkyivät. - -— Siispä lähdemme. Asettukaa herra de Condillacin viereen! Rabecque, -seuraa minua! Eteenpäin, herra de Condillac! Suvainnette saattaa meidät -ratsujemme luokse pihalle. - -He olivat omituinen kulkue marssiessaan ulos salista nolattujen -murhamiesten ja heidän valtiattarensa synkästi katsellessa heitä. -Kynnyksellä Garnache pysähtyi ja vilkaisi taakseen olkansa ylitse. - -Oletteko tyytyväinen, madame? Oletteko nähnyt rohkeita tekoja kylliksi -yhden päivän osalle? hän kysäisi nauraen. Mutta markiisitar seisoi -kalpeana kiukusta vastaamatta mitään. - -Garnache seurueineen meni eteishuoneen halki, ensin varovaisuuden -vuoksi teljettyään markiisittaren kätyreineen lukon taakse. -Synkkää käytävää pitkin he sitten pääsivät pihalle. Siellä Marius -lohdutuksekseen näki, että joitakuita miehiä Condillacin varusväestä — -noin kymmenkunta — kaikki paremmin tai huonommin aseistettuina, seisoi -Garnachen ja hänen palvelijansa ratsujen ympärillä. - -— Muistakaa, varoitti Garnache herra de Condillacia, — että jos kukaan -miehistänne näyttää hampaitaan, on se turmionne. He olivat seisahtuneet -pihalle vievän oven kynnykselle. — Käskekää heidän poistua tuosta pihan -toisella puolella olevasta ovesta! - -Mariuksen rohkeus painui kuten kivi veteen. Hän käsitti, kuten hänen -äitinsä oli käsittänyt vähän aikaa sitten, että Garnache oli sellainen -vastustaja, joka ei jättänyt mitään sattuman varaan. Hänen äänensä oli -käheä kiusallisesta, voimattomasta raivosta, kun hän antoi määräyksen, -jota heltymätön pariisilainen vaati. - -— Ja nyt tätä tietä, herra de Condillac! käski Garnache, ja kun Marius -vihdoin kääntyi häneen päin, astui hän syrjään ja viittasi kädellään -ovea kohti, josta he juuri olivat tulleet. Hetkisen nuorukainen seisoi, -silmäillen tuimaa voittajaansa, kädet puristettuina nyrkkiin, niin -että rystyset olivat valkeat, ja kasvot tummanpunaisina. Turhaan hän -etsi sanoja, joilla olisi voinut jossakin määrin purkaa kirvelevää -raivoaan, joka melkein pani hänen sisunsa pakahtumaan. Luopuen sitten -toivottomana sitä yrittämästä, hän kohautti olkapäitään, mutisi jotakin -epäselvästi ja luikki pariisilaisen sivuitse, totellen häntä, kuten -koira tottelee häntä koipien välissä ja muristen hampaat irvessä. - -Garnache läjäytti oven kiinni hänen jälkeensä, lukitsi sen ja kääntyi -Valériehen päin, hymyillen tyynesti. - -— Luullakseni olemme tästä selviytyneet, hän virkkoi anteeksiannettavan -ylpeänä. — Loppu käy helposti, vaikka teillä lienee hiukan epämukavaa -matkalla täältä Grenobleen. - -Tytön huulille tuli myös hymy, tosin kalpea ja arka, joka muistutti -auringon pilkahdusta talviselta taivaalta. — Se ei tee mitään, hän -vakuutti, koettaen saada äänensä rohkeaksi. - -Heidän oli kiirehdittävä, ja Garnache jätti sikseen kohteliaisuudet, -joiden lausuminen ei parhaissakaan oloissa tahtonut häneltä -luonnistua. Valérie tunsi, että häntä tartuttiin ranteeseen, hieman -kovakouraisesti, kuten hän myöhemmin muisti, ja lennätettiin kiveystä -myöten kiinnisidottujen hevosten luokse, joiden kimpussa Rabecque -jo puuhasi. Hän näki Garnachen nostavan jalkansa jalustimeen ja -viskautuvan satulaan. Sitten pariisilainen ojensi hänelle kätensä, -pyysi häntä nostamaan jalkansa omalleen ja kiroten kutsui Rabecquen -hänen avukseen. Hetkistä myöhemmin hänet oli heilautettu Garnachen -eteen melkein hänen ratsunsa sä’älle. Hevosen kaviot kapsahtivat -kiveykseen, nostosillan lankuista lähti kumajava ääni ja he olivat -ulkosalla — Condillacin ulkopuolella — ja laskettivat täyttä neliä -joelle vievää valkeata tietä pitkin. Heidän jäljessään ratsasti -Rabecque, hypähdellen pelottavasti satulassaan ja sätkytellen hurjasti -jalkojaan etsiessään jalustimiaan ja päästellen räikeitä sadatuksia. - - - - -Garnache säilyttää malttinsa - - -Yö oli tullut, ja oli alkanut sataa, kun Garnache ja Valérie saapuivat -Grenobleen. He menivät kaupunkiin jalkaisin, sillä pariisilainen ei -halunnut herättää huomiota näyttäytymällä kaduilla nainen ratsunsa -selässä. - -Huolehtien tytön mukavuudesta, Garnache oli riisunut päältään paksun -ratsastusvaippansa ja vaatinut häntä ottamaan sen ylleen, kietoen sen -niin, että hänen päänsä peittyi kuten huppuun. Siten hän ei ollut -suojassa ainoastaan sateelta, vaan myös uteliaiden katseilta. - -He astelivat tihkusateessa likaisilla, liukkailla kaduilla, joita -valaisi ikkunoista ja ovista tuleva hohde, Rabecque seurasi heitä -taluttaen hevosia. Garnache ohjasi heidät suoraan majataloonsa -— Auberge du Veau qui Tèteen, jolla oli se etu, että se oli -käskynhaltijan palatsia vastapäätä. - -Tallimies otti ratsut hoitoonsa, ja isäntä opasti heidät toisessa -kerroksessa olevaan huoneeseen, jonka hän jätti Valérien käytettäväksi. -Kun se oli tehty, jätti Garnache Rabecquen vahdiksi ja lähti -suorittamaan tarpeellisia valmistuksia alkavaa matkaa varten. Hän alkoi -siitä, mikä hänen mielestään oli tärkein tehtävä, meni kadun poikki -käskynhaltijan palatsiin ja pyysi saada heti tavata herra de Tressania. - -Kun hänet oli viety käskynhaltijan puheille, ällistytti hän tätä -pulleata herrasmiestä ilmoittamalla palanneensa Condillacista mukanaan -neiti de La Vauvraye ja tarvitsevansa turvajoukon saattamaan heitä -Pariisiin. - -— Sillä minua ei lainkaan haluta joutua alttiiksi niille -toimenpiteille, joihin Condillacin naarastiikeri pentuineen saattaa -ryhtyä saadakseen takaisin saaliinsa, hän selitti hymyillen jurosti. - -Käskynhaltija siveli partaansa ja siristi haljakoita silmiään, kunnes -ne katosivat hänen lihaviin poskiinsa. Hän oli ymmällä. Hän ei voinut -kuvitellakaan muuta kuin että kuningattaren lähettiä oli puijattu tällä -kertaa menestyksellisemmin. - -— Niin ollen arvaan, hän sanoi salaten mielessään liikkuvat ajatukset, -— että saitte neidon väkivallalla tai viekkaudella. - -— Käytin kumpaakin, monsieur, oli lyhyt vastaus. — Mutta vielä emme -ole poissa vaaralliselta alueelta, ja juuri sen vuoksi tarvitsen -saattojoukkoa. - -Tressanille kävi olo tukalaksi. — Kuinka monta miestä tahdotte? hän -kysyi arvellen, että pariisilainen vaatisi vähintään puoli komppaniaa. - -— Kuusi miestä ja kersantin niitä komentamaan. - -Tressanin levottomuus haihtui, ja hän halveksi Garnachea, koska tämä -tyytyi niin vähäiseen miesjoukkoon, enemmän kuin kunnioitti häntä sen -uljuuden ja rohkeuden tähden, jota hän oli osoittanut. Hän ei suinkaan -tahtonut huomauttaa, että vaadittu joukko saattaisi osoittautua -riittämättömäksi, pikemminkin hän oli kiitollinen siitä, ettei Garnache -pyytänyt enempää. Saattoväkeä ei Tressan uskaltanut häneltä kieltää, -mutta se hänen olisi täytynyt tehdä — tai rikkoa välinsä Condillacien -kanssa — jos hän olisi pyytänyt lukuisampaa osastoa. Mutta kuusi -miestä! No, ne eivät paljonkaan merkitsisi. Niin ollen hän suostui -kerkeästi kysyen kuinka pian Garnache ne tahtoisi. - -— Heti paikalla, oli pariisilaisen vastaus. — Lähden Grenoblesta tänä -iltana. Toivon olevani matkavalmis tunnin kuluttua. Sillä välin haluan -ratsumiehet kunniavahdiksi. Majailen kadun toisella puolen. - -Tressan oli perin iloinen päästessään hänestä eroon ja nousi heti -antamaan tarpeelliset määräykset, ja kymmenen minuutin kuluttua oli -Garnache jälleen Imevässä Vasikassa, mukanaan kuusi ratsumiestä ja -kersantti, jotka olivat jättäneet ratsunsa käskynhaltijan talliin -lähtöhetkeen saakka. Siihen asti Garnache määräsi heidät vahtiin -majatalon tuvassa. - -Hän tilasi heille virvokkeita ja käski heidän pysyä siellä ja totella -hänen palvelijansa Rabecquen määräyksiä. Siihen oli syynä se, että -hänen oli pakko poistua hetkiseksi etsimään matkaa varten sopivia -vaunuja. Koska Imevä Vasikka ei ollut kestikievari, oli hänen -hankittava vaunut muualta — Auberge de Francesta, joka sijaitsi -kaupungin itäosassa Savoyn portin luona — eikä hän tahtonut jättää -Valérieta turvattomaksi poissa ollessaan. Kuutta ratsumiestä hän piti -riittävänä, kuten ne todella olivatkin. - -Hän lähti tälle asialle vetäen viitan tiukasti ympärilleen ja astuen -ripeästi nyt rankemmaksi käyneessä sateessa. - -Mutta Auberge de Francessa häntä odotti pettymys. - -Isännällä ei ollut hevosia eikä ajoneuvoja, eikä hän saisikaan niitä -ennen kuin seuraavana päivänä. Hän oli pahoillaan siitä, että se seikka -tuotti harmia de Garnachelle. Hän selitti hyvin innokkaasti, mistä -johtui, ettei hän voinut antaa vaunuja de Garnachen käytettäviksi -— niin innokkaasti, että oli ihmeellistä, kuinka se voi olla -herättämättä Garnachessa epäluuloja. Sillä todellinen asianlaita oli -se, että Condillacista oli käyty ennen häntä siellä — kuten koko -kaupungissa kaikkialta, mistä kyyti suinkin olisi ollut saatavissa, -ja lupaamalla palkkioita tottelemisesta sekä uhkaamalla rangaistusta -tottelemattomuudesta järjestetty niin, että Garnache kuuli saman jutun -joka paikassa. - -Noin tuntia myöhemmin, tuloksettomasti nuuskittuaan koko kaupungin -etsiessään ajoneuvoja, hän palasi Veau qui Tèteen märkänä ja ärtyneenä. -Tilavan tuvan nurkassa — majatalon sisähuoneihin vievän oven vieressä -— istuivat ratsumiehet pöydän ääressä, toraillen hieman äänekkäästi -pelatessaan korttia. Kersantti istui vähän syrjässä keskustellen -isännän vaimon kanssa ja luoden puhetoveriinsa ihailevia silmäyksiä -huomaamatta valppaan aviopuolison otsalla yhä synkemmiksi käyviä -ryppyjä. - -Toisessa pöydässä istui neljä herrasmiestä — ulkonäöstä päättäen -matkustajia — joiden puhelu kävi Garnachen saapuessa hyvin hiljaiseksi. -Mutta hän ei välittänyt heistä lainkaan, vaan asteli kannusten -kilistessä oljilla peitetyn lattian poikki eikä huomannut, kuinka -terävästi heidän katseensa salaa seurasivat häntä, kun hän, vastattuaan -ohimennen kersantin reippaaseen tervehdykseen, katosi portaille -vievästä ovesta. - -Hetkisen kuluttua hän tuli uudelleen näkyviin, kutsuen isäntää ja -käskien tämän valmistaa illallisen hänelle ja Rabecquelle. - -Yläkerran käytävässä hän tapasi Rabecquen odottamassa häntä. - -— Onko kaikki hyvin? hän kysyi ja sai palvelijaltaan rauhoittavan -vastauksen. - -Valérie tervehti häntä iloisesti. Hänen pitkä poissaolonsa oli -nähtävästi huolestuttanut tyttöä. Hän kertoi, millä asialla hän oli -ollut, ja neidon kasvoille levisi levoton ilme, kun hän kuuli etsinnän -tuloksen. - -— Tarkoituksenne, monsieur, hätäili Valérie, — ei kai toki ole, että -jäisin yöksi Grenobleen. Tämä on Condillacien puuhaa. - -— Kuinka niin? Garnachen äänessä värähti kärsimättömyys. - -— He ovat ehättäneet ennen teitä. He koettavat pidättää teitä täällä — -pidättää meitä Grenoblessa. - -— Mutta mitä varten? tiedusteli pariisilainen, käyden yhä -kärsimättömämmäksi. — Auberge de Francesta luvattiin minulle vaunut -huomenaamulla. Mitä hyötyä olisi Condihaceilla, jos he pidättäisivät -meitä täällä yön? - -— Heillä lienee joku suunnitelma. Voi, monsieur! Minua pelottaa kovasti. - -— Olkaa huoletta! vastasi Garnache keveästi; ja tyynnyttääkseen tyttöä -hän lisäsi hymyillen: — Nukkukaa rauhassa varmana siitä, että me, -Rabecque, minä ja ratsumiehet, vahdimme teitä hyvin. - -— Olette kovin hyvä. Varokaa väijytyksiä! Olkaa varuillanne! He ovat -hyvin julmia ja ovelia, nämä Condillacin asukkaat. Ja jos teille -kävisikin onnettomasti. - -— Niin jäljellä olisi vielä Rabecque ja ratsumiehet, täydensi Garnache. - -Tyttö kohautti olkapäitään. — Rukoilen teitä pitämään varanne! hän -tiukkasi. - -— Saatte luottaa minuun, lupasi Garnache ja sulki oven. - -Käytävässä hän kutsui Rabecquea, ja he menivät yhdessä alas. Mutta -muistaessaan Valérien pelokkuuden, hän lähetti yhden ratsumiehistä -vahtimaan tytön ovelle sillä aikaa kun hän palvelijoineen söi -illallista. Sen tehtyään hän huusi isäntää ja istuutui pöytään -Rabecquen sijoittuessa hänen taakseen valmiina ojentamaan hänelle -ruokalajeja ja täyttämään hänen viinilasinsa. - -Matalan huoneen toisessa päässä istuivat yhä edellämainitut neljä -matkustajaa, keskustellen keskenään, ja kun Garnache istuutui, huusi -yksi heistä isäntää ja tiedusti kärtyisesti, eikö hänen illallisensa -ollut kohta jo valmis. - -— Aivan heti, monsieur, vastasi isäntä kunnioittavasti ja kääntyi -jälleen pariisilaiseen päin. Sitten hän poistui noutamaan viimemainitun -aterian, ja hänen mentyään sai Rabecque herraltaan kuulla, minkä vuoksi -he jäivät yöksi Grenobleen. Johtopäätös, jonka nokkela palvelija veti -— ja jonka hän arkailematta toi esiin — siitä, ettei Grenoblessa -ollut sinä iltana hevosia eikä vaunuja, kävi ihmeellisen hyvin yhteen -Valérien arvelun kanssa. - -Majatalon pitäjä palasi, kantaen tarjoiluvadilla maukasta paistia, -josta lehahti miellyttävä tuoksu; häntä seurasi vaimonsa, tuoden -muita ruokalajeja, kainalossaan pullo armagnacia. Rabecque alkoi heti -puuhata, ja hänen nälkäinen isäntänsä valmistautui tyydyttämään Ranskan -terveimmän miehen ruokahalua, kun pöydälle äkkiä lankesi varjo. Pöydän -viereen oli tullut seisomaan mies, varjostaen yhtä kattopalkeista -riippuvista lampuista. - -— Vihdoinkin! hän huudahti, ja hänen äänensä oli käheä ärtymyksestä. - -Garnache, joka parhaillaan oli ottamassa paistia lautaselleen, -keskeytti sen ja katsahti häneen. - -— Mitä herra sanoo? hän kysyi. - -— Teille, monsieur — en mitään, vastasi mies hävyttömästi katsoen häntä -suoraan silmiin. - -Puna kohosi Garnachen poskille, ja hän silmäili tulokasta, rypistäen -neuvottomana otsaansa. Hänen edessään oli sama matkustaja, joka äsken -oli tiedustanut illallistaan; pitkänpuoleinen mies, jonka hartiain -leveys ja rinnan korkeus osoittivat, että hän myös oli voimakas ja -kestävä. - -Röyhkeästä puhuttelutavasta huolimatta mies miellytti Garnachea. Mutta -ennen kuin hän ehti vastata, ennätti isäntä selittämään. - -— Herra erehtyy... hän aloitti. - -— Erehtyy? jyräytti toinen, puhuen hieman ulkomaalaisittain. — Te -erehdytte, jos aiotte väittää, ettei tämä ole minun illalliseni. Onko -minun odotettava koko yö, samalla kun jokaiselle tolvanalle, joka tulee -sikolättiinne minun jälkeeni, tarjoillaan ennen minua? - -— Tolvanalle? virkahti Garnache miettivänä ja vilkaisi taas miestä -kasvoihin. Muukalaisen takana tunkeili nyt hänen kolme toveriaan, -kun taas huoneen toisella seinustalla olevat ratsumiehet unohtivat -kortinpeluunsa ja pitivät silmällä uhkaavalta näyttävää riitaa. - -Ulkomaalainen — sillä sellaiseksi hänen ranskankielensä hänet osoitti — -kääntyi puolittain halveksivasti isäntään päin, syrjäyttäen Garnachen -tahallisen loukkaavasti. - -— Tolvanalle? mutisi Garnache uudelleen ja puhutellen hänkin majatalon -isäntää. — Sanokaapa, isäntä, minne tolvanat hautaavat vainajiaan -Grenoblessa? Ehkä tarvitsen sitä tietoa. - -Ennen kuin hätääntynyt isäntä sai sanaakaan suustaan, oli vieras -jälleen pyörähtänyt Garnacheen päin. — Mitä tarkoitatte? hän kysyi -terävästi ja loi toiseen kiukkuisen katseen. - -— Että Grenoble kenties saa huomenna nähdä erään ulkomaalaisen -mahtailijan hautajaiset, hyvä herra, sanoi Garnache hymyillen -herttaisesti, niin että hampaat näkyivät. Samassa hän tunsi, että -joku painoi häntä lapaluun kohdalle, mutta ei välittänyt siitä, -vaan silmäili tarkkaavasti toisen kasvoja. Hetkisen niistä kuvastui -hämmästys, sitten ne synkkenivät suuttumuksesta. - -— Tarkoitatteko sillä minua? hän ärähti. - -Garnache levitti kätensä. — Jos lakki tuntuu herrasta sopivalta, niin -en tahdo estää teitä panemasta sitä päähänne. - -Muukalainen laski toisen kätensä pöydälle ja kumartui eteenpäin -Garnachea kohti. — Saanko pyytää herraa puhumaan hieman selvemmin? - -Garnache nojautui taaksepäin tuolissaan ja tarkasteli miestä -hymyillen. Jos kohta hänen sisunsa saattoikin tavallisesti olla herkkä -kuohahtamaan, niin nyt sitä hillitsi huvittuneisuus. Hän oli elämänsä -varrella nähnyt monta riitaa syntyvän mitä turhanpäiväisimmistä syistä, -mutta totisesti ei niistä yksikään ollut alkanut näin tyhjästä. Tuntui -melkein siltä, kuin mies olisi tullut tänne vakavassa aikomuksessa -rakentaa toraa hänen kanssaan. - -Hänen mieleensä välähti epäluulo. Hän muisti neiti de La Vauvrayen -varoituksen. Ja hän mietti. Oliko tämä joku juoni, jolla koetettiin -viekoitella hänet väijytykseen? - -Garnachen hymy leveni ja kävi ystävällisemmäksi. — Huomautukseni oli -epämääräinen. Niin oli tarkoitukseni. - -— Mutta se loukkasi minua, monsieur, vastasi toinen tuimasti. - -Pariisilainen kohotti kulmakarvojaan ja suipisti suutaan. — Valitan, -hän virkkoi. Ja nyt oli hänen kestettävä vaikein koe. Muukalaisen ilme -muuttui kummastelevan halveksivaksi. - -— Onko minun käsitettävä tämä niin, että herra pyytää anteeksi? - -Garnache tunsi punastuvansa. Hän oli menettämäisillään malttinsa; -taaskin painettiin hänen selkäänsä lapaluun kohdalle; ja hän tunsi sen -ajoissa ja tiesi sen Rabecquen varoitukseksi. - -— En jaksa ymmärtää loukanneeni teitä, hän puhkesi vihdoin puhumaan, -hilliten lujasti vaistojaan — jotka vaativat häntä iskemään maahan -tämän julkean muukalaisen. — Mutta jos olen sen tehnyt, niin pyydän -teitä uskomaan, että se on tapahtunut vahingossa. Se ei ollut -tarkoitukseni. - -Muukalainen nosti kätensä pöydältä ja ojentautui suoraksi. - -— Olkoon sitten, hän lausui ärsyttävän halveksivasti. — Jos olette -yhtä herttainen illalliskysymyksessä, niin ilomielin lopetan tämän -tuttavuuden, jonka jatkamisesta en arvele koituvan itselleni kunniaa. - -Garnache tunsi tämän olevan enemmän kuin hän saattoi sietää. Hänen -kasvonsa värähtivät suonenvedontapaisesti suuttumuksesta ja seuraavalla -hetkellä hän olisi Rabecquen kiihkeästä nykimisestä huolimatta -sinkauttanut paistin vasten nenäkkään herrasmiehen kasvoja, mutta äkkiä -saapui isäntä odottamatta avuksi. - -— Monsieur, tässä tulee illallisenne, hän ilmoitti, ja hänen vaimonsa -ilmestyi keittiöstä, kantaen täyteen lastattua tarjotinta. - -Hetkiseksi näkyi muukalainen joutuvan hämilleen. - -Sitten hän kylmän ylimielisesti siirsi katseensa Garnachen edessä -olevista ruoista pöytään, jota järjestettiin häntä varten. - -— Kas, hän äänsi, ja hänen sävynsä oli kuvaamattoman julkea, — kenties -se on parempi. Tämä paisti alkaa jäähtyä luullakseni. - -Nyrpistäen nenäänsä hän pyörähti kantapäällään ympäri ja siirtyi -toiseen pöytään hyvästelemättä Garnachea ainoallakaan sanalla tai -merkillä, istuutuen syömään toveriensa seurassa. - - - - -Ansa viritetään - - -Garnache vietti Grenoblessa unettoman yön, ollen siitä suurimman osan -vahdissa — sillä vain niin saatiin Valérien pelko rauhoittumaan. Mutta -yö kului, eivätkä Condillacit antaneet itsestään mitään sotaisia -merkkejä, joita Valérie pelkäsi, mutta joita Garnachen varman uskon -mukaan ei ilmaantuisi — ei voisi ilmaantua. - -Hyvissä ajoin seuraavana aamuna hän lähetti Rabecquen Auberge de -Franceen noutamaan luvattuja vaunuja ja ruokaili majatalon tuvassa -odottaessaan palvelijansa paluuta. Huoneessa oli taaskin eilisiltainen -muukalainen, joka kuitenkin istui syrjässä eikä näyttänyt enää haluavan -sekaantua pariisilaisen asioihin. - -Eräässä toisessa pöydässä oli kaksi herrasmiestä, jotka olivat -hillitysti puetut sekä käyttäytyivät säädyllisesti. Heihin hän ei -kiinnittänyt sanottavasti huomiotaan, ennen kuin heistä toinen — -hoikka, tummaverinen, haukankasvoinen mies — äkkiä katsahti ylös, -säpsähti vähän nähdessään pariisilaisen ja puhutteli häntä heti -nimeltä. Garnachelta jäi pöydästä nouseminen kesken; hän kääntyi -sivullepäin ja tarkasti tummaa herrasmiestä terävästi, mutta ei -tuntenut häntä. Vieras astui lähemmäs. - -— Minulla on kunnia olla tuttavanne, monsieur? sanoi hän puolittain -kysyvästi. - -— _Parbleu_, herra de Garnache! huudahti toinen kasvoillaan hymy, joka -oli sitäkin miellyttävämpi, kun se kirkasti muuten varsin synkkiä -piirteitä. — Kukapa pariisilainen ei teitä tuntisi? Olen usein nähnyt -teidät Hôtel de Bourgognessa. - -Garnache otti vastaan kohteliaisuuden taivuttamalla hiukan päätään. - -— Ja kerran, jatkoi toinen, — sain sen kunnian, että herra herttua -itse esitti minut teille. Nimeni on Gaubert — Fabre Gaubert. -Ja esitellessään itsensä hän nousi pystyyn kunnioituksesta -Garnachea kohtaan, joka oli jäänyt seisomaan. Garnache ei tuntenut -häntä lainkaan, mutta ei vähääkään epäillyt hänen puheittensa -todenperäisyyttä. Miehen olemus oli perin kohtelias ja miellyttävä, -lisäksi alkoi Garnachesta tuntua yksinäiseltä Dauphinén erämaissa; -hän oli niin ollen mielissään saadessaan seurakseen miehen, jota hän -jossakin määrin voi pitää vertaisenaan ja toverinaan. Hän ojensi -kätensä. - -— Minulle tuottaa kunniaa se, että olette pitänyt minut muistissanne, -monsieur, hän sanoi. Hän oli lisäämäisillään, että hän olisi erittäin -iloinen, jos herra Gaubert sattuisi olemaan matkalla Pariisiin, koska -hän siten saisi nauttia tämän seurasta tällä vaivalloisella matkalla, -mutta hän hillitsi itsensä ajoissa. Hänellä ei ollut mitään syytä -epäillä tätä herrasmiestä; mutta kuitenkin hänen mieleensä juolahti, -että ottaen kaikki huomioon hänen olisi parasta pitää silmänsä visusti -auki. Niinpä hän lausuttuaan jonkin kohteliaan, mutta merkityksettömän -huomautuksen herra Gaubertin oleskelusta niillä tienoin meni -edelleen ja avasi oven. Kova räminä ilmaisi, että Auberge de Francen -kömpelötekoiset vaunut olivat tulossa. Ne — tavattoman iso puusta ja -nahasta kyhätty tekele — vierivät kolmen hevosen vetäminä katua myöten -ja pysähtyivät majatalon ovelle. Niistä hyppäsi ulos Rabecque, jonka -hänen isäntänsä heti lähetti kutsumaan neiti de La Vauvrayeta. He -lähtisivät liikkeelle heti paikalla. - -Totellen käskyä Rabecque kääntyi mennäkseen sisään, mutta samassa hänet -tyrkkäsi kovakouraisesti syrjään eräs palvelijalta näyttävä mies, joka -tuli majatalosta, kantaen matkalaukkua. Aivan hänen kintereillään -seurasi eilisiltainen muukalainen, pää pystyssä ja katse suoraan -eteenpäin tähdättynä ikään kuin hän ei olisi huomannutkaan Garnachea. - -Garnache ei liikahtanut ennen kuin palvelija oli tempaissut auki -vaunun oven ja laskenut sinne kantamansa matkalaukun. Ja vasta sitten, -kun muukalainen oli nostanut jalkansa vaunun astuimelle, valmistuen -menemään sisälle, Garnache puhkesi puhumaan. - -— Hei, monsieur! hän huusi. — Mitä tahdotte vaunuistani? - -Muukalainen kääntyi tuijottamaan Garnacheen silmissään ihmettelevä -ilme, jonka hän sitten taidokkaasti muutti halveksivan tuntevaksi. - -— _Teidän_ vaunuistanne? hän kertasi. — _Voyons_, anteeksipyytelevä -ystäväni, onko Grenoblessa kaikki teidän omaanne? Hän puhutteli -kyytipoikaa, joka tylsänä katseli kohtausta. — Olette Auberge de -Francesta, eikö niin? - -— Olen, monsieur, vastasi poika. — Nämä vaunut tilasi eilen illalla -eräs Veau qui Tètessä majaileva herrasmies. - -— Aivan niin, vahvisti muukalainen lopullisen päättävään tapaan. — -Tilaaja olin minä. Ja hän aikoi mennä menojaan, mutta Garnache astui -vielä yhden askeleen häntä kohti. - -— Pyydän huomauttaa teille, monsieur, hän sanoi — ja vaikka hänen -sävynsä ja sanansa olivatkin kohteliaat, oli äänen vapisemisen -nojalla kuitenkin ilmeistä, että kohteliaisuus oli pakotettua, pyydän -huomauttaa teille, että vaunut nouti minun oma palvelijani, joka ajoi -tänne niissä. - -Muukalaisen huulet koukistuivat, ja hän mittasi katseellaan -pariisilaista. - -— Näyttää siltä, hän virkkoi, leveä ivahymy huulillaan, — että te -olette noita tunkeilevia otuksia, jotka alituisesti ahdistavat -herrasmiehiä, toivoen jotakin hyötyvänsä. Hän veti esille kukkaron ja -avasi sen. - -— Eilen illalla anastitte illalliseni. Sen siedin. Nyt aiotte tehdä -samoin vaunuilleni, mutta sitä en siedä. Kas tässä vaivoistanne ja -palkkioksi siitä, että jätätte minut rauhaan! - -Taustalta kuului kauhunhuudahdus, ja Gaubert syöksähti esille. - -— Monsieur, monsieur, hän varoitti kiihtyneellä äänellä, — te ette -tiedä, ketä puhuttelette. Tämä herra on Martin Marie Rigobert de -Garnache, _Mestre-de-Champ_ kuninkaan armeijassa. - -— Kaikista noista nimistä luulisin yhden vain sopivan hänen ilkeytensä -perusteella hänelle parhaiten, nimittäin Marien, vastasi ulkomaalainen -pilkallisesti, kohautti halveksivasti olkapäitään ja aikoi jälleen -nousta vaunuihin. - -Tämä kaikki sai Garnachen unohtamaan itsehillintänsä, ja häh teki -valitettavan teon. Hän sai yhden sokeita raivonpuuskiaan, astui -eteenpäin uskollisen ja valppaan Rabecquen pidättelemisestä huolimatta -ja laski raskaan käden ylimielisen herrasmiehen olalle. Hän tarttui -muukalaiseen, juuri kun tämä oli nostanut toisen jalkansa maasta -laskettuaan toisen vaununastuimelle ja menetti niin ollen helposti -tasapainonsa. Hän kiskaisi miestä rajusti taaksepäin, kiepautti hänet -ympäri ja paiskasi hänet sätkyttelemään liejuiseen katuojaan. - -Sen jälkeen syntyi pahaenteinen, uhkaava hiljaisuus. Tapausta -katselemaan oli kerääntynyt pieni vetelehtijäjoukko, joka nyt nopeasti -kasvoi, ja jotkut päästivät »häpeä»-huutoja nähdessään Garnachen -väkivaltaisen tempun. - -Äänettömyyden vallitessa nousi muukalainen verkkaisesti ylös ja koetti -pyyhkiä likaa kasvoistaan ja vaatteistaan. Hänen palvelijansa ja -ystävänsä riensivät häntä auttamaan, mutta hän viittasi heitä pysymään -poissa ja meni Garnachen luokse, silmät säihkyen, suu irvessä. - -— Kenties, hän ivasi, puhuen pehmeään ulkomaalaiseen tapaansa, johon -nyt sekaantui raivoisan pilkallista kohteliaisuutta, — kenties herra -aikoo taaskin pyytää anteeksi. - -— Monsieur, te olette hullu, pisti Gaubert väliin. — Olette -muukalainen, huomaan, muuten... - -Mutta Garnache työnsi tyynesti hänet syrjään. — Olette perin -ystävällinen, herra Gaubert, hän sanoi, ja nyt oli hänen -käyttäytymisensä jäätävän levollista, eikä hänen sisässään kiehuvasta -raivosta näkynyt merkkiäkään. — Mielestäni, monsieur, hän jatkoi -vierasmaalaiselle, omaksuen hieman verran tämän miehen ivallisuutta, — -on maailma rauhallisempi, kun te olette poissa. Vain se syy pidättää -minua pyytämästä anteeksi. Mutta kuitenkin, monsieur, jos lausutte -katuvanne sitä, että koetitte, ja lisäksi niin säädyttömällä tavalla, -anastaa vaununi... - -— Jo riittää, keskeytti toinen. — Me tuhlaamme aikaa, ja minulla on -pitkä matka edessäni. Courthon, hän puhutteli ystäväänsä, — tahdotko -mitata puolestani tämän herrasmiehen miekan pituuden? Nimeni, monsieur, -hän lisäsi Garnachelle, -— on Sanguinetti. - -— Todellakin, virkkoi Garnache, — se sopii hyvin verenhimoiseen -luonteeseenne. - -— Ja piakkoin epäilemättä sopii hänelle hyvin muutoinkin, tokaisi -haukannaamainen Gaubert. — Herra de Garnache, jollei teillä ole -saapuvilla ketään ystävää, niin pitäisin kunnianani, jos saisin toimia -sekundanttinanne. Ja hän kumarsi. - -— Niinpä niin, kiitos, monsieur! Tarjouksenne on perin tervetullut. -Teidän pitäisi olla aatelismies, koska käytte usein Hôtel de -Bourgognessa. Suuri kiitos! - -Gaubert meni syrjään neuvottelemaan Courthonin kanssa. Sanguinetti -seisoi yksin, ylpeänä ja mahtipontisena, silmäillen halveksivasti -uteliaita, jotka nyt jo muodostivat tungoksen. Kadulle päin olevia -ikkunoita avattiin, niissä näkyi päitä, ja kadun ylitse Garnache -olisi voinut nähdä Tressanin veltot kasvot tämän pienen kohtauksen -katselijain joukossa. - -Rabecque siirtyi lähelle isäntäänsä. - -— Olkaa varuillanne, monsieur! hän rukoili. — Jospa tämä on ansa. - -Garnache hätkähti. Tämä huomautus selvitti hänen ajatuksensa ja johti -hänelle mieleen hänen omat eilisiltaiset epäluulonsa, jotka kiukku oli -hetkeksi syrjäyttänyt. Nyt hän oli jälleen valpas ja halusi siirtää -kaksintaistelun toistaiseksi. - -— Herra Courthon, hän sanoi, tunsi häpeäpunan kohoavan otsalleen -ja käsitti, että kaksintaistelun välttäminen saattaa vaatia paljon -enemmän rohkeutta kuin siihen ryhtyminen, — kiihtymyksessäni minulta -unohtui eräs seikka. Olen Grenoblessa valtion asioissa, kuningattaren -lähettinä, ja sen vuoksi minun tuskin sopii taistella yksityisriitojen -tähden. - -Courthon nosti kulmakarvojaan. - -— Teidän olisi pitänyt ajatella sitä ennen kuin kieräytitte herra -Sanguinettin lokaan, hän vastasi kylmästi. - -— Esitän hänelle anteeksipyyntöni sen johdosta, lupasi Garnache, -niellen sisuaan: — jos hän sittenkin tahtoo taistelua, niin hän saa -sen, sanokaamme, kuukauden kuluessa. - -— En voi sallia... aloitti Courthon kiivaasti. - -— Suvainnette ilmoittaa ystävällenne, mitä olen sanonut, vaati -Garnache, keskeyttäen hänet. - -Courthon pelästyi, kohautti olkapäitään ja meni sivulle neuvottelemaan -ystävänsä kanssa. - -— Ah! kuului Sanguinettin ääni hiljaisena, mutta kuitenkin siksi -kovana, että kaikki saapuvilla olijat sen kuulivat. — Sitten hän saa -julkeudestaan selkäsaunan. Ja äänekkäästi hän käski kuskipojan tuoda -piiskansa. Mutta tämä loukkaus sai Garnachen tulistumaan, ja hänen -varovaiset päätöksensä romahtivat olemattomiin. Hän astahti eteenpäin -ja ääni myrkyllisen purevana ja kasvot hirvittävän näköisinä, ilmoitti, -että koska herra Sanguinetti omaksui häntä kohtaan tuollaisen sävyn, -oli hän valmis katkaisemaan muukalaisen kaulan heti paikalla, missä se -vain sopisi tehdä. - -Vihdoin sovittiin, että taisteltaisiin heti Kapusiinikentällä, joka oli -lähes kilometrin päässä fransiskaaniluostarin takana. - -Sen mukaisesti lähdettiin liikkeelle, Sanguinetti ja Courthon edellä, -Garnache ja Gaubert seurasivat heitä. Garnache oli varovaisuuden vuoksi -jättänyt Rabecquen Imevään Vasikkaan ja antanut kersantille ankarat -määräykset, ettei hän saisi sallia miestensä poistua paikoiltaan -hänen poissaollessaan ja että ratsumiesten tuli ehdottomasti totella -Rabecquen käskyjä. Verrattain rauhallisena ja vain vähän ajatellen -läheistä kaksintaistelua Garnache asteli reippaasti eteenpäin. - -Vihdoin he saapuivat Kapusiini-kentälle. Se oli kaunis, vihreä, noin -neljänneshehtaarin suuruinen aukeama, jota ympäröi pyökkejä kasvava, -vyömäinen puisto. - -Ihmisjoukko hajaantui nurmikon reunamille, ja kaksintaistelijat menivät -kentälle, ryhtyen valmisteluihin. - -Kaikki neljä lähestyivät toisiaan ja mittasivat miekkojen pituutta. -Sanguinettin miekka huomattiin kaksi tuumaa pitemmäksi kuin mikään -muista kolmesta. - -— Se on Italiassa tavallinen pituus, ilmoitti Sanguinetti, kohauttaen -olkapäitään. - -— Jos te, monsieur, olisitte käsittänyt, ettette enää ollut Italiassa, -niin olisimme kenties säästyneet koko tästä perin hullusta puuhasta, -vastasi Garnache ärtyisesti. - -— Mutta mitä meidän on tehtävä? huudahti ymmälle joutunut Gaubert. - -— Taisteltava, sanoi Garnache kärsimättömästi. - -— Mutta minä en voi sallia teidän antautuvan alttiiksi, kun -vastustajallanne on kahta tuumaa pitempi miekka kuin teillä, kivahti -Gaubert, melkein kiivastuen. - -— Miksi ette, jos minä kerran suostun? kysyi Garnache. — Minä yletän -kauemmaksi, ja se tasaa miekkojen eri pituuden. - -— Tasaa? kiljaisi Gaubert. — Sen edun, että yllätte pitemmälle, olette -saanut Jumalalta, mutta hän on saanut miekkansa asesepältä. Onko se -tasaista? - -— Ottakoon hän minun miekkani, minä otan hänen, sekaantui italialainen -puheeseen, myös maltittoman näköisenä. — Minullakin on kiire. - -— Kiire kuolemaanko? murahti Gaubert. - -— Monsieur, tuo ei ole sopivaa, nuhteli häntä Courthon. - -— Opettakaa minulle hyviä tapoja taistellessamme, ärähti -haukannaamainen herrasmies. - -— Hyvät herrat, hyvät herrat, pyyteli Garnache, — aiommeko kuluttaa -koko päivän sanasotaan? Herra Gaubert, tuolla on useita herrasmiehiä, -joilla on miekka vyöllä; epäilemättä löydätte heidän joukostaan jonkun, -jonka säilä on yhtä pitkä kuin teidän ja joka on siksi hyväntahtoinen, -että lainaa miekkansa herra Sanguinettille. - -— Sen palveluksen voi ystäväni tehdä minulle, pisti Sanguinetti väliin, -minkä jälkeen Courthon poistui, palaten pian mukanaan lainattu, -sopivanpituinen ase. - -Vihdoinkin näytti siltä, että he voivat käydä käsiksi varsinaiseen -asiaansa, jonka vuoksi he olivat tulleet. - -Pilkkahuudot ja mutina, joita oli kuulunut aukeaman reunustoilta -seisovasta, yhä kasvavasta väkijoukosta, lakkasivat, kun säilät -vihdoinkin kalahtivat vastakkain. Mutta tuskin olivat taistelijat -aloittaneet, kun suuttunut ääni huusi: - -— Seis, Sanguinetti! Odottakaa! - -Iso, leveäharteinen mies, jolla oli yllään yksinkertainen puku ja -päässään töyhdötön hattu, raivasi kovakouraisesti itselleen tien -väkijoukon läpi ja tunkeutui puistikkovyön ympäröimälle kentälle. -Taistelijat olivat keskeyttäneet ottelunsa kuullessaan tämän käskevän -huudon, ja tulokas syöksähti heidän luokseen, läähättäen kasvot -punaisina ikään kuin juoksusta. - -— _Vertudieu!_ Sanguinetti, hän sadatteli, ja hänen sävynsä oli -puolittain suuttunut, puolittain pilaileva, — onko tämä ystävyyttä? - -— Rakas François, vastasi muukalainen, — tulet kovin sopimattomaan -aikaan. - -— Ja eikö sinulla ole minulle muuta sanomista? - -Paremmin tarkastaessaan luuli Garnache tuntevansa hänet yhdeksi -Sanguinettin eilisiltaisista tovereista. - -— Mutta etkö näe, että minulla on tehtävää? - -— Ja sehän minua juuri pahoittaakin, että sinä olet tällaisessa -puuhassa enkä minä ole siinä mukana. Se merkitsee, että kohtelet minua -kuten lakeijaa, ja minulla on oikeus olla loukkaantunut. _Enfin!_ -Näynpä saapuneen ajoissa. - -Garnache sekaantui puheeseen. Hän näki, mihin miehen aikeet tähtäsivät, -eikä hän halunnut enää lisää viivytystä. Nyt jo oli kulunut enemmän -kuin puoli tuntia hänen lähdettyään Imevästä Vasikasta. Hän pyysi -tulokasta astumaan syrjään ja sallimaan heidän suorittaa asiansa, -jota varten he olivat tulleet koolle. Mutta herra François — kuten -Sanguinetti oli häntä nimittänyt — ei ottanut sitä kuuleviin korviinsa. -Hän osoittautui perin jyrkäksi mieheksi, ja lisäksi kannattivat häntä -toiset, muiden muassa Gaubert. - -— Suokaa minun rukoilla, ettette pilaisi tätä huvia, pyyteli -viimemainittu Garnachea. Minulla on majatalossa ystävä, joka ei ikinä -antaisi minulle anteeksi, jos sallisin hänen menettää tällaisen -aamuvirkistyksen, jota tuo herrasmies haluaa hänelle tarjota. Antakaa -minun mennä häntä noutamaan! - -— Mutta, monsieur, vastasi Garnache tuimasti, — miten te tähän -kohtaukseen suhtautunettekin, minulle se ei ole huvia eikä urheilua. -Tämä riita on väkisin työnnetty niskoilleni, ja... - -— Ei suinkaan, monsieur, keskeytti Courthon hänet. — Te unohdatte, että -paiskasitte herra Sanguinettin lokaan. Tuskinpa silloin voidaan sanoa, -että teidät on väkisin pakotettu riitaan. - -Garnache puri huulensa verille harmistuneena. - -— Olkoonpa riidan alkusyy mikä tahansa, vakuutti François, remahtaen -nauramaan, — niin vannon, ettei jatkosta tule mitään ennen kuin minäkin -olen mukana. - -— Teidän olisi parasta myöntyä, monsieur, mutisi Gaubert. — Minä en -viivy poissa viittä minuuttia, ja loppujen lopuksi se säästää aikaa. - -— No, olkoon menneeksi! huudahti Garnache-parka epätoivoissaan. — Mitä -hyvänsä, kunhan vain joudutaan, mitä hyvänsä! Noutakaa Jumalan nimessä -ystävänne, ja toivon, että hän ja jokainen mukanaolija saa kerrankin -tapella kyllikseen! - -Gaubert lähti asialleen, ja rahvaan keskuudesta kuului taaskin murinaa, -kunnes saatiin tietää hänen poistumisensa syy. Kului viisi minuuttia, -kymmenen minuuttia, eikä häntä kuulunut takaisin. Sanguinetti ja hänen -molemmat ystävänsä seisoivat yhdessä ryhmässä, kuiskaillen keveästi -keskenään. Vähän matkan päässä heistä Garnache asteli edestakaisin -pysyäkseen lämpimänä. Hän aikoi juuri vaatia Sanguinettia käymään -heti taisteluun, kun väkijoukon lävitse äkkiä tunkeutui huonosti -puettu mies, jonka kasvot olivat likaiset ja jolla oli takkuinen, -vaalea tukka, edeten Sanguinettia ja tämän ystäviä kohti. Garnache -pysähtyi, katsellen miestä, sillä hän tunsi hänet Auberge de Francen -tallirengiksi. Samassa alkoi vastatullut puhua, ja Garnache kuuli hänen -sanansa. - -— Herra Sanguinetti, ilmoitti renki italialaiselle herrasmiehelle, -— isäntä lähetti minut tiedustamaan, tarvitsetteko vaunuja, jotka -tilasitte täksi päiväksi. Ne ovat seisoneet tunnin ajan Auberge de -Francen edustalla teitä odottamassa, ja jollette tarvitse niitä... - -— Missä seisoneet? kysyi Sanguinetti käheästi. - -— Auberge de Francen ovella. - -— _Peste_, tomppeli! kivahti muukalainen. — Miksi ne ovat siellä, -vaikka minä käskin lähettää ne Imevään Vasikkaan? - -— En tiedä, monsieur. En tiedä mitään muuta kuin mitä isäntä minulle -sanoi. - -— Hitto vieköön isännän! sadatteli Sanguinetti. Samassa hänen katseensa -osui Garnacheen, joka tarkkaavaisena seisoi sivulla. Huomatessaan -pariisilaisen hän näytti joutuvan hämilleen. Hän loi silmänsä maahan ja -aikoi kääntyä toisaalle. Sitten hän puhutteli tallimiestä: — Tarvitsen -vaunuja ja tulen aivan kohta. Viekää sanoma isännälle! Sen jälkeen hän -pyörähti ympäri ja lähestyi Garnachea. Hänen äskeinen röyhkeytensä oli -kadonnut, ja sen sijasta oli hänen kasvoillaan äärimmäisen masentunut -ilme. - -— Monsieur, mitä on minun sanottava teille? hän sanoi hyvin hiljaa. — -Näkyy tapahtuneen erehdys. Olen hyvin pahoillani, uskokaa minua... - -— Älkää puhuko enempää, pyydän! huudahti Garnache riemuissaan siitä, -että tämä juttu, joka näytti käyvän loppumattomaksi, viimeinkin -päättyisi. — Sallikaa minun vain lausua valitteluni sen kohtelun -johdosta, jonka alaiseksi jouduitte minun puoleltani. - -— Hyväksyn valittelunne ja ihailen niiden ylevyyttä, vastasi toinen -nyt yhtä kohteliaana — kohteliaisuudessaan yhtä nöyrän mukautuvana -— kuin hän äskettäin oli ollut töykeä ja taipumaton. — Mitä tulee -saamaani kohteluun, niin tunnustan erehdykselläni ja itsepäisyydelläni -sen ansainneeni. Valitan sitä, että riistän näiltä herrasmiehiltä -hyvityksen, jota he ovat odottaneet, mutta jollette te tahdo olla -harvinaisen herttainen ja hyväntahtoinen, niin pelkään, että heidän -täytyy kanssani kärsiä erehdyksistä. - -Garnache vakuutti hänelle lyhyesti eikä kovinkaan kohteliaasti, ettei -hän suinkaan halunnut esiintyä harvinaisen herttaisesti. Tyytymättömän -väkijoukon melun saattamana hän lähti kiivaasti astelemaan Imevää -Vasikkaa kohti. - - - - -Ansa laukeaa - - -Poistuttuaan Kapusiini-kentältä Gaubert oli juossut koko matkan Imevään -Vasikkaan ja saapunut sinne noin viidessä minuutissa hengästyneenä ja -hätääntyneenä. - -Rabecque seisoi ovella valppaana, mutta antamatta isäntänsä odotuksesta -johtuvan huolestumisen ja mallittomuuden vähääkään kuvastua ilmeissään. - -Nähdessään Gaubertin saapuvan juoksujalkaa ja läähättävänä hän hätkähti -ja astui eteenpäin ihmeissään ja levottomana. Samaan aikaan tuli herra -de Tressan kadun poikki käskynhaltijan palatsista. Hän saapui majatalon -ovelle yhtäaikaa Gaubertin kanssa. - -Pahojen aavistusten valtaamana huusi Rabecque juoksijalle: - -— Mitä on tapahtunut? Missä on herra de Garnache? - -Gaubert pysähtyi hoippuen. Hän valitti ja väänteli käsiään. - -— Tapettu! hän huohotti. — Oi, se oli kauheata! - -Rabecque tarttui häntä olkapäästä niin lujasti, että se koski. — Mitä -te puhutte? hän änkytti kasvot kalmankalpeina. - -Myöskin Tressan pysähtyi ja kääntyi Gaubertiin päin epäilevä ilme -lihavilla kasvoillaan. — Kuka on surmattu? hän kysyi. — Ei kai herra de -Garnache? - -— Juuri hän! valitti toinen. — Se oli ansa, johon meidät houkuteltiin. -Neljä miestä karkasi hänen kimppuunsa Kapusiini-kentällä. Niin kauan -kun hän oli hengissä, olin hänen vierellään. Mutta kun näin hänen -kaatuvan, riensin tänne noutamaan apua. - -— Hyvä Jumala! sopersi Rabecque, ja hänen otteensa Gaubertin olkapäästä -heltisi. - -— Kuka sen teki? tiedusteli Tressan ja hänen äänensä jymisi uhkaavasti. - -— En tuntenut heitä. Se mies, joka haastoi riitaa herra de Garnachen -kanssa, nimitti itseään Sanguinettiksi. Siellä on parhaillaan mellakka. - -— Mellakka? Niinkö sanoitte? huudahti Tressan. Virkamies näytti -heräävän hänessä. - -— Niin, vastasi toinen välinpitämättömästi, — he katkovat toistensa -kurkkuja. - -— Mutta... mutta... oletteko varma, että hän on kuollut? tiukkasi -Rabecque. - -Gaubert katsahti ylös ja näytti miettivän asiaa tarkemmin. — Näin hänen -kaatuvan. Kenties hän ei ollut muuta kuin haavoittunut. - -— Ja te jätitte hänet sinne? mylvi palvelija. - -Gaubert kohautti olkapäitään. — Mitäpä mahdoin neljää vastaan? Ja -lisäksi sekaantui väkijoukko jo silloin leikkiin, ja minusta tuntui -parhaalta lähteä hakemaan apua. Nämä sotilaathan... - -— Tämä on nyt jo minun asiani, keskeytti hänet Tressan, pyörähtäen -ympäri ja huutaen kersanttia. — Olen Dauphinén käskynhaltija. - -— Olipa onni, että tapasin teidät, vastasi Gaubert kumartaen. — En -voisi jättää tätä asiaa parempiin käsiin. - -Hänestä välittämättä Tressan komensi jo parhaillaan kersanttia -ratsastamaan miehineen nopeasti Kapusiini-kentälle. Mutta Rabecque -syöksähti äkkiä eteenpäin. - -— Ei niin, herra käskynhaltija, hän esteli taaskin hädissään, muistaen -tehtävänsä. — Nämä miehet ovat täällä neiti de La Vauvrayen vartiona. -Antakaa heidän pysyä täällä! Minä lähden herra de Garnachen luokse. - -Käskynhaltija tuijotti häneen päin alahuuli halveksivasti pitkälle -työnnettynä. — Te lähdette? hän kummasteli. — Entä mitä saatte aikaan -yksin? Kuka te olette? - -— Olen herra de Garnachen palvelija. - -— Lakeija? Ja Tressan kääntyi poispäin, toistaen määräyksensä, ikään -kuin Rabecquea ei olisikaan olemassa tai ikään kuin hän ei olisi -sanonut mitään. — Kapusiini-kentälle! Täyttä laukkaa, Pommier! Lähetän -lisäväkeä perässänne. - -Kersantti ärjäisi komentosanan. Ratsumiehet pyörähtivät ympäri; toinen -komentosana, ja he olivat poissa. - -Rabecque seisoi paikallaan, puserrellen käsiään nyrkkiin ja vapisten -raivosta. Hän kirosi kiihkeästi Tressania ja hänen typeryyttään. Asiain -näin ollen, ja kun herra de Garnache oli kuollut tai ainakin poissa, -tuntui kaikki menetetyltä. Olisihan hän voinut ajatella, että nyt, -kun hänen isäntänsä oli surmattu, oli melkein samantekevää, mitä hän -tekisi, sillä loppujen lopuksi saisivat Condillacit varmasti tahtonsa -toteutetuksi neiti de La Vauvrayehen nähden. Mutta sellaista hän ei -juuri silloin käynyt lainkaan miettimään. Uskollisuudentunne oli -hänessä voimakas; hänen velvollisuutensa isäntäänsä kohtaan oli selvä. -Hän astui taaksepäin ja veti miekkansa. - -— Päästäkää minut sisälle! hän kiljaisi. Mutta samassa kuului hiljaista -kahinaa, kun toinenkin säilä paljastettiin, ja Rabecquen oli pakko -kääntyä torjumaan Gaubertin hyökkäystä. - -— Sinä halpa petturi! karjaisi kiukustunut lakeija, mutta sen enempää -hän ei ennättänytkään lausua. Häneen tartuttiin takaapäin voimakkain -käsin. Miekka kierrettiin hänen kädestään. Hänet paiskattiin rajusti -maahan, ja yksi hänen ahdistajistaan kävi polvilleen hänen selkäänsä, -pitäen häntä pitkänään nurkassa. Ja sitten aukeni ovi uudelleen, ja -Rabecque-rukka ähkyi voimattomassa kiukussaan nähdessään neiti de La -Vauvrayen kasvot kalpeina ja silmät levällään pysähtyvän kynnykselle -herra de Condillacin kumartaessa syvään hänen edessään. - -Hän kääntyi epätoivoissaan poispäin tuosta ilkkuvasta herrasmiehestä, -koettaen vedota isäntään, ikään kuin tämä, joka ei kyennyt auttamaan -itseään, olisi voinut auttaa häntä. - -— Herra isäntä .. hän aloitti, mutta Marius keskeytti hänet tuikeasti. - -— Viekää hänet pois tuota tietä, hän komensi ja osoitti taakseen -portaiden vierestä lähtevään käytävään. — Vaunuille! Nopeasti! - -Valérie koetti vastustaa, mutta hänet kiskottiin mukaan. Toiset -kiiruhtivat hänen jäljessään ulos ovesta, Gaubert viimeisenä. - -— Seuraa pian meitä! käski hän poistuessaan miestä, joka yhä oli -polvillaan Rabecquen selässä. - -Miesten askeleet häipyivät käytävään, kaukana pamahti ovi. Syntyi -hiljaisuus, jota häiritsi vain Rabecquen vaivalloinen hengitys. Sitten -kuului melua majatalon edustalta; joku huusi komentosanan. Kaviot -kopisivat, pyörät kirskuivat ja ratisivat, ja pian vierivät raskaat -vaunut nopeasti poispäin. Rabecque arvasi liiankin hyvin, mitä oli -tapahtunut. - -Mies päästi hänet vihdoinkin irti, hypähti seisomaan ja katosi, ennen -kuin hän pääsi pystyyn. Noustuaan Rabecque syöksyi ovelle. Hän näki -äskeisen ahdistajansa juoksevan jo kaukana vinhaa vauhtia; vaunut -olivat ennättäneet pois näkyvistä. - -— Rabecque! - -— Monsieur! Oi, Jumalan kiitos! sopersi palvelija itku kurkussa. - -— Mistä? kysyi Garnache, tullen lähemmäksi, otsa synkkänä kuin -ukkospilvi. — Missä ovat vaunut, missä ratsumiehet? Missä neiti de La -Vauvraye? Vastaa! - -Hän tempasi Rabecquen ranteesta niin rajusti, että se oli vähällä -murtua. Hänen kasvonsa olivat tuhkanharmaat, ja hänen silmänsä -liekehtivät. - -— Hän — hän... änkytti Rabecque, joka ei uskaltanut kertoa, mitä oli -tapahtunut. - -Mutta sitten hän sai kummallisen rohkeuden puuskan. Hän puhui -Garnachelle tavalla, josta ei olisi uneksinutkaan. — Senkin hullu! -hän kiljui. — Minä kehotin teitä olemaan varuillanne. Varoitin teitä -toimimaan harkitsevasti. Mutta te ette välittänyt sanoistani. Olittehan -muka viisaampi kuin Rabecque. Tahdoitte noudattaa omaa mieltänne ja -näyttää rohkealta. Ja he vetivät teitä nenästä, minkä ikinä halusivat! - -Garnache hellitti palvelijan käden ja peräytyi askeleen. Tuo kiihkeä -ja suora puhe niin odottamattomalta taholta oli omiaan ainakin osaksi -jäähdyttämään hänen mieltään. - -— Kuka — kuka minua narrasi? hän kysyi kangertaen. - -— Gaubert — se vintiö, joka sanoo itseään Gaubertiksi. - -— Kuinka kauan sitten he lähtivät? keskeytti Garnache. - -— Vain muutamia minuutteja ennen teidän tuloanne. - -— Sitten juuri heidän vaununsa ajoivat minua vastaan lähellä Savoyn -porttia. Meidän on lähdettävä heidän jälkeensä, Rabecque. Oikaisin St. -Françoisin hautausmaan kautta, muuten minun olisi täytynyt kohdata -saattojoukko. Tuhat tulimmaista! hän kirosi iskien oikean kätensä -nyrkillä vasempaan kämmeneensä. — Niin paljon hyvää työtä hukassa -hetkellisen varomattomuuden tähden! - - - - -Rekryytti - - -Condillacin linnan isossa salissa istuivat leskimarkiisitar, hänen -poikansa ja käskynhaltija neuvottelemassa. - -Oli iltapuoli, täsmälleen viikko siitä, kun herra de Garnache — sydän -melkein murtuneena tehtävänsä epäonnistumisesta — oli poistunut -Grenoblesta. Seurue oli syönyt päivällistä, ja pöydällä oli vielä -astioita ja aterian tähteitä, sillä ruokaa ei vielä ollut korjattu pois. - -Parhaillaan puhui markiisitar. Hän toisti sanoja, jotka hän viimeksi -kuluneen viikon aikana oli lausunut ainakin kaksikymmentä kertaa -päivässä. - -— Oli hulluutta päästää se mies menemään. Jos vain olisimme -toimittaneet tieltämme hänet ja hänen palvelijansa, niin voisimme -nyt nukkua rauhallisesti. Minä tiedän, miten hovissa menetellään. -Aluksi olisi kenties vähän ihmetelty, että hän viipyy niin kauan eikä -lähetä minkäänlaisia tietoja edistymisestään, mutta kun häntä ei olisi -näkynyt, olisi hänet pian vähitellen unohdettu ja hänen mukanaan koko -tämä juttu, johon kuningatar oli niin kärkäs sekaantumaan. Mutta -nyt mies palaa sinne kiukkuisena häntä kohdanneesta loukkauksesta; -siitä puhutaan Pariisissa kaikenlaista, se esitetään valtiopetoksena, -majesteetin uhmaamisena, kapinoitsemisena. Parlamentti saadaan kenties -julistamaan meidät henkipatoiksi, ja kaiken loppuna — kukapa voisi -tietää sen edeltäpäin? - -— On pitkä matka Condillacista Pariisiin, madame, huomautti hänen -poikansa kohauttaen olkapäitään. - -— Ja saatte nähdä, ettei siellä olla kovinkaan herkkiä lähettämään -sotaväkeä näin kauaksi, markiisitar, lohdutteli häntä käskynhaltija. - -— Pyh! Olette kovin varma siitä mitä Pariisissa tehdään ja mitä siellä -jätetään tekemättä. Aika sen näyttää, ystäväni, ja olenpa pahasti -erehtynyt, jollette te vielä toista valitteluani sen johdosta, ettemme -vapautuneet herra de Garnachesta ja hänen lakeijastaan, kun he olivat -vallassamme. - -Hänen katseensa osui synkän ennustavasti Tressaniin, joka vavahti ja -levitti avuttomana kätensä. Mutta Marius ei niin helposti säikähtänyt. - -— Madame, hän sanoi, — pahimmassa tapauksessa voimme sulkea porttimme -ja uhmata heitä. Meillä on runsaasti miehiä, ja Fortunio etsii -parhaillaan lisää rekryyttejä. - -— Etsii, niinpä kyllä, ärähti markiisitar. — Jo viikon ajan se lurjus -on tuhlannut rahaa kuin roskaa ja juottanut puoli Grenoblea humalaan -Auberge de Francen parhaalla viinillä, mutta emme tähän mennessä ole -saaneet ainoatakaan rekryyttiä. - -Marius naurahti. — Pessimismisi harhauttaa sinut vääriin -johtopäätelmiin. Olet väärässä. Yksi rekryytti on saatu. - -— Yksi! kertasi äiti. — Tuhat tulimmaista! Runsas korvaus -viinivirrasta, jolla olemme huuhdelleet grenoblelaisten kurkkuja! - -— Mutta onhan se kuitenkin alku, rohkeni käskynhaltija huomauttaa. - -— Niin, ja epäilemättä myös loppu, kivahti markiisitar. — Ja -minkälainen hullu lienee tämäkin, jonka tulevaisuus on niin -epätoivoinen, että hän voi liittää kohtalonsa meihin? - -— Hän on italialainen -— Savoyn halki marssinut piemontilainen, joka -oli matkalla Pariisiin tavoittamaan onneaan, kun Fortunio sai hänet -käsiinsä ja selvitti hänelle, että onni odotti häntä Condillacissa. -Hän on kookas, vankka poika, ei puhu sanaakaan ranskaa ja lähestyi -Fortuniota tuntiessaan tämän omaksi kansalaisekseen. - -Leskimarkiisittaren kauniissa silmissä välähti pilkallinen ilme. - -— Siinä selitys, miksi Fortunio sai hänet värvätyksi. Hän ei osannut -sanaakaan ranskaa, raukka, eikä niin ollen voinut aavistaakaan, kuinka -harkitsematonta hänen pestautumisensa oli. Jos voisimme löytää enemmän -samanlaisia miehiä, niin olisi hyvä. Mutta mistäpä niitä löydämme? -Voi, Marius-kulta, asiamme eivät ole paljoakaan parantuneet eivätkä -paranekaan sen erehdyksen tähden, jonka teimme päästäessämme Garnachen -tiehensä. - -— Madame, uskalsi Tressan taaskin virkkaa, — mielestäni teiltä puuttuu -toiveikkuutta. - -— Ainakaan ei minulta puutu rohkeutta, herra kreivi, vastasi -markiisitar, — ja lupaan teille, että niin kauan kuin elän — ja -käyttelen miekkaa, jos tarvitaan — ei yksikään pariisilainen astu -jalallaan Condillaciin. - -— Noin paljon jaksat ajatella, mutta siinä onkin kaikki, murahti -Marius. — Et käsitä, että asemamme ei ole läheskään toivoton, ettei -meidän lopultakaan kenties tarvitse vastustaa kuningasta. On kulunut -kolme kuukautta siitä, kun viimeksi saimme tietoja Florimondista. -Sodassa voi kolmessa kuukaudessa sattua paljon. Hän saattaa hyvinkin -olla kuollut. - -— Toivoisinpa, että hän olisi haudassa — ja kadotuksessa, sähäytti -markiisitar. - -— Niin, vahvisti Marius, huoahtaen, — se lopettaisi kaikki huolemme. - -— Siitä en ole lainkaan varma. Vielä on otettava lukuun Valérie uusine -pariisilaisystävineen — tuhotkoon rutto heidät kaikki! Vielä voimme -menettää La Vauvrayen tilukset. Ainoa keino, jolla nykyiset vaikeutemme -saadaan loppumaan, on se, että menet avioliittoon tuon omapäisen -letukan kanssa. - -— Voit syyttää vain itseäsi siitä, että se on mahdotonta, muistutti -Marius. - -— Kuinka niin? huudahti äiti, silmäillen häntä tuikeasti. - -— Jos olisit pysynyt ystävyydessä kirkon kanssa, maksanut kymmenykset -ja säästänyt meidät tästä kirotusta pannasta, ei meidän olisi lainkaan -vaikea saada tänne pappi ja järjestää asia, suostuipa Valérie tai ei. - -Markiisitar katseli poikaansa, silmät kiukusta välkkyen. Sitten hän -käännähti puhuttelemaan Tressania. - -— Kuuletteko, kreivi? Kas siinä rakastaja! Hän on valmis ottamaan -puolison, rakastipa tämä häntä tai ei — ja hän on vannonut minulle -rakastavansa tyttöä. - -— Miten voitaisiin asia muutoin saada toimeen, koska hän panee vastaan? -kysyi Marius yrmeänä. - -— Miten muutoin? Kysytkö sinä minulta, miten muutoin? Hyvä Jumala! Jos -olisin mies ja minulla olisi sinun vartalosi ja kasvosi, ei maailmassa -yksikään nainen kykenisi vastustamaan minua, jos ottaisin hänen -voittamisensa sydämenasiakseni. Jo kerran Valérien on onnistunut lahjoa -yksi miehistämme ja lähettää hänet Pariisiin kirjettä viemään. Siitä -on koko nykyinen pulmamme alkuisin. Toisella kerralla hän kenties saa -aikaan vielä enemmän. Kun hän on saanut lahjotuksi jonkun auttamaan -häntä karkaamaan, kun hän itse on päässyt turvaan kuningattaren luokse, -niin kenties kadutte sitä, että neuvoni on langennut karuun maahan. - -— Juuri estääksemme kaikki sellaiset yritykset, olemme panneet hänet -vartioitavaksi, sanoi Marius. — Sinä unohdat sen. - -— Unohdan sen! En suinkaan. Mutta mitä takeita teillä on siitä, ettei -hän lahjo vartijaansa? - -— Vahinko, ettei teillä ole kuuromykkää miestä, virkkoi Tressan -puolittain leikillään. Mutta Marius katsahti äkkiä toisiin vakavan -näköisenä. - -— Meillä on yhtä hyvä kuin kuuromykkä. Onhan meillä italialainen, jonka -Fortunio värväsi eilen, kuten olen kertonut. Hän ei tunne Valérieta -eikä hänen varallisuuttaan, ja vaikka hän tuntisikin, eivät he voisi -käydä neuvottelemaan keskenään, sillä toinen ei osaa ranskaa eikä -toinen italiaa. - -Markiisitar taputti käsiään. — Siinä on sopiva mies! hän huudahti. — -Lähetä noutamaan rekryytti tänne! - -Fortunio — joka oli juuri sama mies, jonka Garnache oli oppinut -tuntemaan »Sanguinettina» — toi hänet. Mies oli vielä samassa asussa, -jossa hän oli ollut saapuessaan. Hän oli kookas, iho oli hyvin tumma, -musta, öljyinen tukka valui lyhyinä suortuvina hänen korvilleen ja -niskaansa, mustat, riippuvat viikset tekivät hänet kavalan näköiseksi. -Hänen leukaansa ja poskiansa peitti muutamia päiviä vanha, sakea -parransänki. Silmissä oli luihu katse, mutta niiden syvän sininen väri -oli jyrkässä ristiriidassa hänen tummuutensa kanssa. - -Hänen yllään oli risainen takki, ja sääriensä ympärille hän oli sukkien -puutteessa kiertänyt likaiset nauhat. Jalassa hänellä oli puukengät, -joista toisesta pilkotti oljenkorsia; epäilemättä oli nämä tungettu -sinne sitä varten, että kenkä pysyisi jalassa. - -Markiisitar silmäili häntä tarkkaavasti. Hienosteleva Marius nyrpisti -nenäänsä. Käskynhaltija tirkisteli häntä uteliaana lyhytnäköisine -silmineen. — Enpä luule koskaan nähneeni likaisempaa roikaletta, hän -huomautti. - -Rouva Condillac puhutteli rekryyttiä. Hän tiedusteli mieheltä, mikä -mies hän oli ja mistä hän tuli, käyttäen italiankieltä, jota hän osasi -auttavasti. Mies kuunteli hänen kysymyksiään hyvin huomaavaisesti -— joskus hänen nähtävästi oli vaikea ymmärtää — katse kiintyneenä -markiisittaren kasvoihin ja kaula hieman eteenpäin kurkotettuna. - -Silloin tällöin piti Fortunion sekaantua keskusteluun selvittääkseen -typerälle piemontilaiselle markiisittaren kysymyksiä. Italialainen -vastasi syvällä, käheällä äänellä, jota sotki piemontilainen murre, ja -markiisittaren — jonka italiankielen taito oli epätäydellinen — piti -usein turvautua Fortunioon päästäkseen selville hänen puheestaan. - -Vihdoin hän lähetti molemmat pois käskien kapteenin huolehtia siitä, -että tulokas saisi kylvyn ja sopivamman vaatetuksen. - -Tuntia myöhemmin, kun käskynhaltija oli sanonut jäähyväiset -ratsastaakseen kotiinsa Grenobleen, vei markiisitar itse Mariuksen -ja Fortunion seuraamana Battistan — sen oli italialainen ilmoittanut -nimekseen — yläkerrassa olevaan huoneistoon, jossa neiti de La -Vauvrayeta nyt pidettiin melkein vankina. - - - - -Valérien vartija - - -— Lapseni, miksi et tahdo olla järkevä? sanoi leskimarkiisitar katsoen -Valérieta teeskennellyn hellästi. - -He seisoivat Valérien huoneessa. Taempana oli rekryytti Battista -veltossa asennossa vartiopaikallaan hieman puhtaamman näköisenä kuin -silloin, kun hänet esitettiin markiisittarelle. - -— Missä asiassa, madame, kysyi Valérie, —- ei käyttäytymiseni ole -järkevä? - -— Olet järjetön, kun typerästi pidät kiinni lupauksesta, joka on sinun -puolestasi annettu. - -— Jonka _minä_ olen antanut, oikaisi tyttö. - -— Jonka sinä annoit, olkoon menneeksi, mutta ollessasi sellaisessa -iässä, ettet ymmärtänyt sen merkitystä. Ei ollut oikein sitoa sinua -niin. - -— Jos jollakulla ihmisellä on oikeus panna se epäiltäväksi, niin juuri -minulla, vastasi Valérie, katsoen värähtämättä markiisitarta silmiin. -— Ja minä tyydyn enkä nosta siitä kysymystä. Tyydyn täyttämään annetun -lupauksen. Kunniallisesti en voisi menetellä muulla tavoin. - -— Tämä on hulluutta, Valérie... - -— Teissä sitä on, madame, keskeytti tyttö, — kun luulette voivanne -pakottaa, ohjata väkisin tunteita ja rakkautta keinoilla, joita olette -käyttänyt minua kohtaan. - -— Älä ole niin varma, mademoiselle. Älä ole niin varma siitä, ettei -sinua voida pakottaa. - -Heidän katseensa osuivat vastakkain. Molemmat naiset olivat -kalmankalpeat, mutta toisella se johtui hillitystä kiukusta, toisella -taas pelosta; sillä sen, minkä markiisitar oli jättänyt sanoin -lausumatta, ilmaisivat hänen silmänsä kaunopuheisesti. - -— On Jumala taivaassa, muistutti tyttö markiisitarta. - -— Niin — taivaassa, vastasi toinen nauraen ja kääntyi poispäin. Hän -pysähtyi ovella, jota aukaisemaan italialainen oli rientänyt. - -— Marius tulee kanssasi kävelylle huomenna, jos ilma on kaunis. Mieti -siihen mennessä sanojani! - -— Jääkö tuo mies tänne, madame? kysyi tyttö, turhaan koettaen pitää -ääntään pelottomana. - -— Ulommassa etuhuoneessa on hänen paikkansa, mutta kun tämän huoneen -avain on hänen puolellaan ovea, voi hän tulla sisään milloin haluaa tai -milloin luulee olevan siihen syytä. Jos hänen näkemisensä vaivaa sinua, -niin voit sitä karttaaksesi sulkeutua tuonne omaan huoneeseesi. - -Mies seurasi markiisitarta paljaan lattian poikki ja piti hänelle -ulompaa ovea auki. - -Virkkamatta enää mitään markiisitar poistui, ja vartija kuuli hänen -askeleensa, kun hän sipsutteli alaspäin kivisiä kiertoportaita myöten. -Lopuksi sulkeutui pihalle vievä ovi paukahtaen, ja avaimen kitinä -ilmaisi palkkasoturille, että hän ja hänen vartioitavansa olivat -molemmat teljetyt Condillacin linnan torniin. - -Jäätyään yksin etuhuoneeseen Valérie meni ikkunan ääreen ja vaipui -hervottomana tuoliin. - -Hän oli voimakassieluinen, ylevämielinen tyttö, mutta tänä iltana -näytti toivo tukahtuneen hänen rinnassaan. Myös Florimond tuntui -hylänneen hänet. Hän oli joko unohtanut hänet tai kuollut. Kuinka -asianlaita todellisuudessa oli, siitä hän ei paljoa välittänyt. Tieto -siitä, kuinka ehdottomasti hän oli markiisitar de Condillacin ja tämän -pojan vallassa, täytti hänen mielensä niin, ettei sinne mahtunut mitään -muuta. - -Häneltä pääsi huokaus. Jos Garnache olisi säästynyt, olisi Valérie -saanut rohkeutta, sillä Garnachessa oli jollakin lailla tarmoa ja -rohkeutta niin paljon, että häneen voi turvautua ahdingon hetkinä. -Hän oli taaskin kuulevinaan reippaan, metallisen äänen: — Oletteko -tyytyväinen, madame? Oletteko nähnyt rohkeita tekoja kylliksi yhden -päivän osalle? - -Ja sitten kuului keskellä hänen haaveilujaan juuri hänen uneksimansa -ääni niin äkkiä, niin luonnollisena ja elävänä, että hän hätkähti ja -oli vähällä kirkaista. - -— Mademoiselle, se lausui, — pyydän, ettette tyyten menetä -rohkeuttanne. Olen palannut työskentelemään siinä tehtävässä, jonka -hänen majesteettinsa kuningatar käski minun suorittaa, ja minä suoritan -sen tuosta naarastiikeristä ja hänen penikastaan huolimatta. - -Tyttö istui hiljaisena kuin patsas, tuskin hengittäen, katse tähdättynä -sinipunervaa taivasta kohti. Ääni oli vaiennut, mutta hän istui -yhä. Sitten hänelle hitaasti selveni, ettei se ollut harhaluuloa, -liikarasittuneiden aivojen erehdys. - -Hän kääntyi ja taaskin oli häneltä päästä kiljahdus; sillä aivan hänen -takanaan, silmäillen häntä omituisen tutkivasti, seisoi tummaihoinen, -mustatukkainen italialainen vartija, joka oli määrätty sen vuoksi, -ettei hän osannut yhtään ranskaa. - -— Älkää pelätkö, mademoiselle. Olen Garnache, tomppeli, kelvoton hupsu, -jonka kiivaus tuhosi kaikki ne pelastumisen toiveet, joita oli viikko -sitten. - -Valérie tuijotti uskomatta silmiään. - -— Garnache! hän kuiskasi käheästi. - -Mutta hän tunsi, että ääni oli Garnachen eikä kenenkään muun. - -Äkkiä levisi miehen kasvoille hymy, ja se antoi hänelle varmuuden, -haihduttaen hänen mielestään viimeisenkin epäilyksen hivenen. - -— Monsieur, monsieur! Siinä kaikki, mitä hän sai suustaan, mutta häntä -halutti kiertää kätensä miehen kaulaan, kuten hän olisi syleillyt -veljeä tai isää, ja nyyhkyttää painautuneena hänen olkaansa vasten -siitä huojennuksen ja turvallisuuden tunteesta, jonka hänen läsnäolonsa -herätti. - -Garnache oivalsi, kuinka liikuttunut hän oli, ja tyynnyttääkseen häntä -alkoi kertoa, millä tavoin hän oli palannut. - -— Onni oli minulle hyvin suopea, mademoiselle. En voinut suuresti -toivoa, että sellaisia kasvoja, kuin minun ovat, voitaisiin naamioida, -mutta kunnia siitä, mitä näette, ei tulekaan minulle. Se on Rabecquen -käsialaa, hän on nokkelin lakeija, joka koskaan on palvellut kyvytöntä -isäntää. Se, että nuoruudessani olin kymmenen vuotta Italiassa ja opin -italiankieltä niin hyvin, että Fortuniokin pettyi, auttoi minua. Se -poisti heti kaikki epäluulot, ja jollen viivy täällä niin kauan, että -väri ehtii kulua hiuksistani, parrastani ja kasvoistani, on minulla -vain vähän pelättävää. - -— Mutta, monsieur, huudahti tyttö, — teillä on paljon pelkäämistä! Ja -hänen katseensa kävi levottomaksi. - -Garnache naurahti vastaukseksi. — Luotan onneeni, mademoiselle, ja -minusta tuntuu, että se on nykyisin nousu puolella. Tullessani tässä -asussa Condillaciin, en uskaltanut toivoakaan, että minut määrättäisiin -vartijaksenne sen tähden, etten osannut ranskaa. Minun oli vaikea -salata riemastunutta ilmettäni, kun kuulin sitä suunniteltavan. Se on -tehnyt kaiken muunkin helpoksi. - -— Mutta mitä voitte tehdä yksin, monsieur? kysyi Valérie, ja hänen -äänessään oli miltei ärtymyksen värähdys. - -— Antakaa minulle toki päivä tai pari keksiäkseni jotakin! Jokin keino -täytyy löytyä. En ole päässyt näin pitkälle sitä varten, että kärsisin -nyt tappion. - -— Vietän yöni rukoillen Jumalaa ja hänen pyhimyksiään näyttämään teille -etsimänne tien. - -— Taivas luullakseni kuulee rukouksenne, mademoiselle, vastasi Garnache -katsellen haaveksien kalpeita, pyhimysmäisiä kasvoja, jotka näyttivät -hohtavan hämärässä. Sitten hän äkkiä liikahti ja herkisti korviaan. - -— Sh! Joku tulee, hän kuiskasi. Ja hän riensi nopeasti Valérien luota -etuhuoneeseen, jossa hän äänettömästi vaipui tuolilleen askelten -lähestyessä kiviportaita. - - - - -Omantunnon asia - - -Sattumalta oli Condillacissa eräs Battistan kansalainen, -Pohjois-Italiasta kotoisin oleva palkkasoturi, Arsenio-niminen lurjus, -jonka Fortunio oli pestannut silloin, kun hän kuukausia sitten oli -alkanut lisätä vartioväkeä. Tähän mieheen luottaen oli Garnache tehnyt -suunnitelmansa. - -Hän oli aluksi pitänyt miestä ovelasti silmällä. Kun Arsenio oli hänen -ainoa kansalaisensa Condillacissa, niin ei ollut lainkaan ihmeellistä, -että Battista niinä harvoina vapaahetkinä, joita hänellä joka päivä oli -vanginvartijan toimesta, etsi käsiinsä hänet ja istui keskustelemassa -hänen kanssaan. Miehet tutustuivat toisiinsa, ja ystävystyivät. -Garnache odotti sopivaa tilaisuutta tahtomatta panna mitään vaaraan -hätäilemällä. Tilaisuus tuli pyhäinmiestenpäivän aamuna. Tänä vainajien -päivänä teki Arsenion, joka oli kasvatettu kirkon uskolliseksi pojaksi, -levottomaksi muisto äidistään, joka oli kuollut noin kolme vuotta -sitten. Hän oli vaitelias ja alakuloinen, eikä Garnachen leikillinen -tuuli saanut hänestä vastakaikua. Garnache kummasteli, mitä miehen -mielessä liikkui, ja tarkkaili häntä valppaasti. - -Äkkiä pikku mies — hän oli lyhyt ja länkisäärinen — huoahti raskaasti -ja kumartui veltosti nyhtäisemään sisäpihan kiveyksen raossa kasvavaa -rikkaruohoa. He istuivat kappelin portailla. - -— Olet jörö tänään, valitti Garnache, taputtaen häntä olalle. - -— Nyt on kuoleman päivä, vastasi mies ikään kuin se olisi ollut -riittävä selitys. Garnache purskahti nauramaan. - -— Niin, vainajille epäilemättä; niin oli myös eilen, ja niin on -huomennakin. Mutta meille, jotka istumme täällä, tämä on elämän päivä. - -— Sinä olet pilkkaaja, nuhteli toinen, ja hänen naamansa oli omituisen -vakava. — Et ymmärrä. - -— Valista sitten minua! - -— Tänä päivänä ajatuksemme luonnollisestikin kohdistuvat vainajiin, -ja minun ajatukseni ovat äidissäni, joka on jo kolme vuotta maannut -haudassaan. Mietin sitä, miksi hän minut kasvatti ja minkälainen olen. - -Garnache virnisti, mutta sitä ei toinen huomannut. Hän silmäili pientä -lurjusta, ja hänen katseensa oli vähän levoton. Mikä miestä vaivasi? -Aikoiko hän katua syntejään, luopua pahuudesta ja petollisuudesta? Eikö -hän enää vastaisuudessa halunnut katkaista kenenkään kurkkua? Halusiko -hän olla uskollinen sille, joka maksoi hänelle palkan, ja viettää -kristillistä elämää? _Peste!_ Hän avasi huulensa ja päästi leveän -pilkkanaurun. - -— Saamme sinusta munkin, hän ivasi, — paljasjalkaisen -pyhimystarjokkaan, jonka selkä on ruoskittu ja pää ajeltu. Ei viiniä, -ei arpanappuloita, ei naisia ei... - -— Rauhaa! ärähti toinen. - -— Sano _Pax_, ilvehti Garnache. — _Pax tecum_, tai _vobiscum_. Niinhän -sanot sitten. - -— Jos omatunto vaivaa minua, niin mitä se sinulle kuuluu? Eikö sinulla -itselläsi olekaan omaatuntoa? - -— Ei ole. Se tekee ihmiset heikoiksi. Sen ovat mahtavat keksineet -voidakseen kiusata ja sortaa vähäväkisiä. Jos isäntäsi maksaa sinulle -huonon palkan likaisesta työstä, jota hänelle teet, ja joku toinen -tarjoaa sinulle runsasta palkkiota, jos teet virheen tai laiminlyönnin -työssäsi, niin omatuntosi kalvaa sinua myöhemmin. Pyh! Se on kömpelö, -lapsellinen temppu, jolla sinut pysytetään uskollisena. - -Arsenio vilkaisi häneen päin. Sanat, jotka herjasivat ylhäistä väkeä, -olivat hänestä aina tervetulleita, väitteet, että häntä sorrettiin, -kuuluivat aina kauniilta hänen korvissaan. Hän nyökkäsi myöntävästi -Battistan puheelle. - -— Bacchuksen nimessä, hän kirosi, — olet oikeassa, mutta minun -laitani on toisin. Ajattelen sitä kirousta, johon kirkko on tämän -talon julistanut. Eilen oli pyhäinmiesten päivä, mutta en saanut -kuulla ainoatakaan messua. Tänään on sielujenpäivä, enkä voi tässä -synninpesässä uhrata ainoatakaan rukousta äitini sielun rauhan puolesta. - -— Miksi niin? kysyi Garnache katsoen kummastuneena tätä uskonnollista -salamurhaajaa. - -— Mitenkä niin? Eikö Condillacin perhe ole suljettu pois seurakunnan -yhteydestä ja sen mukana joka mies, joka on täällä omasta vapaasta -tahdostaan? Rukoukset ja sakramentit ovat kaikki täällä kielletyt. - -Garnache sai äkkiä mielijohteen. Hän hypähti seisomaan, kasvot -nytkähdellen kuin kauhusta, kun hän sai tietää asiain todellisen tilan, -josta hänellä ei ollut siihen saakka ollut aavistustakaan. Hän ei -jäänyt hetkeksikään miettimään, kuinka ihmeellinen oli tämän lurjuksen -sielu, joka salli hänen viikon jokaisena päivänä häiritsemättä rikkoa -kaikkia käskyjä louisdorin tai parin maksusta, mutta jota vaivasivat -omantunnon tuskat sen tähden, että hän asui sellaisessa talossa, jonka -kirkko oli julistanut kiroukseensa. - -— Mitä sinä puhut? - -— Totta! Jokainen, joka tahallaan pysyy Condillacin palveluksessa, -vaistomaisesti Arsenio hiljensi ääntään, ettei vain kapteeni tai -markiisitar sattuisi kuulemaan, — on suljettu pois seurakunnan -yhteydestä. - -— Minä olen myös kristitty, Arsenio, enkä ole tietänyt tästä seikasta -mitään. - -— Tietämättömyytesi tähden saanet anteeksi. Mutta nyt, kun tiedät.. -Arsenio kohautti olkapäitään. - -— Nyt, kun tiedän sen, olisi minun parasta huolehtia sielustani ja -etsiä uusi työpaikka. - -— Voi! huokasi Arsenio. — Sitä ei ole niinkään helppoa löytää. - -Garnache vilkaisi häneen. Pariisilaisen katse alkoi näyttää varmemmalta -kuin siihen saakka. Hän katsahti vaivihkaa ympärilleen, istahti sitten -jälleen, niin että hänen suunsa oli aivan Arsenion korvan juuressa. - -— Täällä maksetaan huono palkka kuin kerjäläiselle, mutta kuitenkin -olen kieltäytynyt ottamasta vastaan kokonaista omaisuutta, jonka eräs -toinen minulle tarjosi, voidakseni olla uskollinen Condillacissa -olevalle isäntäväelleni. Mutta tämä kertomasi seikka muuttaa kaikki. - -— Omaisuuden? kertasi Arsenio epäillen. - -— Niin, omaisuuden — ainakin viisikymmentä pistolia. Se on omaisuus -muutamille meistä. - -Arsenio vihelsi. — Selitähän tarkemmin! hän pyysi. - -Garnache nousi sen näköisenä kuin olisi aikonut lähteä. - -— Minun on harkittava sitä, hän sanoi ja liikahti muka poistuakseen. -Mutta toinen tarttui kiihkeänä hänen käsivarteensa. - -— Mitä sinun on harkittava? hän kivahti. — Selitä minulle, minkälaista -palvelusta sinulle on esitetty. Omatuntoni soimaa minua. Jos sinä -kieltäydyt noista viidestäkymmenestä pistolista, niin miksi en minä -saisi hyötyä sinun typeryydestäsi? - -— Se ei olisi tarpeen. Siihen puuhaan, josta puhun, tarvitaan kaksi -miestä, ja kumpikin saa viisikymmentä pistolia. Jos päätän ryhtyä -tehtävään, niin mainitsen, että sinä suostut toiseksi. - -Hän nyökkäsi synkkänä toverilleen, irrottautui hänen otteestaan ja -lähti astelemaan pihan poikki. Mutta Arsenio ryntäsi hänen perässään ja -tarttui uudelleen hänen käsivarteensa. - -— Senkin hullu! Et suinkaan aio kieltäytyä ottamasta vastaan sitä -omaisuutta? - -— Se olisi petosta, kuiskasi Garnache. - -— Se on paha, myönsi toinen, ja hänen ilmeensä muuttui alakuloiseksi. -Mutta kun hän muisti, mitä Garnache oli sanonut, kirkastuivat hänen -kasvonsa taaskin pian. — Kohtaako se näitä Condillacin asukkaita? -hän tiedusteli. Garnache nyökkäsi. — Ja ne, jotka pyytävät meiltä -palvelusta — maksaisivat sinulle viisikymmentä pistolia? - -— He pyytävät toistaiseksi palvelusta vain _minulla_. He pyytävät -kenties sinulta, jos puhun puolestasi. - -— Ja sinä puhut; olemmehan saman maan miehiä. Puhuthan, eikö niin? -Olemme toveruksia. Ystävyksiä vieraassa maassa. Ei ole mitään, mitä -en olisi valmis tekemään hyväksesi, Battista. Näetkö, olisin valmis -kuolemaan puolestasi, jos tarvittaisiin! Kautta Bacchuksen! Olisin! -Sellainen olen, kun pidän miehestä. - -Garnache taputti häntä olalle. — Sinä olet kelpo poika, Arsenio. - -— Ja puhuthan puolestani? - -— Mutta ethän tiedä, mistä on kysymys,'huomautti Garnache. — Kenties -kieltäydyt, kun sitä tarjotaan sinulle. - -— Kieltäydynkö viidestäkymmenestä pistolista? Jos tapani olisivat -olleet sellaiset, niin olisin ansiosta se köyhä raukka, joka olen. -Olkoonpa tehtävä minkälainen tahansa, omatuntoni soimaa minua siitä, -että palvelen Condillaceja. Selitä minulle, kuinka ne viisikymmentä -pistolia on ansaittava, ja voit olla varma, että olen valmis ryhtymään -vaikka mihin! - -Garnache oli tyytyväinen. Mutta sinä päivänä hän ei ilmaissut -Arseniolle sen enempää, vakuutti vain puhuvansa hänen puolestaan ja -kertovansa hänelle tarkemmin seuraavana päivänä. Mutta kun he sitten -Arsenion kiihkeästä vaatimuksesta uudelleen keskustelivat asiasta, ei -Garnache vieläkään ilmoittanut hänelle kaikkea, ei edes sitä, että -palvelusta tarvitsi neiti de La Vauvraye. - -— Olen saanut sanan, hän sanoi salaperäisesti. — Et saa kysyä minulta, -millä tavoin. - -— Mutta kuinka pääsemme Grenobleen? Kapteeni ei ikinä laske meitä -sinne, valitti Arsenio pahantuulisena. - -— Kun sinä olet yöllä vahdissa, Arsenio, lähdemme yhdessä kysymään -lupaa kapteenilta. Sinä aukaiset takaportin, kun minä yhdyn seuraasi -täällä pihalla. - -— Entä mies, joka on tuolla ovella? Ja hän heilautti peukaloaan sitä -tornia kohti, jossa Valérie oli vankina ja johon Battista suljettiin -yöksi. Pihalta torniin vievälle ovelle oli lisävarmuuden vuoksi -sijoitettu vahti. Tämä ovi ja vahti olivat sellaisia esteitä, joiden -raivaamisen Garnache näki mahdottomaksi ilman apua. - -— Sinun on pidettävä huolta hänestä, Arsenio. - -— Näinkö? kysäisi Arsenio kylmästi, hipaisten kämmenensä syrjällä -kurkkuaan. Garnache pudisti päätään. - -— Ei, se ei ole tarpeellista. Isku päähän riittää. Lisäksi se -käy kenties hiljaisemmin. Tornin avaimen löydät hänen vyöstään. -Nujerrettuasi hänet, otat sen ja avaat oven, sitten vihellät minua. -Loppu sujuu helposti. - -— Oletko varma, että hänellä on avain? - -— Sen sain tietää itse markiisittarelta. Heidän oli pakko luovuttaa -se hänelle kaiken varalta. Kun neiti yritti paeta ikkunasta, niin -he oivalsivat, kuinka tarpeellista se oli. Hän ei maininnut, että -heidän sokea luottamuksensa Battistaan oli saanut heidät voittamaan -vastahakoisuutensa ja luovuttamaan avaimen vahdille. - -Sopimuksen vahvistukseksi ja esimauksi kaikesta tulevasta kullasta -Garnache antoi Arseniolle pari kultarahaa lainaksi, jonka tämä -suorittaisi takaisin, kun heidän tuntematon työnantajansa maksaisi -hänen viisikymmentä pistoliaan Grenoblessa. - -Kun Arsenio näki ja tunsi kullan kourassaan, hän oli varma, ettei juttu -ollut unta. Hän ilmoitti Garnachelle olevansa vahdissa luultavasti -seuraavan keskiviikon jälkeisenä yönä — silloin oli perjantai — -ja seuraavaan keskiviikkoon he niin ollen jättivät suunnitelmansa -toteuttamisen. - - - - -Pikalähetti - - -Garnache oli tyytyväinen keskustelun tuloksiin. - -— Mademoiselle, hän sanoi samana iltana Valérielle, — olin oikeassa -luottaessani onneeni ja uskoessani sen olevan nousemassa. Nyt -tarvitsemme vain vähän kärsivällisyyttä. - -Oli illallisen aika. Valérie istui pöydässä etuhuoneessaan, ja Battista -oli palvelemassa. - -— Jos onneani vain kestää ensi keskiviikkoon saakka, hän päätti -puheensa, — niin voitte olla varma, että pääsette hyvässä turvassa pois -Condillacista. Arseniolla ei ole aavistustakaan siitä, että te lähdette -mukaamme, joten meillä ei ole vähääkään syytä pelätä kavallusta, vaikka -hän muuttaisikin mieltään. Mutta hän ei muuta. Viisikymmentä pistolia -ovat tehneet sen horjumattomaksi. - -Valérie katsahti häneen silmät loistaen toivosta ja rohkeudesta. - -— Olette hoitanut asian ihmeen hyvin, hän kehui. — Jos se onnistuu -meille... - -— Sanokaa, _kun_ se onnistuu meille, mademoiselle, oikaisi Garnache -nauraen. - -— No niin sitten — kun meidän on onnistunut poistua Condillacista, niin -minne minun on mentävä? - -— Tietysti kanssani Pariisiin, kuten on päätettykin. Palvelijani -odottaa minua Voironissa mukanaan rahaa ja ratsut. Meillä ei ole -enää mitään esteitä tiellämme, kun kerran olemme kääntäneet selkämme -Condillacin kolkoille muureille. Kuningatar ottaa teidät ystävällisesti -vastaan ja antaa teille suojaa siihen asti, kunnes herra Florimond -saapuu vaatimaan morsiantaan. - -Valérie työnsi tuoliaan taaksepäin ja nousi hitaasti pystyyn. Hän -siirtyi verkkaisesti pöydän luota ikkunan ääreen. - -Garnache meni lähemmäksi. - -— Näyttää siltä kuin ette haluaisi avioliittoon Florimondin kanssa, -vaikka kuningattarelle lähettämästänne kirjeestä kävi käsittääkseni -ilmi, että te kiihkeästi halusitte tätä liittoa. Lienen tunkeileva, -mutta avoimesti puhuen käyttäytymisenne panee minut ymmälle. - -— En ole sitä vastaan, vastasi Valérie, mutta tyynesti, innostumatta.— -Florimond ja minä olimme leikkitovereita, ja pienenä lapsena rakastin -ja ihailin häntä, kuten kenties olisin rakastanut ja ihaillut -veljeä. Hän on miellyttävä, jalo ja uskollinen. Uskon, että hän -olisi paras aviomies, mitä kellään naisella on ikinä ollut, ja -niinpä minä mielelläni uskon elämäni hänen hoiviinsa. Mitäpä muuta -tarvittaisiinkaan? - -— Älkää sitä minulta kysykö, minä en suinkaan ole pätevä arvostelija, -torjui Garnache. - -— Jos Florimond on elossa, niin tämä pitkä poissaolo, tämä sanomien -puute on kummallista. On kulunut kolme kuukautta siitä, kun viimeksi -kuulimme hänestä — ei, neljä kuukautta. Ja kuitenkin on hänen täytynyt -saada tieto isänsä kuolemasta, ja sen olisi pitänyt saada hänet -palaamaan. - -— Saiko hän todella siitä tiedon? kysyi Garnache? — Lähetittekö te itse -siitä hänelle ilmoituksen? - -— Enhän toki, monsieur. Me emme ole keskenämme kirjeenvaihdossa. - -— Sepä vahinko, sillä pelkään, että hänen äitipuolensa on salannut -häneltä markiisin kuoleman. - -— _Mon Dieu!_ Tarkoitatteko, ettei hän kenties vieläkään tiedä sitä? - -— En. Kuukausi sitten kuningatar lähetti pikalähetin. Viimeisten -tietojen mukaan — jotka, kuten sanoitte, saatiin noin neljä kuukautta -sitten — hän oli Milanossa Espanjan palveluksessa. Pikalähetti -lähetettiin sinne etsimään häntä ja jättämään hänelle kirjeen, jossa -kerrottiin, kuinka asiat ovat Condillacissa. - --— Kuukausi sitten? kummasteli Valérie. — Emmekä vieläkään ole saaneet -häneltä sanaa. Olen hyvin huolissani hänen tähtensä, monsieur. - -■— Ja minä, sanoi Garnache, — Toivon varmasti, että saamme häneltä -tietoja millä hetkellä hyvänsä. - -Ennen kuin he olivat tulleet montakaan päivää vanhemmiksi, osoittautui -että hän toivoessaan oli ollut oikeassa. Sillä välin Garnache edelleen -näytteli vanginvartijan osaa saaden osakseen yhä enemmän luottamusta. - -Ratkaisevana keskiviikkona Battista etsi käsiinsä Arsenion — kuten -hänellä nyt oli säännöllisesti tapana tehdä -— niin pian kuin hän sai -lomahetken keskipäivällä. - -Battista puheli mahdollisimman lyhyesti pian yritettävästä paosta. - -— Onko kaikki kunnossa? Oletko vahdissa ensi yönä? - -— Kyllä. Vahtivuoroni on auringonlaskusta päivänkoittoon. Mihin aikaan -lähdemme liikkeelle? - -Garnache mietti hetkisen. - -— Meidän on parasta odottaa puoliyöhön, jotta toiset ennättävät vaipua -sikeään uneen. Jos silloinkin joku on vielä jalkeilla, on sinun -odotettava. Olisi typerää antautua vaaraan, että matkamme estetään, -lähtemällä puoli tuntia liian aikaisin. - -— Saat luottaa minuun, vastasi Arsenio. — Kun avaan tornin oven, -vihellän sinulle. Takaportin avain riippuu vahtihuoneen seinällä. -Anastan sen ennen tuloani. - -— Hyvä, kiitti Garnache, — ymmärrämme toisiamme. - -He olisivat sen jälkeen heti eronneet, mutta samassa kuului portilta -hälyä. Miehiä riensi sinne vahtituvasta, ja Fortunio lausuili -äänekkäitä komennuksia. Condillaciin oli saapunut täyttä neliä -ratsumies, kävelyttänyt hevosensa sillan yli — joka oli nostettuna vain -öisin — ja pyrki sisälle, koputtaen raippansa nupilla käskevästi portin -lankkuihin. - -Fortunion määräyksestä portti avattiin, ja porttikäytävästä ilmestyi -linnan pihalle pölyn peittämä mies, joka ratsasti väsyneellä, -vaahtoisella hevosella. - -Garnache silmäili häntä uteliaana; miehen ulkonäkö osoitti, että hän -oli pikalähetti. Ratsumies oli pysähtynyt muutaman askeleen päähän -Battistasta ja tämän toverista ja nähdessään, että halpapukuinen -Garnache kuului Condillacin palveluskuntaan, hän heitti hänelle -suitsensa ja laskeutui sitten jäykästi satulasta. - -Fortunio astui heti tärkeänä tulokkaan luokse, vasen käsi miekan -kahvassa, kierrellen oikealla kädellään pitkiä vaaleita viiksiään, ja -vaati häntä ilmoittamaan asiansa. - -— Tuon kirjeen leskimarkiisitar de Condillacille, oli vastaus, minkä -jälkeen Fortunio käski ylpeästi nyökäten miehen lähteä mukaansa. - -Arsenio oli luonnostaan utelias ja arvaili, mitä uutisia lähetti -saattoi tuoda. Garnache pohti samaa kysymystä, vaikkakin aivan -erilaisista syistä. Mistä tämä lähetti tuli? Miksi ei tuo -Fortunio-tomppeli ollut sitä kysynyt, että Garnachekin olisi kuullut -vastauksen? - -Hän esitti hätäisesti Arseniolle jonkin verukkeen ja poistui. -Vilkaistuaan ympärilleen varmistautuakseen siitä, ettei häntä -tarkkailtu, oli hän lähtemäisillään käytävään, mutta empi äkkiä. -Mitä varten hän sinne menisi? Urkkimaanko? Käyttäytyisikö hän kuten -avaimenreiästä kuunteleva lakeija? Ei! Hänellä oli velvollisuuksia -kuningatarta kohtaan, mutta hänellä oli velvollisuuksia myös itseään -kohtaan, ja ne kielsivät häntä menemästä sellaisiin äärimmäisyyksiin. - -Niinpä hän kääntyikin poispäin, mielihalun ja ylpeyden taistellessa -vallasta hänen sydämessään, ja asteli synkkänä pihalla Arsenion -ihmetellessä, mikä hänelle oli tullut. Ja hyvä olikin, että ylpeys -oli häntä pidättänyt; näytti todellakin siltä, että hänen onnensa oli -nousussa ja antanut ylpeyden pelastaa hänet hengenvaarasta. Sillä äkkiä -joku huusi: — Battista! - -Hän kuuli sen, mutta kun oli sillä hetkellä kokonaan omissa -ajatuksissaan, ei hänen mieleensä muistunut, että hänet tunnettiin -Condillacissa sillä nimellä. - -Vasta sitten kun se toistettiin äänekkäämmin ja käskevämmin, hän -pyörähti ympäri ja näki Fortunion viittaavan häntä luokseen. Hänet -valtasi äkkiä huolekas pelko, ja hän kiiruhti kapteenin eteen. Oliko -hänet yllätetty? Mutta Fortunion sanat rauhoittivat hänen epäilyksensä -heti. - -— Teidän on heti saatettava neiti de La Vauvraye takaisin asuntoonsa. - -Garnache kumarsi ja seurasi kapteenia portaita myöten sisälle panemaan -toimeen määräystä. Hän arvasi, että neidin äkillinen poisvieminen -aiheutui lähetin saapumisesta. - -Kun he — hän ja Valérie — olivat kahden etuhuoneessa pohjoisessa -tornissa, kääntyi tyttö häneen päin, ennen kuin hän ennätti kysyä -mitään, kuten oli aikonut. - -— On saapunut pikalähetti, virkkoi Valérie. - -— Tiedän sen; näin hänet pihalla. Mistä hän on? Saitteko tietää sen? - -— Florimondilta. Tyttö oli kalpea kiihtymyksestä. - -— Markiisi de Condillacilta? huudahti Garnache tietämättä, olisiko -hänen pitänyt toivoa vai pelätä. — Italiasta? - -— Ei, monsieur. En luule, että hän on tullut Italiasta. Siitä, mitä -puhuttiin, voin päättää, että Florimond on jo matkalla Condillaciin. -Kylläpä se synnytti aika hälyn. Heiltä meni koko ruokahalu päivällisen -osalta, ja he tuntuvat arvelleen, että minulle oli käynyt samoin, sillä -he päättivät lähettää minut heti takaisin huoneisiini. - -— Sitten ette kai tiedä mitään — paitsi että lähetti on markiisilta? - -— En mitään, enkä todennäköisesti saakaan tietää, vastasi tyttö. - -Garnache ei voinut pidättää kirousta. Sitten hän hiljensi ääntään ilman -mitään nähtävää syytä ja puhui nopeasti ja kiihkeästi: — Minun on -mentävä ottamaan selvää, mikäli kykenen. Se saattaa olla vaarallista, -mutta se vaara on mitätön verrattuna siihen, mikä meitä uhkaa, jos -teemme erehdyksiä, kun emme tiedä mitä on tulossa. Jos joku tulee -— mikä ei ole luultavaa, sillä kaikki asiaan sekaantuneet henkilöt -viipyvät salissa siihen asti, kunnes lähetistä on selviydytty — ja jos -tiedustetaan, missä olen, niin ette saa tietää siitä mitään, koska te -ette osaa lainkaan italiaa enkä minä ranskaa. Sanotte vain luulevanne, -että minä vastikään menin noutamaan vettä. Ymmärrättekö? - -Valérie nyökkäsi. - -— Lukitkaa sitten itsenne huoneeseenne palaamiseen! saakka! - -Hän otti lattialta ison saviastian, jossa säilytettiin vettä hänen -ja Valérien tarpeiksi, tyhjensi sen vahtihuoneen ikkunasta alhaalla -olevaan suojakaivantoon ja poistui pihalle vieviä portaita myöten. - -Hän tirkisti ulos. Ei ketään ollut näkyvissä. Iällä sisäpihalla oli -tähän aikaan päivästä vähän liikettä, ja tornin ovelle sijoitettiin -vartija vain yöksi. Tämän oven vieressä oli toinen. Se avautui -käytävään, josta saattoi päästä linnan mihin osaan hyvänsä. Pistettyään -tuomansa saviastian viimemainitun oven taakse, Garnache riensi nopeasti -käytävää pitkin salin oven taakse kuuntelemaan. - - - - -Florimondin kirje - - -Condillacin avarassa salissa, jossa markiisitar, hänen poikansa ja -neiti de La Vauvraye olivat olleet päivällisellä, oli pikalähetin -saapuminen saanut aikaan äkillisen hämmingin, niin pian kun saatiin -tietää, että hän toi kirjeen Condillacin markiisilta Florimondilta. - -Markiisitar oli noussut hätäisesti pöydästä, kasvoillaan hämmentynyt -pelokkaan uhkaava ilme, ja komentanut, että Valérien oli heti -poistuttava. - -Kun he vihdoin olivat kolmisin, hän viivytteli hetkisen ennen kuin -avasi kirjeen, ja puhutteli vielä kerran lähettiä. - -— Mihin markiisi de Condillac jäi? - -— La Rochetteen, madame, vastasi mies, ja sen kuultuaan hypähti Marius -pystyyn kiroten. - -— Niin lähellä! hän huudahti, mutta markiisittaren katse pysyi tyynen -levollisena. - -— Mistä johtuu, ettei hän rientänyt Condillaciin? - -— En tiedä, madame. En nähnyt herra markiisia. Tuon kirjeen toi minulle -hänen palvelijansa, käskien minun ratsastaa tänne. - -Marius lähestyi äitiään otsa synkkänä. - -— Katsotaanpa, mitä Florimond kirjoittaa! hän ehdotti hätäisesti. Mutta -äiti ei välittänyt hänestä mitään. - -— Ettekö siis voi kertoa meille mitään herra markiisista? - -— En mitään muuta kuin olen jo kertonut, madame. - -Markiisitar pyysi Mariusta kutsumaan Fortunion ja lähetti sitten -kirjeentuojan pois, käskien kapteenin toimittaa hänelle virvokkeita. - -Jäätyään sitten vihdoin kahdenkesken poikansa kanssa hän repäisi -hätäisesti kuoren auki ja alkoi lukea. Marius, jota levottomuus kalvoi, -tuli hänen viereensä voidakseen hänkin lukea. Kirje kuului: - - Rakas Markiisitar! - - Epäilemättä Teitä ilahduttaa kuulla, että olen matkalla kotiin, ja - jollei olisi sattunut kuumekohtausta, joka on pidättänyt meitä täällä - La Rochettessa, olisin Condillacissa yhtä pian kuin lähetti, joka tuo - teille tämän kirjeeni. Pariisista saapui kaksi viikkoa sitten luokseni - Milanoon lähetti tuoden minulle kirjeen, jossa ilmoitettiin, että - isäni oli kuollut kuusi kuukautta sitten ja että hovissa toivottiin - minun palaavan hoitamaan Condillacia. Minua kummastuttaa suuresti, - että sain tällaisen ilmoituksen Pariisista enkä teiltä, sillä olisihan - toki ollut teidän velvollisuutenne lähettää minulle tieto isäni - kuolemasta silloin, kun tämä kohtalon isku meitä kohtasi. Mieleni - murtui murheesta saatuani tämän surusanoman, ja hovin kehotus sai - minut kiireesti lähtemään Milanosta rientääkseni tänne. Se seikka, - etten ole saanut minkäänlaisia uutisia Contlillacista, on ihmetyttänyt - minua kuukausimääriä. Isäni kuolema selittänee sitä jonkin verran, - mutta tuskinpa se on riittävä selitys. Uskon kuitenkin varmasti Teidän - voivan haihduttaa kaikki epäilyt, joita mielessäni on herännyt. Luulen - olevani Condillacissa tämän viikon lopulla, mutta pyydän, ettette Te - eikä veljeni Marius antaisi tämän seikan millään tavoin vaikuttaa - suunnitelmiinne, sillä vaikka aionkin palata hoitamaan Condillacia, - kuten hovista minua kehoteltiin, toivon Teidän ja rakkaan veljeni - edelleen pitävän sitä kotinanne, niin kauan kuin se Teitä miellyttää. - - Teidän nöyrä ja harras palvelijanne ja poikapuolenne - - _Florirnond_. - -Luettuaan kirjeen loppuun leskimarkiisitar toisti ääneen lauseen: — -Uskon kuitenkin varmasti, madame, Teidän voivan haihduttaa kaikki -epäilyt, joita mielessäni on herännyt. Hän katsahti poikaansa, joka nyt -oli siirtynyt seisomaan häntä vastapäätä. - -— Hän epäilee, ettei kaikki ole niin kuin olla pitäisi, murahti Marius. - -— Mutta hänen sävynsä on kauttaaltaan herttainen. Pariisista -lähetetyssä kirjeessä ei ole voinut olla liikoja. Häneltä pääsi pieni, -katkera naurahdus. — Meidän on edelleenkin pidettävä tätä kotinamme, -niin kauan kuin se meitä miellyttää. - -Sitten hän kävi äkkiä vakavaksi, taittoi kirjeen kokoon, pani kädet -selän taakse ja katsoi poikaansa silmiin. - -— No? Mitä aiot tehdä? Hän on La Rochettessa, päivän ratsastusmatkan -päässä, ja siellä häntä pidättää vain kuume. Joka tapauksessa hän lupaa -olla täällä viikon lopulla. Lauantaina Condillac on siis luisunut pois -käsistämme, olet menettänyt sen peruuttamattomasti. Aiotko menettää -samoin myös La Vauvrayen? - -Marius antoi käsiensä pudota riipuksiin ja kääntyi katsomaan äitiään -suoraan kasvoihin. - -— Mitä voin tehdä? Mitä voimme me tehdä? - -— Sinulta puuttuu luovaa mielikuvitusta, Marius, mutta kuitenkin pyydän -sinua käyttämään järkeäsi, muutoin olemme ensi sunnuntaina melkein -kodittomia. Minä en ota vastaan almuja Condillacin markiisilta enkä -usko sinunkaan ottavan. - -— Jos kaikki raukeaa, vastasi Marius, — niin onhan meillä vielä sinun -talosi Tourainessa. - -— Minun taloni? kivahti markiisitar, ääni kimeänä kiukusta. — -Hökkelini, aiot kai sanoa. Voisitko sinä viihtyä siellä — mokomassa -pahnassa? - -— _Vertudieu!_ Jos kaikki muu menee myttyyn, niin meidän pitäisi toki -olla iloissamme siitäkin. - -— Iloissamme? En ainakaan minä. Ja kaikki muu menee myttyyn, jollet -sinä toimi nopeasti kolmena lähipäivänä. - -— Voinko minä tehdä mahdottomia? - -— En vaadi sinulta muuta kuin että viet Valérien rajan yli Savoijiin, -jossa voit saada jonkun papin vihkimään teidät, ja teet sen ennen -lauantaita. - -— Ja eikö se ole mahdotonta? Hän ei suostu lähtemään mukaani, kuten -hyvin tiedät. - -— Senkin pelkuri, hupsu! Oletko tosiaan minun poikani? Pelkästä -arkuudesta olisit valmis viettämään koko elämäsi kerjäläisenä. Mutta -minä en, en taivu siihen, niin kauan kuin käteni liikkuu ja saan sanan -suustani. Sinä saat mennä tiehesi, mutta minä hinautan nostosillan ylös -ja varustaudun puolustamaan itseäni näiden muurien sisällä. Florimond -de Condillac ei astu jalallaan tänne minun eläessäni, ja jos hän tulee -musketin kantomatkan päähän, niin sitä pahempi hänelle. - -— Minusta tuntuu, että olet hullu puhuessasi hänen vastustamisestaan ja -nimittäessäsi minua pelkuriksi. Jätän sinut yksin siihen asti, kunnes -mielesi on rauhoittunut. Ja hän lähti kasvot punaisina salista jättäen -markiisittaren yksin. - -Pohjoisessa tornissa Valérie istui keskustellen Garnachen kanssa. - -Pariisilainen oli kertonut hänelle kaikki, mitä oli saanut selville -kirjeen sisällöstä. Florimond oli niin lähellä kuin La Rochettessa, -jossa häntä pidätti kuumekohtaus, mutta hän lupasi saapua Condillaciin -viikon lopulla. Asiain näin ollen ei heidän Valérien mielestä enää -tarvinnut vaivautua karkaamaan, kuten he aiemmin olivat suunnitelleet. -He voisivat odottaa Florimondin tuloa. - -Mutta Garnache pudisti päätään. Hän oli kuullut muutakin, ja vaikka -hän arvelikin, että Valérie oli sillä hetkellä turvassa Mariukselta, -ei hän kuitenkaan harhautunut arvostelemaan väärin tämän luonnetta -eikä antanut hänen hetkellisen hienotunteisuutensa pettää itseään. -Hänestä oli varsin mahdollista, että Marius muuttuisi epätoivoiseksi -Florimondin saapumishetken lähestyessä. Jääminen oli hyvin vaarallista. -Siitä hän ei virkkanut mitään, mutta todisti Valérielle, että olisi -parasta lähteä. - -— Mutta enää meidän ei tarvitse suorittaa vaivalloista matkaa Pariisiin -saakka. Neljän tunnin ratsastus La Rochetteen, ja te saatte syleillä -sulhastanne. - -— Mainitsiko hän minusta kirjeessään, tiedättekö mitään siitä, monsieur? - -— Kuulin heidän sanovan, ettei hän maininnut, vastasi Garnache. — Mutta -kenties hänellä oli siihen hyvät syynsä. Hän saattaa epäillä enemmän -kuin hän kirjoitti. - -— Kuinka voisi siinä tapauksessa kuumekohtaus pidättää häntä La -Rochettessa? Voisiko kuumekohtaus estää teitä, monsieur, rientämästä -rakastamanne naisen luokse, jos tietäisitte tai edes epäilisitte, että -häntä pidetään vankina? - -— En tiedä, mademoiselle. En ole koskaan rakastanut, minun olisi -kohtuutonta käydä tuomitsemaan rakastuneita. On yleisesti tunnettua, -etteivät he ajattele samoin kuin muut ihmiset, heidän mielensä on sillä -hetkellä hämmennyksissä. - -Mutta kun hän katseli Valérieta, joka seisoi ikkunan ääressä niin -ylevän lempeänä, solakkana, viehättävänä ja hentona, oli hän kuitenkin -varma siitä, että jos hän olisi Florimond de Condillac ja pelkäsipä hän -sitten tytön olevan vankina tai ei, niin ei kuume eikä edes ruttokaan -voisi pidättää häntä suurinta osaa viikosta La Rochettessa, helpon -ratsastusmatkan päässä. - -Valérie hymyili vienosti hänen sanoilleen ja käänsi keskustelun asiaan, -joka oli heille tärkein. - -— On siis päätetty, että meidän on lähdettävä tänä yönä. - -— Puoliyön aikana tai vähän sen jälkeen. Olkaa valmiina, mademoiselle, -älkääkä antako minun odottaa, kun koputan ovellenne. Joutuminen saattaa -olla hyvin tarpeen. - -— Saatte luottaa minuun, ystäväni, vastasi tyttö ja ojensi kätensä -äkillisen mielijohteen vallassa. — Olette ollut perin hyvä minua -kohtaan, herra de Garnache. - -Garnache tarttui tytön käteen ja omituinen hellyys pani hänen likaiset, -naamioidut kasvonsa värähtelemään. Häntä sykähdytti samanlainen tunne -kuin isän tytärtään kohtaan — ainakin hän silloin luuli niin. - -— Te liioittelette tekojani. En ole tehnyt muuta kuin minkä voin, minkä -jokainen olisi tehnyt. - -— Kuitenkin enemmän kuin Florimond on tehnyt — ja hän on sulhaseni. -Kuume oli hänelle riittävänä syynä jäädä La Rochetteen, mutta -hengenvaara ei voinut pelottaa teitä tulemasta tänne. - -— Unohdatte, mademoiselle, ettei hän kenties tiedä, missä oloissa -olette. - -— Kenties hän ei sitä tiedä, myönsi tyttö, keveästi huokaisten. - - - - -Neuvottelu - - -Lähetin saapuminen Condillaciin kiidätti Tressanin linnaan samana -päivänä kiireisesti. Hän halusi kiihkeästi tietää, mistä lähetti tuli -ja mitä sanomia hän toi. Hän ilmestyi leskimarkiisittaren puheille, -salaten huolestumisensa hellällä hymyilyllä. - -Hänet otettiin vastaan niin herttaisesti, että hänen päätänsä melkein -huimasi, sillä äärimmäisen turhamaisena miehenä hän ei kyennyt -oivaltamaan tämän sydämellisyyden ainoaksi mahdolliseksi syyksi sitä, -että häntä tarvittiin Condillacissa. Hetkisen hän empi ja puheli -tyhjänpäiväisistä seikoista, ennen kuin lausui julki asian, joka häntä -vaivasi. Kun he vihdoin jäivät kahdenkesken, hän esitti kielellään -pyörineen kysymyksen. — Kuulin, että Condillaciin on tänään saapunut -lähetti. - -Vastaukseksi markiisitar kertoi hänelle kaikki, mitä hän tahtoi tietää, -mistä lähetti oli tullut ja mitä sanomia hänellä oli ollut. - -— Niinpä siis, herra de Tressan, ne päivänne Condillacissa ovat luetut. - -— Kuinka niin? Tehän sanoitte, että Florimondin sävy teitä kohtaan on -ystävällinen. Varmastikaan hän ei häädä isänsä leskeä pois täältä. - -Markiisitar katseli tuleen, hymyillen raskasmielisen haaveksivasti. - -— Ei, hän ei häädä minua pois. Hän tarjosi minulle oleskelupaikan -Condillacissa, niin kauan kuin minua miellyttää pitää sitä kotinani. - -— Erinomaista! huudahti käskynhaltija, hykertäen pieniä, lihavia -käsiään. — Miksi sitten puhua poistumisesta? - -— Miksikö? Kysyttekö sitä, Tressan? Luuletteko, että minä alistuisin -elämään tuon miehen almuista? Perustin toiveeni Mariukseen, mutta hän -uhkaa osoittaa ne turhiksi. Minun taitaa olla parasta tyytyä elämään -köyhänä talossani Tourainessa. - -Silloin käskynhaltija älysi, että hetki oli tullut. Tilaisuus, jota hän -olisi turhaan saanut etsiä, melkein työnnettiin hänelle. Mielessään -hän siunasi Florimondia siitä, että tämä oli palannut niin sopivaan -aikaan. Hän nousi tuolistaan ja heittäytyi muitta mutkitta polvilleen -leskimarkiisittaren eteen. - -— Älkää ajatelko köyhyyttä, madame, hän rukoili, — ennen kuin olette -antanut minulle matkapassin! Lausukaa vain suostumuksen sana, ja -teistä tulee rouva de Tressan! Koko omaisuuteni riittäisi vain -huonoksi koruksi sellaiselle kaunottarelle kuin te olette ja varoisin -tarjoamasta sitä teille, jollen sen mukana voisi tarjota teille koko -Ranskan altteinta sydäntä. Markiisitar — Clotilde, polvistun nöyränä -jalkojenne juureen. Tehkää minulle, mitä haluatte! Rakastan teitä! - -Tahtoaan ponnistellen rouva de Condillac nieli Tressania kohtaan -tuntemansa inhon. Hänen ylpeyttään loukkasi kuunnella Tressanin -puhetta, mutta hän tukahdutti tunteensa. Hän ei antaisi miehelle mitään -vastausta — hän ei voinut, sillä hän oli vähällä pyörtyä inhosta — -mutta kuitenkin hänen täytyi antaa Tressanille toiveita sen ajan -varalta, jolloin, jos kaikki muu raukeaisi, hän joisi sen kirpeän -maljan, jota hän nyt piteli huulillaan. Niinpä hän mukautui olojen -pakosta. - -Hän hillitsi äänensä vienon murheelliseksi ja otti röyhkeille -kasvoilleen surullisen ilmeen. - -— Monsieur, monsieur, hän huoahti ja voitti vastenmielisyytensä siinä -määrin, että kosketti hieman Tressanin kättä, — te ette saa puhua siten -naiselle, joka on ollut leskenä vasta kuusi kuukautta, enkä minä saa -sitä kuunnella. - -Käskynhaltijan kädet ja ääni alkoivat vapista kovemmin, mutta nyt se -ei enää johtunut rukkasten pelosta; sen sai aikaan kiihkeä, voimakas -toivo, jonka markiisittaren sanat hänessä herättivät. - -— Annatteko minun toivoa, markiisitar? Jos tulen uudelleen —? - -Rouva de Condillac huokasi, ja hänen kasvonsa saivat murheellisen -kysyvän ilmeen. - -— Jos luulisin, että olette puhunut kaiken tämän säälistä, koska -pelkäätte puutteen käyvän minulle raskaaksi, en voisi antaa teille -vähääkään toiveita. Minussa on ylpeyttä, _mon ami_. Mutta jos olisitte -puhunut näin sittenkin, vaikka olisin edelleenkin ollut Condillacin -emäntä, niin sitten, Tressan, saatte toistaa sen minulle myöhemmin -sellaisena aikana, jolloin minä voin kuunnella teitä. - -Keväisen joen lailla tulviva riemu valtasi Tressanin mielen. Hän -kumartui eteenpäin, tarttui markiisittaren käteen ja vei sen huulilleen. - -— Clotilde! hän huudahti tukahdutetulla äänellä. Mutta samassa avautui -ovi, ja avaraan huoneeseen astui Marius. - -Oven narahtaessa käskynhaltija koetti nopeasti nousta pystyyn. Hän -kompuroi seisomaan vaivalloisesti — sitäkin vaivalloisemmin, kun hän -ponnisteli näyttäytyäkseen vielä ketteräksi sydämensä valtiattaren -silmissä. - -— Herra käskynhaltija, alkoi markiisitar tyynesti, — tuli tapaamaan -meitä lähetin saapumisen johdosta. - -— Niinkö? sanoi Marius, kohottaen loukkaavasti kulmakarvojaan ja luoden -silmäyksen Tressaniin, ja Tressan vannoi sydämessään valan, ettei -häneltä unohtuisi tämän katseen maksaminen nenäkkäälle pojalle, sitten -kun hän oli saanut äidin puolisokseen. - -— Herra kreivi syö kanssamme illallista, ennen kuin lähtee ratsastamaan -takaisin Grenobleen, lisäsi markiisitar. - -Ja ennen kuin Marius ennätti vastata, oli äiti mennyt hänen ohitseen, -poistuen alakertaan. Nuorukainen seurasi synkkänä ja istua murjotti -pöydässä välittämättä vähääkään käskynhaltijan vallattomasta -hilpeydestä ja markiisittaren pakotetusta iloisuudesta. Hän käsitti -hyvin, minkälaatuisen lausumattoman sopimuksen äiti oli tehnyt. -Markiisitar oli oivaltanut, että Mariuksen vastenmielisyys hänen ja -Tressanin välistä suunniteltua liittoa vastaan oli hänelle eduksi, ja -käyttänyt tätä etua hyväkseen täysin määrin. Nuorukaisen täytyi joko -pakottaa Valérie menemään kanssaan avioliittoon ennen lauantaita tai -tyytyä näkemään äitinsä — kauniin, verrattoman äitinsä — naimisissa -tuon otuksen kanssa. - -Ja äkkiä, molempien toisten, jotka nyt olivat jo tottuneet hänen jöröön -äänettömyyteensä, ennakolta aavistamatta, puhkesi paha ilmoille. -Markiisitar oli puhunut joistakin vähäarvoisista toimista, jotka oli -suoritettava ennen Florimondin palaamista. Marius pyörähti jyrkästi -tuolillaan katsomaan äitiään silmiin. - -— Täytyykö tämän Florimondin palata? hän kysäisi, ja vaikkei hän -virkkanutkaan mitään muuta, olivat näiden hänen lausumiensa neljän -sanan merkitys ja sävy siksi selvät, että ne jättivät hyvin vähän -tulkinnan varaa mielikuvitukselle. - -Markiisitar kääntyi tuijottamaan häneen kasvoillaan sanoin -kuvaamattoman hämmästyksen ilme, joka ei aiheutunut itse viittauksesta, -vaan siitä, että se tehtiin niin jyrkästi. - -Mariuksen sanoja oli seurannut jännittynyt hiljaisuus, ja suu auki -käskynhaltija katsoa töllisteli nuorukaista, samalla kun hänen lihavat -kasvonsa hieman kalpenivat, sillä hän arvasi, mihin nuorukaisen -viittaus tähtäsi. Vihdoin puhkesi markiisitar puhumaan. - -— Kutsu Fortunio tänne! Siinä kaikki, mitä hän sanoi. Marius ymmärsi -täydellisesti, mitä varten hän tahtoi kutsua Fortunion tänne saapuville. - -Hän nousi myhäillen pöydästä, meni ovelle ja käski etuhuoneessa -vetelehtivän hovipojan noutaa kapteenin. Sitten hän asteli verkkaisesti -takaisin, ei entiselle paikalleen pöydässä, vaan takan ääreen. - -Fortunio saapui. Markiisitar pyysi häntä istumaan ja kaatoi omin käsin -hänelle lasin anjouta. - -Hiukan ihmetellen ja vähän ujostellen kapteeni noudatti kehotusta ja -istuutui osoitetulle paikalle ikään kuin anteeksi pyydellen. - -Marius kävi kärsimättömäksi ja toi häikäilemättä esiin asian, jonka -lausumiseksi markiisitar mietti hienostelevia sanoja. - -— Olemme noudattaneet teidät, Fortunio, hän selitti rehentelevästi, -— tiedustaaksemme teiltä, minkä hinnan vaaditte veljeni, Condillacin -markiisin, surmaamisesta. - -Käskynhaltija vaipui taaksepäin tuolissaan ähkäisten. Kapteeni hätkähti -ja kääntyi katsomaan poikaa, hänen vilpittömien silmiensä väliin tuli -ryppy. - -— Herra de Condillac, hän virkkoi tekeytyen arvokkaaksi, — luullakseni -olette erehtynyt miehestä. Minä olen sotilas enkä salamurhaaja. - -— Niinhän toki, tyynnytti häntä markiisitar, ryhtyen heti saattamaan -asiaa oikealle tolalle ja laskien pitkän, hoikan kätensä kapteenin -nukkavieruisen samettitakin hihalle. — Poikani tarkoitus ja hänen -sanansa ovat kaksi eri asiaa. Jos kysymyksessä olisi pelkkä salamurha, -niin olisimmeko kutsuneet teitä? Vartioväessä on kymmenkunta miestä, -jotka olisivat kelvanneet siihen tarkoitukseen. - -— Mitä te sitten tarvitsette? kysyi Fortunio. - -— Haluamme, että juttu hoidetaan kaikkien sopivaisuussääntöjen -mukaisesti. Markiisi on Sanglier Noirissa La Rochettessa. Teidän ei -ole lainkaan vaikea löytää häntä ja sen jälkeen joko loukata häntä tai -saada hänet loukkaamaan itseänne. - -— Erinomaista, mutisi Marius takan luota. — Sellaisen tehtävän pitäisi -miellyttää teidän kaltaistanne miekkamiestä, Fortunio. - -— Kaksintaistelu? sanoi mies, ja hänen olemuksestaan katosi röyhkeys, -jättäen sijaa pelkälle vastahakoisuudelle. Kaksintaistelu oli kokonaan -toista. — Mutta _sangdieu!_ Entäpä, jos hän surmaa minut? Oletteko -ajatelleet sitä? - -— Surmaa _teidät_? huudahti markiisitar, katsoen Fortuniota silmiin -ikään kuin kummastuneena moisesta kysymyksestä. — Te laskette leikkiä, -kapteeni. - -— Ja hänessä on kuumetta, tokaisi Marius pilkallisesti. - -— Hänessä on kuumetta? Se on jotakin. Mutta — mutta — sattuuhan -vahinkoja. - -— Florimond on aina ollut huono miekkailija, sanoi Marius, ikään kuin -itsekseen. - -Kapteeni pyörähti uudelleen häneen päin. - -— Miksi sitten, herra Marius, koska asia on niin ja koska te olette -yhtä taitava tai taitavampi kuin minä — ja hänessä on kuumetta, miksi -sitten on tarpeellista pestata minut tähän työhön? - -— Miksikö? kertasi Marius. — Mitä se teihin kuuluu? Pyydämme teitä -mainitsemaan hinnan, josta olette valmis sen tekemään. Jättäkää sikseen -vastakysymykset! - -— Jos ryhdyn tähän puuhaan, madame, niin en lähde yksin. - -— No, mitä siihen tulee, sanoi Marius, — olkoon, kuten tahdotte! -Ottakaa mukaanne miehiä niin paljon kuin haluatte! - -— Ja joudun sittemmin kenties hirteen heidän kanssaan, ärähti kapteeni, -käyden jälleen röyhkeäksi. — Nähkääs, herra de Condillac ja te, madame, -jos lähden, niin tahdon mukaani paremman vakuuden kuin tämän paikan -koko varusväen. Tarvitsen turvakseni sellaisen henkilön, joka huolehtii -siitä, ettei hänelle itselleen käy huonosti, aivan kuten minä pidän -huolta siitä, että hänelle käy huonosti ennemmin kuin minulle. - -— Mitä tarkoitatte? Puhukaa suunne puhtaaksi! - -— Tarkoitan, madame, etten lähde itse suorittamaan sitä, vaan olemaan -mukana ja auttamaan, jos apua tarvitaan. Menköön herra de Condillac! Ja -minä lähden hänen mukaansa ja otan vastatakseni siitä, että hän palaa -vahingoittumattomana ja että jätämme toisen kylmäksi. - -Molemmat Condillacit säpsähtivät, ja käskynhaltija nojautui -raskaasti pöytää vasten. Kaikista vioistaan huolimatta hän ei ollut -verenhimoinen, ja tämä puhelu inhotti häntä. - -Markiisitar koetti nyt turhaan horjuttaa kapteenin päätöstä. Äkkiä -Marius keskeytti äitinsä selittelyt puhuttelemalla kapteenia: - -— Kuinka voitte sen luvata? Tarkoitatteko, että minun ja teidän on -karattava hänen kimppuunsa? Ette ota huomioon, että hänellä on väkeä -ympärillään. Kaksintaistelu on kokonaan toista kuin käsikähmä, enkä -usko, että meille jälkimmäisessä käy hyvin. - -Häijyn ovela hymy levisi kapteenin kasvoille. - -— Olen ajatellut sitä, en suunnittele kaksintaistelua enkä käsikähmää, -vaan niiden välimuotoa, joka näyttää kaksintaistelulta, mutta on -käsikähmä. - -— Selittäkää tarkemmin! - -— Mitäpä enempiä selityksiä se kaipaisi? Yllätämme markiisin -sellaisessa paikassa, jossa ei ole hänen väkeään. Tunkeudumme -esimerkiksi hänen huoneeseensa. Kierrän avainta hänen ovessaan. Olemme -yksin hänen kanssaan, ja te loukkaatte häntä. Hän suuttuu, ja hänen -täytyy taistella heti paikalla. Olen ystävänne; minun on toimittava -kummankin sekundanttina. Te aloitatte, ja minä seison vieressä ja annan -teidän taistella. Väitätte, että hän käyttelee miekkaa huonosti, ja -lisäksi hänessä on kuumetta. Niinpä saatte pistetyksi miekkanne hänen -lävitseen, ja se on ollut kaksintaistelu. Mutta jos hän onnen tai -taidon avulla saa teidät vaaraan, olen minä valmiina pistämään miekkani -väliin oikealla hetkellä ja tekemään aukon, josta te voitte suunnata -häneen iskun. - -— Uskokaa minua, olisi parempi... aloitti markiisitar. Mutta Marius, -joka äkkiä oli mieltynyt ehdotukseen, keskeytti taas hänen puheensa. - -— Oletteko varma siitä, ettette erehdy, Fortunio? - -— _Per Bacco!_ Erehdys maksaisi minulle sata pistolia. Uskon, että -voitte luottaa minuun. Jos lainkaan erehdyn, niin se johtuu siitä, -että haluan kiihkeästi teidän suoriutuvan hänestä pian. Olette saanut -vastaukseni, monsieur. Vaikka keskustelisimme koko yön, niin pitemmälle -ette saa minua myöntymään. Mutta jos ehdotukseni on teistä sopiva, niin -olen valmis. - -— Ja minä myös, Fortunio, vakuutti Marius, ja hänen äänessään oli -melkein riemuisa sointu. - -Leskimarkiisitar katsoi vuoroin toista, vuoroin toista, ikään kuin -punniten miehiä varmistuakseen siitä, ettei Mariusta uhannut vaara. -Hän teki pari kysymystä pojalleen ja kapteenille. Sitten hän näytti -tyytyvän sopimukseen, nyökkäsi ja huomautti, että heidän olisi parasta -lähteä liikkeelle aamun sarastaessa. - - - - -Yllätys - - -Huoneistossaan pohjoisessa tornissa oli Valérie syönyt illallista ja -— säästääkseen herra de Garnachea jossakin määrin niistä alentavista -velvollisuuksista, joita vartijan tehtäviin sisältyi — itse korjannut -aterian pöydältä ja vienyt ruokailuvälineet vahtihuoneeseen, jossa ne -saivat olla aamuun saakka. Kun se oli tehty — hänen vastustelustaan -huolimatta oli Garnache tuppautunut auttamaan — muistutti pariisilainen -hänelle, että kello oli jo yli yhdeksän ja hoputti häntä tekemään -tarpeelliset matkavalmistukset. - -— Minun valmistukseni on pian tehty, vakuutti tyttö hymyillen. — -Kaikki, mitä tarvitsen, voin kantaa vaipassani. - -He alkoivat keskustella pian tapahtuvasta karkaamisesta ja nauroivat -leskimarkiisittaren ja tämän pojan pettymykselle, kun he aamulla -näkisivät häkin tyhjäksi. Sitten he käänsivät puheen Valériehin -itseensä, hänen aikaisempaan elämäänsä La Vauvrayessa, ja myöhemmin -keskustelu siirtyi Garnacheen. Tyttö kyseli hänen sotaseikkailujaan ja -tiedusteli sitten häneltä kaikenlaista Pariisista ja hovielämästä. - -Siten he tutunomaisesti puhellen kuluttivat odotusaikaansa, ja silloin -he kenties oppivat tuntemaan toisiaan paremmin kuin koko aikana siihen -asti. He olivat todellakin tietämättään tulleet läheisiksi tuttaviksi. - -Tänä iltana he tuntuivat henkisesti lähentyneen toisiaan, ja kenties -juuri se sai Valérien huokaamaan ja herttaisessa, ajattelemattomassa -viattomuudessaan sanomaan vielä kerran: - -— Olen tosiaankin pahoillani, herra de Garnache, että täällä olomme -lähenee loppuaan. - -Garnache ei ollut turhamainen narri eikä antanut näille sanoille väärää -merkitystä. Hän vastasi nauraen: - -— Minä en ole, mademoiselle. Eikä mieleni saa rauhaa, ennen kuin tämä -kovanonnen linna on jäänyt ainakin kolmen peninkulman päähän taaksemme. -Sh! Joku tulee. - -Ja äkkiä hänelle selvisi, kuinka vaarallista olisi, jos hänet -tavattaisiin tytön seurasta. - -— Huoneeseenne, mademoiselle! hän kuiskasi, osoittaen peloissaan -sisemmän huoneen ovea. — Sulkeutukaa lukon taakse! Ja hän kehotti -merkillä Valérieta liikkumaan hiljaa. - -Nopeasti ja äänettömästi kuin hiiri tyttö hiipi huoneesta ja sulki -meluttomasti oven. - -Vahtihuoneesta kuului askelia. Garnache istuutui jälleen tuolille, -nojasi päätään sen selkämykseen, sulki silmänsä, avasi suunsa ja oli -nukkuvinaan. - -Askeleet lähenivät nopeasti vahtihuoneen lattian poikki, ne olivat -keveät, kuin olisi tulijalla ollut pehmeäpohjaiset kengät, ja Garnache -mietti mielessään, oliko vastenmielinen vierailija äiti vaiko poika ja -mitä hän haluaisi. - -Etuhuoneen ovi työnnettiin hiljaa auki — se oli ollut raollaan — ja -kynnykselle ilmestyi Marius. Hän pysähtyi hetkiseksi silmäilemään -huonetta. Sitten hän astahti eteenpäin, rypistäen otsaansa nähdessään -Battistan niin sikeässä unessa. - -— Hei, mies! hän huudahti, potkaisten vartijan ojennettuja jalkoja. — -Tällä tavoinko sinä hoidat tehtäväsi? - -Garnache avasi silmänsä ja tuijotti tylsästi sekunnin ajan -teeskennellyn unensa häiritsijään. Sitten hän oli heräävinään täysin -valveille ja tuntevinaan isäntänsä, hypähti seisomaan ja kumarsi. - -— Näinkö hoidat vartijantointasi? ärjäisi Marius toistamiseen, ja -Garnache, joka katseli nuorukaista typerästi hymyillen, huomasi -punan hänen poskillaan ja omituisen väikkeen hänen silmissään. -Garnachen valtasi levottomuus, mutta hänen kasvonsa pysyivät älyttömän -ilmeettöminä, tylsän hymyilevinä. Hän kumarsi taas, heilautti kättään -sisähuoneeseen päin ja sanoi: - -— _La damigella é là_. - -Vaikka Marius ei osannutkaan yhtään italiankieltä, ymmärsi hän -kuitenkin sanojen merkityksen, jota selvensi miehen ilmeikäs liike. Hän -virnisti julmasti. - -— Asiasi olisivat huonosti, ruma ystäväni, jollei hän olisi siellä, -hän vastasi. — Tiehesi! Kutsun sinua tarvitessani. Ja hän osoitti -sormellaan ovea. - -Garnache tunsi levottomuutta, jopa pelkoa. Hän arveli, että hänen olisi -parasta olla Mariuksen liikkeistä ymmärtävinään, mitä tämä tarkoitti. -Mutta hän aikoi jäädä oven taakse. Hän kumarsi sen vuoksi kolmannen -kerran, hymyili vielä typerästi ja löntysti huoneesta, sulkien oven -jälkeensä, jotta Marius ei huomaisi, kuinka lähellä hän oli. - -Välittämättä hänestä sen enempää Marius astui Valérien ovelle ja -koputti sitä käskevästi. - -— Kuka siellä? - -— Minä — Marius. Avaa! Haluan puhella kanssasi. - -Ovi avautui hitaasti. Tyttö näyttäytyi kalpeana ja arkailevana. - -— Mitä tahdot, Marius? - -— Nyt ja aina ja ennen kaikkea muuta nähdä sinua, Valérie. Et näy vielä -olleen vuoteessa, se on hyvä. Meidän on keskusteltava hiukan. Sitten -hän itse istuutui pöydälle ja silmäili tyttöä. - -— Valérie, markiisi de Condillac, veljeni, on La Rochettessa. - -— Hän on kotimatkalla! huudahti tyttö, pannen kätensä ristiin ja -näytellen hämmästymistä. - -Marius pudisti päätään ja hymyili julmasti. - -— Ei, hän ei palaa kotiin. Se on — jollet sinä sinä tahdo. - -— Jollen minä tahdo! Mutta luonnollisestikin minä tahdon sitä! - -— Niinpä siis, Valérie, jos tahdot saada tahtosi toteutetuksi, niin -täytyy minunkin saada. Jos Florimondin pitää palata Condillaciin, on -sinun tultava vaimokseni. - -Hän kumartui Valérien puoleen, nojaten kyynärpäihin, työntäen kasvonsa -aivan lähelle tytön kasvoja. Tyttö peräytyi ja puristi käsiään yhteen, -niin että rystyset kävivät valkeiksi. - -— Mitä — mitä tarkoitat? hän änkytti. - -— En enempää kuin sanoin, enkä vähempää. Jos rakastat häntä kylliksi -paljon uhrautuaksesi, niin tule vaimokseni ja pelasta hänet tuhosta! - -— Mistä tuhosta? - -Marius heilautti itsensä alas pöydältä ja tuli seisomaan tytön eteen. - -— Kerron sinulle kaikki, hän lupasi ja hänen äänensä oli hyvin uhkaava. -— Rakastan sinua, Valérie, enemmän kuin mitään muuta maan päällä ja -luullakseni taivaassa enkä luovuta sinua hänelle. Jos nyt vastaat -minulle kieltävästi, niin lähden päivän koittaessa La Rochetteen -voittaakseni sinut häneltä miekallani. - -Pelostaan huolimatta ei Valérie kyennyt pidättämään vähäistä -halveksimisen hymyä. - -— Siinäkö kaikki? No, jos olet niin ajattelematon, niin varmastikin -saat itse surmasi. - -Marius naurahti rauhallisesti kuullessaan tämän rohkeudestaan ja -taidostaan lausutun viittauksen. - -— Niin saattaisi käydä, jos menisin yksin, hän myönsi. Tyttö ymmärsi, -ja hänen silmänsä laajenivat kauhusta ja inhosta. - -— Sinä, roisto, raukkamainen salamurhaaja! Olisihan minun pitänyt -arvata, että jollakin sellaisella konnanjuonella aioit toteuttaa -uhkauksesi voittaa minut omaksesi aseilla! - -Hän hypähti pystyyn Mariuksen eteen ennen kuin tämä ehti virkkaa -mitään. Hänen silmänsä leimusivat ja hän osoitti vapisevalla kädellä -ovea. - -— Ulos! hän käski, ja hänen äänensä oli käheä. — Pois näkyvistäni! -Ulos! Tee pahimpasi, kunhan vain jätät minut rauhaan! En tahdo olla -missään tekemisissä kanssasi. - -— Etkö tahdo? sähisi Marius hampaittensa välitse ja tarttui äkkiä hänen -ranteeseensa. Mutta tyttö ei huomannut häntä välittömästi uhkaavaa -vaaraa. Hän tiesi vaaran uhkaavan vain Florimondia, eikä se merkinnyt -kovinkaan paljoa, sillä hänhän lähtisi Condillacista La Rochetteen -hyvissä ajoin varoittaakseen sulhastaan. - -— Olet esittänyt minulle sopimusta, hän jatkoi. — Olet maininnut -hintasi ja kuullut hylkäävän vastaukseni. Ja nyt mene! - -— En vielä heti, vastasi mies, ääni niin inhottavan maireana, että -Garnache pidätti henkeään. - -Marius kiskoi Valérieta puoleensa ja painoi häntä rintaansa vasten -rajusta rimpuilemisesta huolimatta. Vaikka tyttö olisi kuinka -ponnistellut, suuteli nuorukainen kiihkeästi hänen kasvojaan ja -hiuksiaan, kunnes hän sai toisen kätensä vapaaksi ja iski Mariusta -vasten kasvoja kaikin voimin. Silloin Marius päästi Valérien irti, -astahti taaksepäin kiroten — hänen kalpeilla kasvoillaan oli punaiset -sormenjäljet. - -— Tämä lyönti maksaa Florimond de Condillacin hengen, sanoi hän -ilkeästi. — Hän kuolee huomenna puolenpäivän aikaan. Ajattele sitä, -tyttöseni. - -— En välitä siitä, mitä teet, kunhan jätät minut rauhaan, vastasi -Valérie ponnistaen uljaasti pidättääkseen kiukun ja tuskan kyyneliä. Ja -yhtä kiukkuinen oli oven takana kuunteleva Garnache. Vain vaivoin hän -sai hillityksi itsensä syöksymästä Mariuksen kimppuun. - -Marius silmäili tyttöä hetkisen, kasvot vääntyneinä raivosta. - -— Jumalauta! hän vannoi. — Jollen saa sinua rakastamaan itseäni, niin -annan sinulle kylliksi syytä vihata itseäni. - -— Jo nyt olet tehnyt sen varsin perinpohjaisesti, vastasi tyttö. - -Seuraavassa silmänräpäyksessä häneltä pääsi pelokas kirkaisu. Marius -oli käynyt uudelleen häneen käsiksi ja painoi hänen hentoa vartaloaan -itseään vasten. - -— Suutelen huuliasi ennen kuin poistun, _ma mie_, hän sähähti. Mutta -hänen vielä ponnistellessaan toteuttaakseen aikeensa tarttui hänen -vyötäisiinsä pari käsivarsia kuin rautapihdit. - -Ällistyneenä hän päästi Valérien irti, ja samassa hänet pyöräytettiin -ympäri ja sinkautettiin runsaasti kuuden askeleen päähän lattialle. - -Hän lennähti pöytää vasten ja tarrautui siihen kiinni välttyäkseen -kaatumasta ja silmäili kummastuneena ja raivoissaan Battistaa. - -Garnache oli tyyten menettänyt malttinsa kuullessaan Valérien -kiljahduksen. Hän antoi varovaisuuden mennä menojaan, häneltä unohtui -kaikki järki, ja häntä ohjaamaan jäi vain sokea raivo, joka pakotti -häntä heti toimimaan. Mutta yhtä äkkiä kuin tämä raivo oli noussut, -se myös tyyntyi, kun hän nyt huomasi olevansa vastakkain vimmastuneen -Condillacin kanssa. - -Rajun kiihkeästi hän koetti vielä nytkin korjata tekemäänsä erehdystä, -mutta turhaan. Hän kumarsi Mariukselle anteeksipyytävästi, heilutteli -käsiään ja täytti ilman italiankielisillä lauseilla, jotka hän lausui -mielipuolisen ponnekkaasti, ikään kuin olisi tahtonut sanan voimalla -takoa selityksen isäntänsä kalloon. Marius katseli ja kuunteli, mutta -hänen kiukkunsa ei suinkaan lauhtunut, päinvastoin se yltyi, ikään -kuin sekava puhetulva, jota hän ei ymmärtänyt, olisi ollut vain -lisäloukkaus. Hän vastasi vain kiroamalla. Sitten hän pyörähti ympäri -ja tempasi Garnachen miekan lähellä olevalta tuolilta, jolla se yhä -oli, ja silloin Garnache sadatteli ajattelemattomuuttaan. Kiskaistuaan -pitkän, terävän säilän tupestaan Marius syöksyi hänen kimppuunsa. - -Mutta ennen kuin hän ehti iskeä, ennen kuin Garnache ehti liikahtaakaan -puolustautuakseen, oli Valérie rientänyt heidän väliinsä. Marius -katsahti hänen kalpeisiin, päättäväisiin kasvoihinsa ja ällistyi. Mitä -merkitsi tuo renki tytölle, miksi hän tuli väliin silläkin uhalla, että -miekka osuisi häneen itseensä? - -Sitten levisi hymy hitaasti hänen kasvoilleen. Häntä kirveli vieläkin -Valérien halveksiminen ja vastarinta samoin kuin eräässä mielessä se -pettymys, jonka palvelijavintiö oli hänelle tuottanut. Hän oivalsi -voivansa loukata tyttöä, nöyryyttää hänen ylpeyttään ja häpäistä hänen -sisimpiä tunteitaan. - -— Olet erittäin huolissasi tuon miehen hengestä, hän virkkoi, ja hänen -äänestään kuvastui halpamainen salaviittaus. - -— En tahdo sinun murhaavan häntä, vastasi Valérie, koska hän on vain -totellut äitisi käskyjä. - -— Epäilemättä hän on ollut tuiki oivallinen vartija, pisteli Marius. - -Vielä nytkin olisi kaikki voinut käydä hyvin. Tällä loukkauksella olisi -Marius kenties arvellut maksaneensa kärsimänsä tappion. Hän olisi -saattanut malttaa mielensä ja uskoa, että kenties Battista, kuten tyttö -väitti, oli sittenkin vain noudattanut saamiaan määräyksiä hiukan liian -rajusti, olkoon menneeksi, mutta uskollisesti siitä huolimatta. Niin -ajatellen hän olisi saattanut tyytyä menemään tiehensä ja tyydyttämään -kostonhimoaan surmaamalla Florimondin seuraavana päivänä. Mutta -Garnachen kiivaus, joka taas yltyi, repi rikki tämänkin viimeisen -heikon toiveen. - -Loukkaus, josta Valérie ei olisi välittänyt — jota hän kenties ei edes -ollut täysin ymmärtänyt — kiihdytti Garnachen vihan vimmaan hänen -puolestaan. Hän unohti esittämänsä osan, unohti senkin, ettei hän -osannut ollenkaan ranskaa. - -— Mademoiselle, hän huusi, ja tyttö tuijotti häneen kauhistuneena, kun -hän oli näin tuhoisan varomaton, — pyydän teitä väistymään syrjään. -Hänen äänensä oli matala ja uhkaava, mutta sanat olivat pelottavan -selvät. - -— _Par la mort Dieu!_ kirosi Marius perin ällistyneenä, — ethän tähän -asti ole osannut vähääkään ranskaa? - -— Nimeni on Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache, ja nyt aion tappaa -ainakin yhden Condillacin likaisesta joukkiosta. - -Hän tarttui tuoliin, nostaen sen eteensä valmiina torjumaan toisen -hyökkäystä. - -Mutta Marius epäröi hetkisen — aluksi pelkän hämmästyksen, sitten pelon -lamauttamana. Hän tunsi jonkin verran pariisilaisen toimintatapoja. Hän -vilkaisi oveen ja mittasi katseellaan sen etäisyyttä. Ennen kuin hän -pääsisi sinne, katkaisisi Garnache häneltä tien. Hän ei voinut muuta -kuin yrittää tunkea pariisilaista takaisinpäin. Ja niinpä hän alkoi -hyökätä, tehden äkillisen syöksyn. Garnache peräytyi ja nosti tuoliaan, -mutta siinä samassa astui Valérie uudelleen heidän väliinsä. - -— Väistykää syrjään, mademoiselle! huusi Garnache, joka oli jälleen -kylmä kuten aina taistelussa ja huomasi selvästi Mariuksen aikeen. — -Väistykää! Tai hän pääsee hälyttämään vartioväkeä. - -Hän hypähti Valérien ohitse estämään Mariuksen äkillistä juoksua -ovelle. Kynnyksellä oli nuorukaisen pakko kääntyä puolustautumaan, -sillä muutoin olisi raskas ase, jota Garnache käsitteli harvinaisen -keveästi, musertanut hänen aivonsa. Mutta onnettomuus oli tapahtunut, -kun hän oli päässyt kynnykselle. - -Marius alkoi kiljua kohti kurkkuansa: - -— Tännepäin! Fortunio! Abdon! Tänne, lurjukset! Minua ahdistetaan. - -Pihalla kajahti hänen sanojensa kaiku, ja sen toisti vahtimiehen -luikkaus, joka oli kuullut hätähuudon. Pian he erottivat miehen nopeat -askeleet, kun hän riensi noutamaan apua. - -Garnache hyppäsi äkkiä syrjään ahdistaakseen vastustajaansa sivulta -päin ja estääkseen hänet takaperin peräytymästä ulko-ovelle. Temppu -onnistui ja asteittain, aina puolustaen itseään, Garnache kiersi -edelleen, kunnes hän oli Mariuksen ja kynnyksen välissä. - -Mutta nyt kuului juoksuaskelia pihalta. Portaista näkyi valon -hohdetta ja miesten läähättävä hengitys kantautui taistelijoille -saakka. Garnache arveli, että hänen viimeinen hetkensä oli varmasti -koittanut. No niin, koska hänen oli kuoltava, niin hän voisi kuolla -täällä Mariuksen miekasta yhtä hyvin kuin jonkun toisenkin. Siispä hän -päätti antautua siihen vaaraan voidakseen samalla antaa Mariukselle -merkin, josta tämä muistaisi hänet. Hän heilautti tuolinsa korkealle, -paljastaen ruumiinsa sekunnin ajaksi. Salamannopeasti sujahti nuoren -miehen miekka häntä kohti. Mutta Garnache väistyi ketterästi sen tieltä -ja astahti lähemmäksi vastustajaansa. Tuoli putosi jysähtäen ja Marius -vaipui pyörtyneenä ja verissään lattialle saatuaan päähänsä hirvittävän -iskun. Kalahtaen putosi miekka hänen kädestään ja kieri heilahdellen -Garnachen jalkojen juureen. - -Pariisilainen viskasi pois tuolin ja kumartui ottamaan tuiki -tervetullutta säilää. Hän suoristautui puristaen miekankahvaa ja saaden -itseluottamusta tuntiessaan kädessään aseen, ja pyörähti ympäri, juuri -kun Fortunio ja kaksi hänen kätyriään ilmestyivät ovelle. - - - - -Garnache lähtee Condillacista - - -Ei kukaan ole nauttinut taistelusta enemmän kuin Martin de Garnache, -eikä hän nytkään jäänyt miettimään, että nyt hän todennäköisesti saisi -tyydyttää tätä haluaan liiaksikin. Noiden kolmen miehen ilmestyminen -hänen eteensä karkoitti hänen mielestään kaikki muut ajatukset, paitsi -pian alkavan ottelun. - -Hän kävi asentoon torjuakseen heidän hyökkäyksensä; hänen katseensa oli -valpas, huulet tiukasti yhteen puristetut, polvet kuin teräsjoustimet. - -Fortunion johdolla karkasivat miehet hänen kimppuunsa, ja seuraavien -minuuttien aikana kaikunut melu, taistelevien raskas huohotus, -kiroustulva, askelten töminä, kun he hypähtelivät sinne tänne, ja ennen -kaikkea miekkojen kalskahteleminen vastakkain, täytti huoneen ja kuului -linnan pihalle saakka. - -Kului minuutteja, mutta he eivät mahtaneet mitään tälle yhdelle -ainoalle miehelle; näytti siltä, ettei hän heilutellut yhtä, vaan -kymmentä säilää, niin nopeat olivat hänen liikkeensä, niin vinhasti -sujahteli hänen miekkansa kaikkiin suuntiin. Jos hän olisi pysynyt -paikallaan, olisi hän pian saattanut saada surmansa, mutta hän -perääntyi hitaasti etuhuoneen ovea kohti. Valérie seisoi vielä siellä, -katsellen taistelua kauhistunein silmin ja henkeään pidättäen. - -Omalla tavallaan hän auttoi Garnachea, vaikka hänellä itsellään -ei ollut siitä aavistustakaan. Hän piti kädessään haaraista -kynttilänjalkaa, jonka kuusi kynttilää oli tämän myrskyisen näyttämön -ainoana valaistuksena, ja niiden valo sattui Garnachen ahdistajien -silmiin, joten hän näki heidän kasvonsa, samalla kun hänen kasvonsa -olivat varjossa. - -Pariisilainen vetäytyi yhtä mittaa taaksepäin ovea kohti. Hän ei voinut -sitä nähdä, mutta se ei ollut tarpeellistakaan. Hän tiesi sen olevan -suoraan sen oven vastassa, joka avautui portaisiin, ja viimemainitun -mukaan hän ohjasi peräytymistään. - -Tarkkaillessaan Valérie arvasi, että hänen aikomuksensa oli tulla -sisempään huoneeseen, päästä sen kynnyksen yli, jolla hän itse seisoi. -Melkein koneellisesti hän astui taaksepäin askeleen tai pari antaakseen -Garnachelle tietä. Tämä liike oli vähällä maksaa pariisilaisen hengen. -Kun valo ei enää niin räikeästi osunut Fortunion silmiin, näki tämä -paremmin kuin siihen asti ja suuntasi vikkelästi murhaavan piston -suoraan Garnachen sydäntä kohti. Pariisilainen hypähti taaksepäin, kun -miekan kärki oli vain tuuman päässä hänen rinnastaan. - -— Pankaa kynttilänne, mademoiselle, hän pyysi, uuninreunustalle -taakseni! Sijoittakaa sinne toinenkin kynttilänjalka! - -Valérie kiiruhti kerkeästi täyttämään pyyntöä, vaikka hänen päätänsä -huimasi ja hänestä oli kaikki sekavaa kuin painajaisessa. Ja kun valo -taas oli Garnachen takana, se antoi hänelle vastustajiin verrattuna -saman pienen edun kuin aikaisemminkin. Reippaasti hän lausui uuden -määräyksen. - -— Jaksatteko siirtää pöytää, mademoiselle? hän kysyi. — Koettakaa se -kiskoa tänne seinän viereen minusta vasemmalle, niin lähelle ovea kuin -suinkin saatte! - -— Minä koetan, läähätti tyttö huulet kuivina ja riensi tekemään työtä -neuvottua. Tietämättään hän nyyhkytti kiihkeästi ehättäessään auttamaan -Garnachea mahdollisimman tehokkaasti. Hän tarttui rajusti jykevään -tammipöytään ja alkoi vetää sitä lattian poikki, kuten Garnache oli -pyytänyt. Fortunio älysi, mitä oli tekeillä, arvasi Garnachen aikeet -ja yritti äkkiryntäyksellä raivata itselleen tien huoneeseen. Mutta -Garnache piti varansa. Terässäilät kirskahtivat vastakkain, sitten -kuului kumea tömähdys, ja Fortunio oli jälleen vartiohuoneessa, minne -hän oli peräytynyt pelastaakseen nahkansa. - -Taistelu keskeytyi sen jälkeen vähäksi aikaa, ja Garnache laski -miekkansa alas lepuuttaakseen kättään, kunnes hänen kimppuunsa -uudelleen käytäisiin. Oven toiselta puolen kapteeni kehotti häntä -antautumaan. Hän piti sellaista ehdotusta loukkauksena ja joutui -hetkeksi kiihkon valtaan. - -— Antautua? hän karjaisi. — Antautua teille, murhaajat! Saatte -miekkani, jos tulette sitä noutamaan, mutta saatte sen kurkkuunne. - -Vuorostaan raivostuneena Fortunio kumartui kuiskuttamaan toverinsa -korvaan, antaen tälle määräyksen. Sitä totellen astui mies esiin, -käyden miekkasille Garnachen kanssa. Äkkiä hän laskeutui polvilleen, ja -hänen päänsä ylitse Garnache äkkiä näki vastassaan Fortunion miekan. -Se oli sukkela temppu ja oli hyvin vähällä lopettaa Garnachen puuhat. -Mutta vaikka se hämmästyttikin häntä, oivalsi hän samalla myös sen -tarkoituksen. Hänen säilänsä alitse piti polvistuneen miehen syöstä -miekkansa hänen ruumiiseensa. Samalla kun Valérielta pääsi varoittava -huudahdus, hän hypähti syrjään seinän viereen, missä hän oli suojassa -Fortunion aseelta, kääntyi äkkiä ja pisti miekkansa kyljittäin -polvillaan olevan palkkasoturin lävitse. - -Kaiken sen hän oli suorittanut koneellisesti, pikemminkin vaiston -kuin järjen ohjaamana. Ja kun kaikki oli ohitse ja juoni oli noin -tehokkaasti kääntynyt hänen vastustajansa turmioksi, hän tuskin -käsitti, kuinka hän oli sen tehnyt. - -Kaatuneen ruumis telkesi nyt oviaukon, ja sen takana seisoi Fortunio -uskaltamatta tunkeutua eteenpäin, peläten, että näkymätön säilä — -Garnache oli yhä aivan seinän vieressä — tekisi hänelle samanlaisen -tempun. - -— Älkää katselko tätä, mademoiselle, rukoili Garnache lempeästi. — -Olkaa rohkea, koettakaa olla rohkea! - -Valérie koetti terästää horjuvaa rohkeuttaan; ponnistaen tahtoaan hän -käänsi katseensa ovelta ja silmäili pariisilaisen tyyniä, pelottomia -kasvoja. Garnachen valppaiden silmien näkeminen tuntui uudelleen -valavan häneen luottamusta ja uljuutta. - -— Tässä on pöytä, monsieur, hän sanoi. — En voi saada sitä lähemmäksi -seinää. - -Garnache ymmärsi, ettei sen syynä ollut tytön rohkeuden eikä voimien -loppuminen, vaan se seikka, että hän itse oli sillä kohdalla, johon -hän oli pyytänyt Valérieta työntämään pöydän. Hän viittasi tyttöä -väistymään, ja tämän siirryttyä hän syöksähti äkkiä ja nopeasti -sivulle, tarttuen pöytään, mutta pitäen miekkaa edelleen kahdella -sormellaan. Hän oli saanut vankan pöydän työnnetyksi puolitiehen oven -eteen ennen kuin Fortunio käsitti tilanteen. Heti koetti kapteeni -käyttää sitä edukseen, luullen pääsevänsä Garnachen kimppuun tämän -huomaamatta. Mutta niin pian kuin hänen nenänsä tuli näkyviin -ovenpielen takaa, välähti Garnachen miekka hänen silmiensä edessä, -pakottaen hänet vetäytymään takaisin verinen naarmu poskessaan. - -— Varokaa, herra kapteeni, pilkkasi pariisilainen. — Jos olisitte -tullut tuuman verran kauemmaksi, olisitte saattanut menettää henkenne. - -Portaista kuului askelia ja Garnache ryhtyi taas työhönsä, työntäen -pöydän avoimen oven eteen. Hänellä oli nyt hetkinen levähdysaikaa, -sillä haavoittuneena — joskin lievästi — ei Fortunio todennäköisesti -ahdistaisi häntä ennen kuin olisi saanut toisia avukseen. Ja sillä -aikaa kun toisia saapui, sillä aikaa kun heidän ääntensä hyminä -kävi yhä kuuluvammaksi ja heidän askeleensa lopulta kajahtelivat -vartiohuoneen paljailla lattialankuilla, oli Garnache temmannut -tuolin ja heittänyt sen pöydän alle suojaksi alhaalta suunnattuja -hyökkäyksiä vastaan sekä viskannut toisen tuolin pöydälle korottamaan -ja lujittamaan varustustaan. - -Barrikaadinsa takaa hän tirkisteli ulompaan huoneeseen saadakseen -selville uusien vastustajiensa lukumäärän ja näki hämmästyksekseen -Fortunion vierellä vain neljä miestä. Heidän takaansa hän erotti -varjossa seisovan naisen hahmon ja tämän vierellä yhden miehen, joka -oli lyhyt ja pyylevä. - -Nainen tuli lähemmäksi, ja hän näki, että se oli itse leskimarkiisitar. -Pyylevä olento siirtyi markiisittaren kanssa valojuovaan, joka tulvi -Garnachen puolustamasta oviaukosta, ja se paljasti hänen kasvonsa; -hän oli herra de Tressan. Jos Garnache vielä siihen asti oli ollut -vähääkään epävarma epäillessään käskynhaltijan vilpittömyyttä, niin nyt -se epävarmuus haihtui. - -Äkkiä päästi markiisitar säikähtyneen kirkaisun. Hänen katseensa oli -osunut Mariukseen, ja hän riensi poikansa luokse. Tressan kiiruhti -hänen perässään, ja yhdessä he nostivat nuorukaisen lattialta ja -auttoivat hänet tuolille. Hän jäi istumaan hieroen vaivalloisesti -kädellään epäilemättä kipeää otsaansa. Oli selvää, että hän oli -tointumassa, ja Garnache huomasi harmikseen, että hänen iskunsa -oli ollut liian heikko. Leskimarkiisitar kääntyi häntä lähestyneen -Fortunion puoleen, ja hänen silmänsä näkyivät alkavan kiilua, kun -italialainen sanoi hänelle jotakin. - -— Garnache? kuuli pariisilainen markiisittaren ääntävän ja näki -Fortunion osoittavan peukalollaan ovelle päin. - -Markiisitar näytti unohtavan poikansa, ja tirkisti oviaukosta -Garnachea, joka näkyi epäselvästi häntä rinnan korkeudelle saakka -suojaavan huonekaluröykkiön takaa. Sanaakaan hän ei virkkanut -pariisilaiselle, vaan katseli häntä hetkisen huulet tiukasti yhteen -puristettuina ja kalpeilla kasvoilla pelästynyt, kiukkuinen ilme. -Sitten hän kuului sanovan Fortuniolle: - -— Mariuksen ehdotuksestahan hänet pantiin vartioimaan tyttöä. - -Hän vilkaisi lattialla viruviin ruumiisiin, joista toinen oli melkein -hänen jalkojensa juuressa, toinen juuri oven sisäpuolella, nyt melkein -piilossa pöydän varjossa. Sitten hän komensi hurjistuneena miehiään -käskien heidän kaataa kumoon esteen ja ottaa pariisilaiskoiran kiinni -elävänä. - -Mutta ennen kuin sotilaat ennättivät liikahtaa totellakseen häntä, -kajahti Garnachen ääni käskevänä huoneessa. - -— Sananen teille, herra de Tressan, ennen kuin leikki alkaa! hän -huusi, ja hänen sävynsä oli niin käskevä, että miehet pysähtyivät kuin -lattiaan naulattuina vilkuillen markiisittareen ja odottaen häneltä -uutta määräystä. - -— Mitä sanomista teillä on minulle? tiedusteli Tressan, koettaen tehdä -sävynsä röyhkeäksi. - -— Tämä: Palvelijani tietää, missä olen, ja jollen aivan lähipäivinä -pääse vahingoittumattomana Condillacista hänen luokseen, on hänen -ratsastettava Pariisiin ja vietävä sinne minulta saamansa kirje. -Siinä kirjeessä syytetään teitä osallisuudesta näihin Condillacissa -suoritettuihin häpeällisiin vehkeilyihin. Siinä selostetaan, -kuinka te epäsitte minulta apunne, kuinka uhmailitte kuningattaren -käskyjä, joiden tuojana minä olin; ja jos lisäksi saadaan näytetyksi -toteen, että minä olen menettänyt henkeni teidän petollisuutenne ja -niskuroimisenne tähden, niin lupaan, ettei mikään koko maailmassa voi -pelastaa teitä hirsipuusta. - -— Älkää kuunnelko häntä, monsieur! huudahti markiisitar nähdessään -Tressanin hätkähtävän ja perääntyvän äkillisen pelon vallassa. — Se ei -ole muuta kuin epätoivoisen miehen juoni. - -— Ottakaa varteen sanani tai älkää niistä huoliko! jatkoi Garnache -Tressanille. — Olette saanut varoituksen. En odottanut näkeväni teitä -täällä tänä iltana. Mutta tapaamisemme vahvistaa pahimmat epäluuloni, -ja jos minun on kuoltava, niin on kuollessani omatuntoni rauhallinen -tietäessäni, että jättäessäni teidät alttiiksi hänen majesteettinsa -kuningattaren vihalle en ole uhrannut viatonta ihmistä. - -— Madame... aloitti käskynhaltija kääntyen markiisittaren puoleen. -Mutta tämä keskeytti kärsimättömänä sanat, jotka hän aikoi lausua, -hänen kielellään pyörivän rukouksen, että markiisitar ajattelisi hieman -ennen kuin antaisi surmata tämän pariisilaisen. - -— Monsieur, sanoi rouva de Condillac, — voitte hieroa kauppaa hänen -kanssaan, sitten kun hänet on pidätetty. Tahdomme hänet käsiimme -elävänä. Tuokaa tuo lurjus ulos — elävänä! hän komensi miehiään -ja hänen äänensä oli nyt siksi päättäväinen, ettei yksikään enää -uskaltanut vitkastella. - -Garnache hymyili Valérielle, kun nämä sanat lausuttiin. — He tahtovat -minut elävänä. Se on ilahduttava seikka. Pysykää uljaana! Saatan -tarvita apuanne ennen kuin olemme tästä selviytyneet. - -— Minä olen valmiina, monsieur, vakuutti tyttö pelostaan huolimatta. - -Sitten hyökkäys alkoi, ja pariisilainen olisi voinut nauraa nähdessään, -kuinka kaksi murhamiestä, joista kumpikaan ei halunnut kunniaa käydä -hänen kimppuunsa yksin, estivät toisiaan koettaessaan päästä häneen -käsiksi yhtä aikaa. - -Vihdoin leskimarkiisitar komensi yhden miehistään menemään sisään. Mies -tuli, mutta hänet torjui takaisin miekka, joka suhahti häntä kohti -vallituksen ylitse. - -Tapahtumien kehityksessä olisi tapahtunut keskeytys, jollei Fortunio -olisi astunut esille toistaakseen erään miehensä kanssa saman tempun, -joka jo oli maksanut hänelle yhden sotilaan hengen. Hänen toverinsa -laskeutui polvilleen, pisti miekkansa pöydän alitse ja tuolin jalkojen -välitse ja koetti pistää Garnachea jalkoihin. Samalla tarttui kapteeni -pöydällä olevan tuolin selkämykseen, pyrkien ahdistamaan Garnachea sen -ylitse. Temppu onnistui siinä määrin, että pariisilaisen oli pakko -peräytyä. Pöytä tuntui todennäköisesti muuttuvan hänen turmiokseen -turvan asemesta. Salamannopeasti hän notkisti toisen polvensa, koettaen -pakottaa alhaalla olevan miehen vetäytymään takaisin. Mutta samat -esteet, joiden olisi pitänyt häiritä ahdistajia, olivat tällä kertaa -vielä pahemmin Garnachen vastuksina. Juuri silloin Fortunio tempasi -tuolin pöydältä ja sinkautti sen eteenpäin. Yksi sen jaloista osui -Garnachen oikeaan käteen ja turrutti sen sekunnin ajaksi. Miekka -kirposi hänen kädestään, ja Valérie kirkaisi ääneen luullen taistelun -olevan lopussa. Mutta seuraavalla hetkellä oli pariisilainen pystyssä, -säilä jälleen lujasti kourassa, vaikka hänen käsivartensa vielä -tuntuikin vähän turralta. - -— Vaippa, mademoiselle! Tuokaa minulle vaippa! hän pyysi. - -Valérie sieppasi vaipan, joka oli tuolilla hänen makuuhuoneensa oven -pielessä, ja ojensi sen hänelle. Hän kiersi sen kahdesti vasemman -käsivartensa ympäri, antaen sen laskoksien riippua höllällä ja eteni -taaskin yrittääkseen selviytyä pöydän alta uhkaavasta miehestä. -Hän heitti vaipan niin, että se kietoutui miekan ympärille, kun se -seuraavan kerran tuli näkyviin. Astahtamalla ripeästi sivulle hän -syöksähti pöydän ääreen, ja hänen viuhuva säilänsä ajoi takaisin -miehen, joka ahdisti häntä pöydän ylitse. Paiskautuen sitä vastaan koko -painollaan hän sysäsi sen takaisin, kunnes se taaskin oli tiukasti -puristettuna pihtipielien väliin, niin että tuoli jäi aivan hänen -jalkojensa juureen. Alhaalla oleva mies oli tällä välin saanut säilänsä -vapaaksi ja koetti uudelleen käyttää sitä. Se oli hänen loppunsa. -Taaskin Garnache kietaisi hänen miekkansa vaipan laskoksiin, potkaisi -tai oikeammin työnsi jalallaan tuolin syrjään, kumartui äkkiä, pisti -miekkansa pöydän alle ja tunsi sen uppoavan kiusanhenkensä ruumiiseen. - -Kuului ähkäisy ja käheä rykäisy, mutta ennen kuin Garnache sitten ehti -nousta pystyyn, huudahti Valérie hänelle varoittavasti. Pöytää oli -äkkiä tyrkätty eteenpäin melkein hänen päälleen; sen reuna sattui hänen -vasempaan olkaansa, singoten hänet askeleen mitan taaksepäin pitkälleen -lattialle. - -Pystyyn nouseminen ja ilman haukkominen — sillä hän oli kaatuessaan -saanut kelpo täräyksen — vaativat vain hetkisen. Mutta sillä aikaa oli -Fortunio työntänyt pöydän syrjään, ja hänen miehensä työntyivät sisälle. - -He karkasivat Garnachen kimppuun yhdessä rykelmässä, päästellen hurjia -pilkkahuutoja. Nopeasti hän kävi puolustusasentoon ja perääntyi heidän -tieltään, kunnes hänen hartiansa olivat kiinni seinälaudoituksessa, -joten hän ainakin oli varma siitä, ettei kukaan voinut hyökätä hänen -päällensä takaapäin. Hänellä oli vastassaan kolme säilää. Fortunio oli -jäänyt ovelle, jossa hän, haavoittunut poski veren peitossa, silmäili -näyttämöä. Markiisitar seisoi hänen vieressään, ja aivan heidän -takanaan oli Tressan kauhun vallassa. - -Mutta tälläkin uhkaavan vaarallisella hetkellä liitivät Garnachen -ajatukset ensimmäiseksi Valériehen. Hän tahtoi säästää tytön näkemästä -sitä näkyä, joka pian avautuisi silmien eteen tässä teurastussalissa. - -— Huoneeseenne, mademoiselle! hän huusi. — Te häiritsette minua, -hän lisäsi, siten pakottaakseen tytön tottelemaan. Valérie noudatti -kehotusta, mutta vain osittain. Hän ei mennyt edemmäksi kuin huoneensa -ovelle, jonne hän jäi seisomaan, katsellen taisteluntelmettä, kuten hän -aikaisemmin oli seisonut sitä katselemassa etuhuoneen ovella. - -Äkkiä hän sai mielijohteen. Garnache oli sitä ennen päässyt -edullisempaan asemaan perääntymällä ovesta sisempään huoneeseen. Eikö -hän voisi menetellä samoin uudelleen ja parantaa mahdollisuuksiaan -perääntymällä nyt Valérien huoneeseen? - -— Tänne, herra de Garnache! Minun huoneeseeni! - -Markiisitar vilkaisi häneen päin ja naurahti pilkallisesti. Hänen -mielestään oli Garnachella siksi kiperät paikat, ettei hän voinut -yrittää niin uhkarohkeata temppua. Jos hän uskaltaisi irrottaa selkänsä -seinästä, kohtaisi häntä tuho nopeammin kuin asiain näin ollen. Mutta -niin ei Garnache ajatellut. Hänen vasemman käsivartensa ympärille -kiedottu vaippa tarjosi hänelle jonkin verran etua, ja hän käytti sitä -mahdollisimman tarkoin hyväkseen. Hän pyyhkäisi sen liepeellä yhtä -vastustajaansa vasten kasvoja ja survaisi sen jälkeen miestä vatsaan -ennen kuin tämä ehti päästä jälleen miekkailuasentoon, samalla kun -hän toistamiseen heilauttamalla vaippaa kietaisi siihen säilän, joka -kerkeästi sujahti hänen paljastamaansa kohtaa kohti. - -Markiisitar sadatteli, ja Fortunio kertasi hänen kirouksiaan. - -Garnache pyörähti nyt irti seinästä ja sijoittui selin Valériehen päin -päättäneenä toimia hänen neuvonsa mukaan. Mutta juuri sillä hetkellä -hän ensimmäisen kerran tämän verileikin kestäessä kysyi itseltään: mitä -varten? Hänen käsivartensa olivat raskaat väsymyksestä, hänen suutaan -kuivasi, ja isoja hikihelmiä oli hänen otsallaan. - -Tähän asti oli hänen mielensä ollut kiintynyt yksinomaan taisteluun, -ja jos hän oli ajatellut perääntymistä, oli hänen tarkoituksensa -ollut vain saavuttaa jonkin verran parempi asema. Kun hän nyt huomasi -väsyvänsä yhä enemmän, johtui hän vihdoinkin ajattelemaan pakoa. Eikö -ollut mitään keinoa selviytyä tästä pinteestä? Oliko hänen surmattava -jokaikinen mies Condillacissa, ennen kuin hän voisi toivoa pelastuvansa? - -Hänen päähänsä pisti melkein koneellisesti laskea mielessään miehet. -Palkkasotureita oli kaikkiaan kaksikymmentä paitsi Fortuniota ja häntä -itseään. Hän saattoi luottaa, ettei Arsenio kävisi hänen kimppuunsa, -vaan kenties tulisi loppujen lopuksi hänen avukseen. Jäljellä oli siis -yhdeksäntoista. Neljä hän oli joko tyyten surmannut tai tehnyt kokonaan -taistelukyvyttömiksi, joten hänellä oli vielä vastassaan viisitoista. -Näistä viidestätoista selviytyminen oli aivan liian ylivoimainen -tehtävä hänelle. Pian saisivat ne kaksi, jotka häntä nyt ahdistivat, -epäilemättä avukseen muita. - -Hän mietti mielessään, kykenisikö hän iskemään maahan nämä kaksi, -surmaamaan Fortunion ja juoksemalla koettamaan pelastautua takaportin -kautta, ennen kuin vartioväestön loppuosa ennättäisi saavuttaa hänet -tai arvaamaan hänen aikeitaan. Mutta sellainen ajatus oli liian hurja, -sen toteuttaminen liian mahdoton. - -Hän taisteli parhaillaan selin Valériehen kasvot käännettyinä korkeata -ikkunaa kohti, jonka lyijykiskoilla kiinnitettyjen ruutujen läpi -hän näki epämuotoiseksi vääntyneen nousevan kuun. Äkkiä välähti -hänen päähänsä ajatus. Tuo ikkuna oli runsaasti viidenkymmenen jalan -korkeudella vallihaudasta, sen häh tiesi, ja jos hän yrittäisi -hypätä siitä alas, niin olisi yhtä mahdollista, että hän kuolisi -tärähdyksestä. Mutta hänen kuolemansa olisi varma, jos hän viipyisi -sisällä, kunnes toisia ennättäisi tulla avuksi hänen nykyisille -vastustajilleen. Ripeästi hän niin ollen päätti antautua pienempään -vaaraan. - -Ja kun hänen päätöksensä nyt oli tehty, muutti hän taistelutapaansa -jyrkästi. Tähän asti hän oli liikkunut vähän, säästäen voimiaan sen -pitkän ottelun varalle, joka hänellä näytti olevan edessään. Oltuaan -tähän asti vain puolustautuja hän äkkiä muuttui hyökkääjäksi, tehden -sen perin tuhoisasti. Hän käytti tehokkaasti vaippaansa, kiersi sen -irti käsivarrestaan, heilautti sen yhden vastustajansa pään ja ruumiin -ympärille, niin että mies kietoutui siihen ja sokaistui. Hypähtäen -hänen viereensä Garnache potkaisi rajusti jalat hänen altaan, niin että -hän jysähtäen kellahti lattialle. Sitten pariisilainen äkkiä kumartui -ja syöksi miekkansa toisen palkkasoturin säilän alitse, lävistäen hänen -reitensä. - -Nopeasti Garnache pisti kerran miekkansa vaippansa alla rimpuilevaan -mieheen. Rimpuileminen kävi rajummaksi, mutta lakkasi täydellisesti -muutamien sekuntien kuluttua. - -Tressan tunsi olevansa päästä jalkoihin saakka märkä hiestä, jonka -kauhu oli pusertanut hänestä. Markiisittaren huulilta valui hirvittävä -tulva kirosanoja, ja Garnache oli sillä välin kääntynyt ottelemaan -viimeisen vastustajansa Fortunion kanssa. - -Kapteeni hyökkäsi hänen kimppuunsa rohkeasti aseinaan miekka ja -tikari, ja silloin Garnache lopen uupuneena katui katkerasti sitä, -että oli luopunut vaipasta. Mutta sittenkin hän miekkaili sitkeästi, -ja heidän taistellessaan, häärien sinne tänne, tuli Marius hoippuen -äitinsä viereen heitä katselemaan, nojaten raskaasti Tressanin olkaan. -Markiisitar kääntyi häneen päin kasvot lyijynharmaina. - -— Tuo mies on varmaankin itse paholainen, kuuli Garnache hänen sanovan -pojalleen. — Juoskaa noutamaan apua, Tressan, tai jumaliste hän voi -päästä meiltä pakoon! Rientäkää kutsumaan väkeä, tai Fortunio sortuu -myös! Käskekää miesten tuoda musketteja! - -Huumaantuneen tavoin Tressan lähti täyttämään käskyä, samalla kun -ottelijat jatkoivat taisteluaan. - -Markiisitar, joka piti silmällä ottelua ja ymmärsi hiukan miekkailua, -käsitti, että vaikkakin Garnache oli väsynyt, kaataisi hän pian -Fortunion toisten viereen, jollei apua saapuisi tai joku aavistamaton -sattuma saattaisi kapteenia edullisempaan asemaan. - -Garnachen oikea olka oli etuhuoneen oven kohdalla, jossa markiisitar -seisoi, eikä hän lainkaan huomannut viimemainitun lähtevän Mariuksen -viereltä ja hiipivän varovasti huoneeseen kiertääkseen nopeasti hänen -taakseen. - -Ainoa henkilö, jonka taholta hän luuli itsellään olevan syytä pelätä -salahyökkäystä, oli se mies, jota hän oli haavoittanut reiteen, ja hän -karttoi huolellisesti joutumasta niin lähelle tätä, että olisi voinut -saada häneltä äkillisen miekanpiston. - -Mutta jollei hän nähnyt naisen liikkeitä, niin Valérie näki ne, -ja se sai hänen silmänsä laajentumaan uudesta pelosta, Hän arvasi -markiisittaren salakavalat aikeet. Ja heti kun hän sen arvasi, -tukahdutti hän nyyhkytyksensä ja vakuutti itselleen, että myös hän -voisi tehdä saman kuin markiisitarkin. - -Äkkiä Garnache huomasi vastustajassaan suojattoman kohdan; Fortunion -katse oli osunut markiisittaren liikkeisiin ja suuntautui hetkiseksi -pariisilaisen ohitse, ja se seikka olisi ollut kapteenille tuhoisa, -jollei Garnache samalla hetkellä, jolloin hän oli tekemäisillään -syöksyn, olisi tuntenut, että häneen tartuttiin takaapäin, hennot kädet -kiertyivät hänen ympärilleen ja hänen käsivartensa puristettiin kupeita -vasten; hänen olkansa yli kuului kiukkuinen ääni, jonka hengitys tuntui -hänen polttavalla poskellaan, sähisevän: - -— Pistäkää nyt, Fortunio! - -Kapteeni ei toivonut mitään parempaa. Hän kohotti väsynyttä oikeata -kättään ja suuntasi säilänsä kärjen Garnachen rintaan, mutta samassa -muuttui käsi lyijynraskaaksi. Valérie oli jäljitellyt markiisitarta ja -ehtinyt ajoissa. Hän tarttui Fortunion puolittain nostettuun käteen, -heittäytyen sitä vastaan koko painollaan. - -Kapteeni sadatteli häntä hirveän pelon valtaamana, sillä hän ymmärsi, -että jos Garnache saisi pudistetuksi markiisittaren irti, odottaisi -häntä itseään pikainen kuolema. Hän koetti kiskoutua irti tytön -estävästä otteesta, ja uupunut kun oli, vaipui hän ponnistellessaan -tytön painosta lattialle. Hän jäi polvilleen, ja Valérie, joka yhä piti -voimakkaasti kiinni, laskeutui hänen mukanaan, huutaen Garnachelle -pidättävänsä kapteenia. - -Ponnistaen viimeiset voimansa pariisilainen kiertäytyi markiisittaren -syleilystä ja sinkautti tämän kauas luotaan paljon rajummin kuin oli -aikonut. - -— Te, madame, olette ensimmäinen nainen, jonka kanssa Martin de -Garnache on koskaan ollut käsikähmässä, mutta milloinkaan ei -kaunottaren syleily ole ollut vähemmän tervetullut. - -Läähättäen hän tempasi yhden kaatuneista tuoleista. Hän lähestyi -ikkunaa, pitäen tuolia selkämyksestä. Hän oli pudottanut miekkansa ja -pyysi Valérien pidättämään kapteenia vielä hetkisen. Heilautettuaan -tuolin korkealle hän iski sen ikkunaa vasten. Kuului korviasärkevä -kilinä, kun lasi särkyi, ja marraskuun yön vilpoisa tuulahdus raitisti -ilmaa. - -Hän nosti tuolia uudelleen ja iski sillä ikkunaa toistamiseen, ja -sitten vielä kerran, kunnes ikkunasta ei ollut jäljellä muuta kuin -ammottava aukko, jota reunustivat säröinen lasi ja mutkistuneet -lyijykiskot. - -Samassa Fortunio kompuroi pystyyn vapautuneena tytöstä, joka vaipui -lattialle melkein pyörtyneenä, ja syöksähti Garnachea kohti. Tämä -kääntyi ja viskasi särkyneen tuolinsa hyökkäävää Fortuniota vastaan. Se -putosi italialaisen jalkoihin, hänen säärensä sattuivat sen reunaan, ja -hän lennähti vahingoittuneena suinpäin lattialle. Ennen kuin hän pääsi -jälleen pystyyn, heittäytyi pariisilainen avoimesta ikkunasta ulos. - -Valérie nousi istumaan ja kirkaisi. - -— Te saatte surmanne, herra de Garnache! Hyvä Jumala! Te saatte -surmanne! Hänen äänensä oli tuskainen. - -Se oli viimeinen ääni, joka kaikui Garnachen korviin, kun hän suistui -päistikkaa kolkon marraskuun yön pimeyteen. - - - - -Vallihaudassa - - -Fortunio ja markiisitar riensivät yhdessä ikkunaan ja ennättivät -parhaiksi kuulemaan kumean loiskahduksen viidenkymmenen jalan päässä -alhaalla olevasta vedenpinnasta. Vähäinen kuunsirppi oli pilven -peitossa, eivätkä heidän kynttilänvalon häikäisemät silmänsä voineet -erottaa pimeässä mitään. - -— Hän on vallihaudassa, huudahti markiisitar kiihtyneenä, ja Valérie, -joka istui lattialla siinä, mihin hän oli vaipunut, kun Fortunio sysäsi -hänet irti, huojutteli itseään kauhuissaan. - -Markiisitar ravisteli häntä äkäisesti. - -— Mitä hän oli sinulle? Mitä hän oli sinulle? hän tiukkasi kiihtyneenä. - -Ja tyttö, joka vain puolittain tajusi mitä sanoi, vastasi: - -— Uljain herrasmies, ylevin ystävä, mitä minulla on milloinkaan ollut. - -— Pyh! Markiisitar hellitti hänen käsivartensa ja kääntyi antamaan -komennuksen Fortuniolle. Mutta italialainen oli jo poistunut. Hän -ei välittänyt naisista, vaan siitä miehestä, joka oli päässyt hänen -kynsistään. - -Hän saapui kohdalle, johon Garnachen oli täytynyt pudota, pysähtyi -viidenkymmenen jalan korkeudessa yön pimeyden läpi hohtavan rikotun -ikkunan alle ja valaisi tulisoihdullaan vallihaudan tummaa vedenpintaa -kaikkiin suuntiin. Ei värähdystäkään näkynyt tasaisena välkkyvässä -vedessä. Hänen takaansa kuului ääniä, ja voimakkaasti hehkuva punainen -valo ilmoitti, että hänen miehensä olivat tulossa. Hän kääntyi heidän -puoleensa ja osoitti miekallaan poispäin linnasta. - -— Hajautukaa! hän huusi. — Etsikää tuolta! Hän ei ole voinut mennä -kauaksi. - -Ja miehet, jotka vain hämärästi tiesivät, ketä etsittiin, riensivät -käskyn mukaisesti tarkastamaan niittykaistaletta, jossa jokaiselle -pakolaiselle täytyi käydä huonosti, sillä siellä ei ollut minkäänlaista -piilopaikkaa. - -Fortunio jäi paikoilleen vallihaudan reunalle. Kumarassa hän siirtyi -linnan kaukaisimpaan kulmaukseen saakka, heiluttaen soihtuansa pitkin -maata ja tutkien pehmeää, kosteaa savea. Ihmisen olisi ollut mahdotonta -kiivetä sen yli jättämättä jälkiä. Hän saapui nurkkaukseen; saviäyräs -oli koskematon; ainakaan ei hän ollut huomannut ainoatakaan käden eikä -jalan jälkeä, joita olisi täytynyt löytyä, jos joku olisi noussut -vedestä. - -Hän palasi samaa tietä takaisin ja eteni linnan itäiseen kulmaukseen -saakka, mutta tulos oli sama. Vihdoin hän suoristautui ja kävi -tyynemmän näköiseksi; hänen hätäinen kiireensä oli mennyt, ja -rauhallisesti hän nyt kohotti soihtuaan ja antoi sen taaskin valaista -vedenpintaa. Hän katseli sitä hetkisen, ja hänen tummissa silmissään -oli melkein valittavan haaveileva ilme. - -— Hukkunut! hän sanoi ääneen ja pisti miekkansa tuppeen. - -Ylhäältä ikkunasta kuului huuto. Hän katsahti sinne ja näki -leskimarkiisittaren ja hänen poikansa. - -— Oletteko saanut hänet kiinni, Fortunio? - -— Kyllä, madame, vastasi hän vakuuttavasti. — Saatte hänen ruumiinsa, -milloin vain tahdotte. Hän on tuolla alhaalla. Ja hän osoitti veteen. - -Nähtävästi hypätessään oli Garnache ollut valmis siirtymään toiseen -— ja hän toivoi parempaan — maailmaan. Hän oli kiepahtanut ilmassa -kahdesti ympäri, tullut jalat edellä kaivannon kylmään veteen ja -painunut, kunnes hänen varpaansa koskettivat ainetta, joka ei ollut -yhtä pehmeää kuin vesi, mutta antoi kuitenkin perään. Kummastuneena -siitä, että hän oli pysynyt tajuissaan siihen saakka, hän kuitenkin -ajoissa oivalsi, että hän oli painumassa mutaan, että hän oli jo -nilkkaa myöten siihen uponnut. Rajun voimakas potkaisu molemmilla -jaloilla irrotti hänet heti, ja hän tunsi hitaasti kohoavansa pinnalle. - -Vedenpinta särkyi, ja hänen päänsä kohosi yön koleaan pimeyteen. Hän -veti syvän henkäyksen kylmää, mutta virkistävää ilmaa ja liikutellen -käsiään hiljaa veden alla ui tyynesti, ei kaivannon reunalle, vaan -linnan seinustalle, johon painautuneena hän arveli voivansa säilyä -huomaamatta. Onneksi hän löysi kahden kiven välisen raon; hän -ei sitä nähnyt, vaan tunsi sen sormillaan haparoidessaan pitkin -graniittiseinää. Hän pysytteli hetkisen kiinni siinä ja punnitsi -asemaansa. Ylhäältä kuului ääniä, ja sinne katsahtaessaan hän näki -valonhohteen särkemästään aukosta. - -Hämmästyksekseen hän huomasi voimiensa palaavan. Heittäytyessään -ikkunasta hän oli tuskin jaksanut hypätä, hän oli ollut yltäpäältä -hiessä ja luullut voimiensa tyyten ehtyneen. Vallihaudan jääkylmä vesi -tuntui olleen omiaan reipastuttamaan häntä, pyyhkäisemään pois hänen -väsymyksensä ja uudistamaan hänen tarmonsa. Hänen päänsä oli selvä ja -aistinsa herkät, ja hän alkoi miettiä, mitä hänen olisi paras tehdä. - -Ensiksi hänen mieleensä luonnollisestikin juolahti uida vallikaivannon -reunalle, kiivetä siitä ylös ja lähteä juoksemaan. Mutta ajatellessaan, -kuinka avointa ympäristö oli, hän tajusi, että se koituisi hänen -tuhokseen. Pian tultaisiin ottamaan selkoa, miten hänelle oli käynyt, -ja kun ei häntä löydettäisi vedestä, etsittäisiin häntä läheisyydestä. -Hän koetti asettua takaa-ajajiensa sijaan, ajatella heidän tavallaan, -parhaansa mukaan arvailla, kuinka he toimisivat, ja sitten hänen -mieleensä välähti ajatus, jota kannatti miettiä. Hänen asemansa oli -joka tapauksessa vieläkin hyvin epätoivoinen; siinä suhteessa hän ei -antautunut harhaluulojen valtaan. Hän ei ollut kylliksi toiveikas -uskoakseen että hänen hukkumistaan pidettäisiin varmana. - -Hän hellitti otteensa muurista ja alkoi varovasti uida itäistä -kulmausta kohti. Jos tultaisiin ulos, niin olisi pakko laskea -nostosilta. Hän sijoittuisi niin, että se laskettaessa peittäisi hänet -ja piilottaisi hänet näkyvistä. Hän kiersi rakennuksen kulman ympäri, -ja nyt siirtyi kuun edestä pois ystävällinen pilvi, jonka takana se oli -ollut, ja heikko hopeinen hohde välkkyi vedenpinnalla hänen edessään. -Mutta tuolla edessäpäin oli jotakin mustaa kaivannon yläpuolella. Heti -hän tunsi sen sillaksi. Se oli alhaalla. Ja selityksen siihen hän tiesi -muistaessaan, ettei käskynhaltija ollut vielä poistunut Condillacista. -Vähät hän välitti, oliko asia niin vai näin. - -Muutamilla nopeilla, äänettömillä vedoilla hän pääsi sen luokse. Hän -empi hetkisen ennen kuin uskaltautui sen alla vallitsevaan pimeyteen; -sitten hän ajatteli, että hänen oli mentävä sinne tai jouduttava ilmi, -ja ui eteenpäin. Hän lähestyi muuria ja hapuillessaan eteenpäin osuivat -hänen käteensä riippuvat ketjut, jotka ulottuivat veteen saakka. -Tarttuen niihin molemmin käsin hän jäi riippumaan. - -Ensimmäistä kertaa sinä iltana hänen sydämentykytyksensä nyt todella -kiihtyi. Hän odotteli pimeässä, aika tuntui hänestä vierivän kovin -hitaasti, ja hän oli hyvin levoton. - -Pian hän erotti askelten töminää ja äänten sorinaa, jonka ylitse -kuului Fortunion huuto. Sillalla hänen päällään juostiin raskaasti, -ja jalkojen kopse tuntui alhaalla olevasta miehestä ukkosen jymyltä. -Hänen kummallekin puolelleen vallihautaan loi soihtu punaista, -hulmuavaa valoa. Sillalla juokseva mies oli pysähtynyt. Valo liikkui -sinne tänne, ja Garnache melkein vapisi, odottaen joka hetki, että sen -säteet tunkeutuisivat sinne, missä hän riippui, ja paljastaisivat hänet -piilottelemassa kuten säikähtänyt vesirotta. Mutta mies lähti jälleen -liikkeelle, ja valo lakkasi lepattamasta. - -Hänestä tuntui kuluneen kokonainen iäisyys ennen kuin miehet -palasivat ja marssivat taaskin hänen ylitseen. Hän sai odottaa vielä -toisen iäisyyden ennen kuin kavioiden kopse pihalla ja kumahdukset -siltapalkeilla ilmoittivat hänelle, että Tressan ratsasti kotiinsa. -Mutta sitten, kun kapse eteni, kuului taaskin äänten sorinaa ylhäältä. - -Eikö kaikki ollut ohitse vieläkään? Eikö tämä koskaan päättyisi? Hän -tunsi, että jos hänen pitäisi olla vedessä vielä jonkin aikaa, niin hän -olisi auttamattomasti mennyttä; hän kohmettuisi niin, ettei jaksaisi -uida suojakaivannon poikki. - -Äkkiä kantautui hänen korviinsa ensimmäinen ilahduttava ääni sinä -iltana. Ketjut kalisivat, saranat kitisivät, ja hänen yläpuolellaan -oleva laaja, tumma katos alkoi vähitellen kohota. Sen liike kiihtyi, -kunnes se vihdoin pysähtyi pystyasentoonsa, liittyen tiiviisti linnan -muuriin, ja kuun himmeät valonsäteet osuivat hänen kylmettyneille -kasvoilleen. - -Hän päästi ketjut irti ja ui toiselle puolelle niin nopeasti ja -äänettömästi kuin suinkin voi. Äyräälle kiivettyään hänen voimansa -olivat melkein lopussa. Hetkiseksi hän kyykistyi sinne kuuntelemaan. -Oliko hän lähtenyt liikkeelle liian hätäisesti? Oliko hän ollut -varomaton? - -Takaa ei kuulunut eikä näkynyt mitään. Hän ryömi hiljaa pois kovalta -tieltä, jolle oli noussut vedestä. Kun hänen jalkojensa alla sitten oli -joustava, pehmeä nurmikko, ei hän enää lainkaan muistanut kohmetustaan. - -Oli vielä jonkin verran toista tuntia puoliyöhön, kun Garnache -likomärissä vaatteissaan lähti Condillacista. Hän suuntasi matkansa -pohjoiseen ja jatkoi juoksuaan, kunnes hän oli edennyt suunnilleen pari -kilometriä, jolloin hänen oli pakostakin hiljennettävä vauhtiaan. - -Hänen päämääränsä oli Voiron, jossa hänen palvelijansa Rabecquen piti -majailla Beau Paonin majatalossa valmiina ottamaan hänet vastaan millä -hetkellä hyvänsä. Jo kerran ennen, mennessään Condillaciin, hän oli -kulkenut samaa tietä, ja se oli niin suora, että tuntui tuskin olevan -pelättävissä, että hän voisi siitä erehtyä. Yhä eteenpäin hän juoksi -nousevan kuun valaistessa tietä; ilma oli niin tyyni, että märistä -vaatteista huolimatta häntä ei vähääkään palellut. - -Asteltuaan ripeästi kolme tuntia Garnache saapui vihdoin Voironiin, -ja hänen askeleensa kajahtelivat hiljaisilla kaduilla, pelästyttäen -kulkukissan tai pari, jotka olivat saalistamassa ovien edustoilla. -Pienessä kaupungissa ei ollut yövahtia eikä valaistusta, mutta -himmeässä kuutamossa Garnache etsi Beau Paonin majataloa ja löysi sen -hieman harhailtuaan. Räikeänvärinen riikinkukko pyrstö levitettynä -koristi ovea, jota Garnache jyskytti ja potki ikään kuin olisi aikonut -särkeä sen. - -Se avautui jonkin ajan kuluttua, ja puolipukeissa oleva mies, jolla -oli kynttilä kädessä ja yömyssy harmailla hiuksillaan, työnsi raosta -näkyviin äkäiset kasvonsa. - -Nähtyään sisälle pyrkivän ränsistyneen ja ryvettyneen olennon isäntä -olisi sulkenut oven jälleen, peläten joutuneensa tekemisiin jonkun -hurjan vuoristorosvon kanssa, mutta Garnache esti sen jalallaan. - -— Täällä majailee eräs Rabecque-niminen mies Pariisista. Minun täytyy -heti saada puhua hänen kanssaan. Garnachen sanat ja niiden ripeä, -käskevä sävy tehosivat isäntään. - -Rabecque oli näytellyt korkeata herraa sen viikon ajalla, jonka hän oli -viettänyt Voironissa, ja saanut talonväen kohtelemaan häntä alistuvasti -ja kunnioittavasti. Se seikka, että tämä kopeasävyinen ryysyläinen -vaati tavata häntä siihen aikaan yöstä, vähät välittäen siitä, kuinka -paljon hän vaivaisi suurta herra Rabecquea, tuotti myös hänelle -jossakin määrin arvonantoa, vaikka siihen vielä sekaantuikin hieman -epäluuloa. - -Isäntä käski pariisilaista sisään. Hän ei oikein tiennyt, antaisiko -herra Rabecque hänelle anteeksi häiritsemisen; hän ei voinut sanoa, -suostuisiko herra Rabecque ottamaan vastaan tämän vieraan sellaiseen -aikaan; luultavasti hän ei suostuisi. Mutta sittenkin sai mies astua -sisään. - -Garnache keskeytti hänet jyrkästi ennen kuin hän oli edes päässyt -selittelyjensä puoliväliin, sanoi nimensä ja käski hänen ilmoittaa -sen Rabecquelle. Lakeijan vilkkaus, kun hän ponnahti vuoteestaan -kuullessaan, kuka tulija oli, vaikutti isäntään hyvin voimakkaasti, -mutta ei puoliksikaan niin voimakkaasti kuin se, että hän pian sai -nähdä, kuinka nöyrästi tämä suuri herra Rabecque Pariisista esiintyi -joutuessaan vastakkain portaiden alapäässä odottavan kulkurin kanssa. - -— Oletteko terve ja vahingoittumaton, monsieur? huudahti Rabecque -kunnioittavan riemastuneesti. - -— Kyllä, ihmeen kautta, _mon fils_, vastasi Garnache naurahtaen. — Auta -minut vuoteeseen ja tuo minulle sitten malja maustettua viiniä. Olen -uinut vallihaudan poikki ja suorittanut muitakin ihmeellisiä tekoja -tässä puvussani. - -Isäntä ja Rabecque häärivät nyt yhdessä palvelemassa häntä, ja -kun hän vihdoin lopen uupuneena oli pitkänään hyvältä tuoksuvien -lakanoiden välissä ja hänestä tuntui, että hän todennäköisesti nukkuisi -tuomiopäivään saakka, hän antoi viimeiset määräyksensä. - -— Herätä minut päivän sarastaessa, Rabecque, hän sanoi unisesti. — -Meidän on lähdettävä liikkeelle silloin. Laita hevonen ja vaatteet -valmiiksi! Sinun on pestävä minut puhtaaksi, ajeltava partani ja -muutettava minut jälleen samaksi mieheksi, joka olin, ennen kuin -temppusi ja värisi tekivät minut siksi, jona olen ollut yli viikon. -Vie pois valo! Päivän koittaessa! Älä anna minun maata kauempaa, jos -pidät palveluspaikastasi. Huomenna saamme toimia nopeasti. Päivän — -sarastaessa — Rabecque! - - - - -Florimond de Condillac - - -Seuraavana päivänä kello kahdentoista vaiheilla saapui La Rochetten -läheisyydessä olevalle ylänteelle kaksi ratsastajaa, jotka -pysähdyttivät hevosensa antaakseen niiden hengähtää ja silmäilläkseen -jalkojensa juurella leviävällä tasangolla sijaitsevaa pientä kauppalaa. -Toinen heistä oli herra de Garnache, toinen hänen palvelijansa -Rabecque. Mutta nyt ei Garnache enää ollut irvikuva, joka Condillacissa -viime aikoina oli tunnettu Battistana, vaan herrasmies, joka hän oli -silloin, kun hän ensi kerran ilmestyi linnaan. Rabecque oli ajanut -hänen partansa ja puhdistanut hänen ihostaan ja hiuksistaan värin, -jonka hän oli aikaisemmin niihin hieronut. - -Puolen tunnin kuluttua he ratsastivat sisälle Mustan Karjun majatalon -portista. Tallimieheltä, joka riensi pitelemään heidän suitsiaan, -Garnache kysyi, asuiko markiisi de Condillac siellä. Hän sai myönteisen -vastauksen. - -Garnache antoi määräyksen hevosten hoidosta ja käski Rabecquen syödä -itsensä kylläiseksi arkituvassa. Isännän ilmoittamana pariisilainen -sitten nousi portaita herra de Condillacin huoneeseen. - -Isäntä opasti hänet talon parhaaseen huoneeseen, painoi kädensijaa, -avasi oven selälleen ja astui syrjään päästääkseen herra de Garnachen -sisään. - -Huoneesta kuului ääniä, miehen hiljaista naurua ja naisen vielä -hiljaisempaa pyytelyä. - -— Laskekaa minut irti, monsieur! Jumalan tähden, antakaa minun mennä! -Joku tulee. - -— Mitä minua liikuttaa kenenkään tulo? vastasi ääni, joka tuntui olevan -tukahtumaisillaan nauruun. - -Garnache astui huoneeseen — se oli tilava ja hyvin kalustettu, -kuten Auberge du Sanglier Noirin parhaan huoneen sopikin — ja näki -siellä katetun pöydän, josta levisi maukkaiden ruokien tuoksu, -mutta tarjoilijattaren viehkeys oli saanut vieraan unohtamaan -aterian ja kiertämään kätensä tytön vyötäisille. Kun hänen katseensa -osui kookkaaseen pariisilaiseen, hän päästi tytön irti ja käänsi -tulokkaaseen päin puolittain nauravat, puolittain ällistyneet kasvonsa. - -— Kuka hitto te olette? hän tiedusteli ja hänen ruskeat silmänsä -kohdistuivat eloisan tutkivasti Garnacheen, joka puolestaan -vastasi kohteliaisuuteen, tarkastellen tyynesti tätä keskikokoista -herrasmiestä, jolla oli vaalea tukka ja säännölliset kasvonpiirteet. - -Tyttö hypähti syrjään ja kiiti ulos, väistäen isännän uhkaavan käden, -jonka tämä kohotti, kun hän pujahti sivuitse. Pariisilaisen sisu -kiehahti. Tämänlainen kuumeko pidätti markiisia La Rochettessa, sillä -aikaa kun Valérie sai nääntyä vankina Condillacissa? - -Huulet kaartuneina tuimaan hymyyn Garnache kumarsi jäykästi, esitellen -itsensä kylmästi ja muodollisesti. - -— Nimeni on Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache. Minut lähetti hänen -majesteettinsa kuningatar Pariisista huolehtimaan siitä, että neiti -de La Vauvraye pääsee vapaaksi vankeudesta, jossa teidän äitipuolenne -häntä pitää. - -Herrasmiehen kulmakarvat kohosivat, ja hänen kasvoilleen levisi melkein -loukkaava hymyily. - -— Kun asia on siten, niin mitä hemmettiä teette täällä? - -— Olen täällä, monsieur, vastasi Garnache nykäisten päätään taaksepäin, -koska te ette ole Condillacissa. - -Hänen sävynsä oli ynseä, lähennellen halveksimista, sillä siitä -huolimatta, että hän oli edellisenä iltana päättänyt siitä lähtien aina -hillitä luontoaan, alkoi Garnachelta jo mennä maltti. - -Markiisi pani merkille hänen sävynsä ja tarkasteli miestä. Eräissä -suhteissa hän piti kummastakin; toisissa suhteissa olivat ne kumpikin -hänestä vastenmielisiä. Mutta hän tajusi selvästi, ettei tätä kiivasta -herrasmiestä saanut kohdella kovin uhittelevasti; muutoin voisi koitua -ikävyyksiä. Niinpä hän viittasikin herttaisesti pöytään, jossa oli pari -pulloa höyryävien ruokalajien keskellä. - -— Suvaitsette kai syödä päivällistä kanssani. Otaksun, että teillä -on jotakin asiaa minulle, koska olette tullut tänne minua etsimään. -Keskustelkaamme syödessämme. Minusta on ikävää syödä yksin. Hänen -sävynsä ja käyttäytymisensä olivat erittäin tyynnyttäviä. Garnache oli -noussut ylös aikaisin ja ratsastanut pitkän matkan; ruokien tuoksu -oli kiihottanut hänen ruokahaluaan, joka jo ennestään oli hyvä; ja -kun lisäksi hänen ja tämän herrasmiehen piti olla liittolaisia, niin -olisihan hyvä, etteivät he alkaisi riitelemällä. - -Hän kumarsi vähemmän jäykästi, esitti kiitoksensa, pani hattunsa, -raippansa ja vaippansa syrjään, irrotti miekkansa ja istuutui pöytään -isännän itsensä valmistamalle paikalle. - -Garnache tarkasteli nyt markiisia huolellisemmin ja löysi hänen -piirteistään paljon miellyttävää. Ne olivat avoimet ja miellyttävät, -mies vaikutti rehelliseltä. - -Aterian aikana herra de Garnache kertoi matkastaan Pariisista, -käynneistään Tressanin luona ja seikkailuistaan Condillacissa. Hän -kuvasi oivallisesti, kuinka häntä oli siellä kohdeltu, ja hänen -oli vaikea valita sanoja ilmoittaakseen syyn, jonka vuoksi hän oli -naamioituna palannut esiintyäkseen Valérien vaeltavana ritarina. -Lopuksi hän puhui edellisen illan tapahtumista ja paostaan. Markiisi -kuunteli koko ajan kasvot vakavina ja totinen, tarkkaavainen ilme -silmissään, mutta pariisilaisen lopetettua väikkyi hänen huulillaan -hymy. - -— Sen kirjeen nojalla, jonka sain Milanoon, odotin joitakin tämän -suuntaisia vastauksia, hän sanoi, ja Garnachea kummastutti hänen kevyt -sävynsä, samoin kuin hän oli ihmetellyt nähdessään, kuinka levollisena -mies kuunteli kertomusta Valérien vaikeasta asemasta. — Arvasin kauniin -äitipuoleni puuhailevan tällaisissa katalissa juonitteluissa, koska -hän ei lähettänyt minulle tietoa isäni kuolemasta. Mutta vilpittömästi -sanoen, monsieur, kertomuksenne voittaa hurjimmatkin kuvitteluni. -Te olette käyttäytynyt perin — perin uljaasti tässä asiassa. Näytte -oikeastaan toimineen neiti de La Vauvrayen vapauttamiseksi innokkaammin -kuin kuningattarella olisi ollut oikeus odottaa. Hän hymyili, ja -hänen silmissään oli paljon puhuva ilme. Garnache nojautui taaksepäin -tuolissaan ja tuijotti mieheen. - -— Teidän kevyet sananne, monsieur, tällaisessa asiassa saattavat minut -ymmälle, hän virkkoi vihdoin. — Entä sitten tyttöparka, joka viruu -Condillacissa vankina sen tähden, että hän on uskollisesti pysynyt -teille antamassaan lupauksessa? - -Tämä huomautus täytti tarkoituksensa. Toisen kasvot kävivät heti -vakaviksi. - -— Rauhoittukaa toki, monsieur! hän huudahti, kohottaen kättään -tyynnyttävästi. — Olen loukannut teitä jollakin tavoin, se on selvää. -Tässä jutussa on jotakin, mitä en oikein käsitä. Sanoitte Valérien -kärsineen minulle annetun lupauksen tähden. Mitä tarkoitatte? - -— Häntä pidetään vankina, monsieur, koska halutaan hänen menevän -avioliittoon Mariuksen kanssa, vastasi Garnache, koettaen kaikin voimin -hillitä suuttumustaan. - -— _Parfaitement!_ Sikäli olin selvillä. - -— No niin, monsieur, eikö muu sitten ole selvää? Koska hän on teidän -kihlattunne... Hän vaikeni. Vihdoinkin hän oivalsi lausuvansa -sellaista, mikä ei täysin pitänyt paikkaansa. Mutta toinen ymmärsi heti -hänen tarkoituksensa, heittäytyi takakenoon tuolissaan ja purskahti -nauramaan. - -Veri suhisi Garnachen päässä, kun hän puristi huulensa yhteen ja -silmäili tuota herrasmiestä, joka antautui aiheettomasti hyvän tuulen -valtaan. Aivan varmasti oli herra de Condillacilla herkin huumorintaju -koko Ranskassa. Hän nauroi sydämensä pohjasta, ja Garnache rukoili -palavan hartaasti, että hän tukehtuisi nauruunsa. Sen ääni sai koko -majatalon tärisemään. - -— Monsieur, monsieur! hän ähkyi. — Taivaan nimessä, älkää olko noin -äkäisen näköinen! Onko minun syyni, että minua naurattaa? Koko juttu -on niin suunnattoman hullunkurinen. Kolme vuotta poissa kotoa, ja -sittenkin nainen pysyy uskollisena ja pitää hänen puolestaan annetun -lupauksen! Totisesti, monsieur, tehän olette nähnyt maailmaa, ja -teidän täytyy myöntää, että tässä on jotakin kerrassaan erikoista, -harvinaisen huvittavaa. Pieni Valérie-parkani! sopersi hän puolittain -tukahdutettujen naurunpuuskiensa lomassa, — odottaako hän minua -vieläkin? Vieläkö hän pitää minua sulhasenaan? Ja sen tähden vastaa -»ei» Marius-veljelleni! Tulimmaista! Minä kuolen nauruun. - -— Minusta tuntuu, että niin teille saisikin käydä, sanoi Garnache -karkeasti, ja samalla narahti hänen tuolinsa liukuessaan lattiaa -pitkin. Hän oli noussut seisomaan ja katseli iloista isäntäänsä hyvin -kiukkuisesti, kasvot kalpeina, silmät säihkyen. Oli mahdotonta erehtyä -hänen eleistään ja sanoistaan. - -— No? sanoi toinen, alkaen vihdoinkin älytä, kuinka uhkaavaksi tilanne -näytti kääntyvän. - -— Monsieur, selitti Garnache, ääni perin kylmänä, — onko minun -käsitettävä tämä niin, ettette enää aio pysyä lupauksessanne ettekä -ottaa neiti de La Vauvrayeta puolisoksenne? - -Synkkä puna levisi markiisin kasvoille. Hänkin nousi pystyyn ja -silmäili pöydän yli vierastaan kasvoillaan ylpeä ilme ja katse -korskeana. - -— Luulin, monsieur, hän vastasi hyvin arvokkaasti, — kutsuessani teidät -pöytääni luulin, että halusitte tehdä minulle palveluksen, niin vähän -kuin saatoinkin aavistaa ansainneeni sitä kunniaa. Mutta sen sijaan -näyttää siltä, että olette tullut tänne loukataksenne minua. Olette -vieraani, monsieur. Sallikaa minun pyytää teitä poistumaan, ennen kuin -pahastun kysymyksestä, joka koskee minua yksin! - -Hän oli oikeassa, ja Garnache oli väärässä. Hänellä ei ollut mitään -oikeutta ryhtyä ajamaan neiti de La Vauvrayen asioita. Mutta nyt ei -järki pystynyt häneen, eikä hän koskaan suvainnut ylimielistä kohtelua, -olipa se sitten verhottu vaikka kuinka kohteliaaseen asuun. - -— Monsieur, hän virkkoi, — ymmärrän tarkoituksenne täydelleen. Puoli -sanaa minulle on yhtä hyvä kuin kokonainen lause jollekulle toiselle. -Olette kohteliain sanoin moittinut minua tunkeilemisesta. En ole -tungettelija; ja minä pahastun siitä viittauksesta. - -— Vai niin! äännähti markiisi, naurahtaen ja kohauttaen olkapäitään. -— Jos pahastutte siitä... Loppu kävi selväksi hänen hymystään ja -liikkeestään. - -— Juuri niin, monsieur, oli Garnachen vastaus. — Mutta minä en taistele -sairaiden kanssa. - -Florimondin otsa meni ryppyihin, ja hänen silmiinsä tuli hämmästynyt -ilme. - -— Sairaiden! hän kertasi. — Hetki sitten, monsieur, tunnuitte epäilevän -järkeäni. Onko laitanne kuten humalaisen, joka luulee, että koko -maailma on humalassa häntä lukuun ottamatta? - -Garnache katsoi markiisia silmiin. Hänen äskeinen epäilyksensä alkoi -muuttua melkein varmuudeksi. - -— En tiedä, kuumeko tuo sanoja kielellenne... hän aloitti, mutta hänet -keskeytti markiisi, jonka silmiin äkkiä välähti ymmärtämyksen ilme. - -— Olette erehtyneet, hän huudahti. — Minussa ei ole kuumetta. - -— Entä Condillaciin lähettämänne kirje? kysyi Garnache, perinpohjin -ällistyneenä. - -— Mitä siitä? Voin vannoa, etten maininnut olevani kuumeessa. - -— Minä voin vannoa, että mainitsitte. - -— Syytätte siis minua valehtelijaksi? - -Mutta Garnache heilautti kättään ikään kuin pyytäen toista jättämään -sikseen molemminpuoliset solvaukset. Heidän välillään oli joku -väärinkäsitys, sen hän tajusi, ja pelkkä hämmästys oli jäähdyttänyt -hänen raivonsa. Hänen ainoana pyrkimyksenään oli nyt saada selvitetyksi -tämä hämärä seikka. - -— En millään muotoa. Haluan vain selvyyttä. - -Florimond hymyili. - -— Lienen kirjoittanut, että _meitä_ pidätti kuume, mutta en suinkaan -sanonut, että sairas olin minä itse. - -— Kuka sitten? huudahti Garnache. - -— Siinäpä se, monsieur! Nyt käsitän. Vaimonihan on kuumeessa. - -— Teidän —! Garnache ei rohjennut lausua sitä sanaa. - -— Vaimoni, monsieur, toisti markiisi. Matka kävi liiaksi hänen -voimilleen, kun kuljimme nopeasti. - -Syntyi hiljaisuus. Garnachen voimakas leuka painui rinnalle, ja hän -seisoi liikkumattomana, tuijottaen pöytäliinaan ja ajatellen viatonta -tyttöparkaa, joka odotteli Condillacissa niin varman luottavana ja -uskollisena sulhastaan, tämän palatessa Italiasta vaimoineen. - -Hänen seisoessaan ja Florimondin katsellessa häntä uteliaana avautui -ovi ja isäntä astui sisään. - -— Herra markiisi, hän ilmoitti. — Alhaalla on kaksi herrasmiestä -kysymässä teitä. Toinen heistä on Marius de Condillac. - -— Marius? mutisi Garnache, mutta sitten hän älysi, että salamurhaajat -olivat tulleet niin nopeasti hänen kintereillään, ja hän hylkäsi -mielestään kaikki muut paitsi nykyhetkeä koskevat ajatukset. Hänellä -oli itsellään velka maksettavana niille miehille. Nyt oli aika tullut. -Hän pyörähti ympäri, ja ennen kuin hän itsekään oikein aavisti, oli hän -lausunut sanat: - -— Tuokaa heidät ylös, isäntä! - -Florimond katsahti häneen kummastuneena. - -— Oh, kaikin mokomin, jos te niin haluatte, hän virkkoi. - -Garnache vilkaisi häneen ja kääntyi sitten jälleen empivän isännän -puoleen. - -— Olette kuullut, hän sanoi kylmästi. — Tuokaa heidät ylös! - -— _Bien_, monsieur, vastasi isäntä ja poistui. - -— Sekaantumisenne asioihini käy todella omituiseksi, monsieur, -huomautti markiisi yrmeästi. - -— Kun saatte tietää, mitä varten sekaannun, niin kenties se ei ole -teistä aivan niin omituista, oli yhtä yrmeä vastaus. — Meillä on vain -hetkinen, monsieur. Kuunnelkaa, kun selitän teille, millä asialla he -saapuvat. - - - - -Haamu astiakaapissa - - -Garnachella oli vain muutamia minuutteja käytettävinään kertomustaan -varten, ja lisäksi hän tarvitsi sekunnin tai pari pohtiakseen -tilannetta nykyisten tietojensa pohjalla. - -Suppeasti, mutta osuvasti Garnache paljasti Florimondin murhaamiseksi -punotun juonen, ja hän riemuitsi nähdessään raivon kuvastuvan markiisin -kasvoista ja hehkuvan hänen silmistään. - -— Mitä syytä on heillä turvautua niin katalaan tekoon? huudahti hän -epäilyksen ja vihan repiessä hänen mieltään. - -— Heidän kunnianhimonsa. Marius himoitsee neiti de La Vauvrayen -tiluksia. - -— Eikä hän saavuttaakseen tarkoituksensa empisi murhata minua? -Puhutteko tosiaankin totta? - -— Annan kunniasanani takeeksi, _että se on totta_, vastasi Garnache, -katsellen markiisia terävästi. Florimond silmäili häntä hetkisen. -Noiden sinisten silmien vakava katse ja tuon joustavan äänen varma -sointu haihdutti häneltä epäilyksen rippeetkin. - -— Ne konnat! huudahti markiisi. — Hupsut! hän lisäsi. — Minun -puolestani olisi Marius hyvin voinut saada Valérien. Hän olisi saanut -minut liittolaisekseen edistämään kosintaansa. Mutta nyt... Hän ojensi -kätensä ja pudisti nyrkkiään ilmassa ikään kuin taistelun uhkauksena. - -— Hyvä! sanoi Garnache rauhoittuneena. — Kuulen heidän askeleensa -portaista. He eivät saa nähdä minua seurassanne. - -Hetkisen kuluttua avautui ovi, huoneeseen astui hyvin upeasti puettu -Marius, ja aivan hänen takanaan seurasi Fortunio. Kummassakaan -ei näkynyt kovin pahoja jälkiä edellisen illan tapahtumista -lukuunottamatta pitkää tummanruskeata juovaa kapteenin poskessa, johon -Garnachen miekka oli sen kyntänyt. - -Heidän astuessaan sisään nousi Florimond, joka istui rauhallisena -pöydässä, pystyyn ja meni herttaisesti hymyillen tervehtimään -veljeään. Hänen huumorintajuntansa oli saanut virikettä; hänellä oli -näyttelijäntaipumuksia, ja se osa, jota hän oli ottanut esittääkseen -tässä ilveilyssä, tuotti hänelle eräänlaista julmaa tyydytystä. Hän -tahtoi saada todistuksen siitä, mitä Garnache oli kertonut hänen -veljensä aikeista. - -Marius otti hänen lähentelynsä hyvin kylmästi vastaan. Hän tarttui -veljensä käteen, alistui veljen suudeltavaksi, mutta hän ei vastannut -suuteloon eikä kädenpuristukseen. Florimond ei ollut sitä huomaavinaan. - -— Toivon, että olet voinut hyvin, rakas Marius, hän puheli, tarttui -veljensä olkapäihin, työnsi hänet käsivarren matkan päähän ja katseli -häntä arvostelevasti. — _Ma foi_, sinähän olet muuttunut komeaksi, -sopusuhtaiseksi mieheksi. Entä äitisi, myös hän voi kai hyvin. - -— Kiitos, Florimond, kyllä, vastasi Marius jäykästi. Markiisi hellitti -kätensä veljensä olkapäistä. Hänen hyväntahtoiset kasvonsa olivat yhä -naurussa, ikään kuin tämä olisi ollut hänen elämänsä onnellisin hetki. - -— On hauskaa olla jälleen Ranskassa, rakas Mariokseni, hän sanoi. — -Olin hullu, kun viivyin niin kauan poissa. Ikävöin päästä taaskin -Condillaciin. - -Marius silmäili häntä ja koetti turhaan löytää kuumeen merkkejä. -Hän oli odottanut tapaavansa heikentyneen ja laihtuneen raukan; sen -sijaan hän näki edessään elinvoimaisen, terveen, hilpeän miehen, joka -oli pursuavan hyvällä tuulella ja silminnähtävästi hyvissä voimissa. -Hänen aikomuksensa alkoi miellyttää häntä vähemmän, Fortunion avun -herättämästä varmuudesta huolimatta. Mutta yhtäkaikki hänen oli -kuitenkin se suoritettava. - -— Kirjoitit meille, että sinussa oli kuumetta, hän sanoi puolittain -kysyvästi. - -— Ei se mitään. Mutta kuka sinulla on seurassasi? hän tiedusteli, -tarkastellen arvostelevasti Fortuniota, joka seisoi askeleen tai parin -päässä isäntänsä takana. - -Marius esitteli kätyrinsä. - -— Tämä on kapteeni Fortunio, Condillacin varusväen komentaja. - -Markiisi nyökkäsi ystävällisesti kapteenille. - -— Kapteeni Fortunio. Hänellä on hyvä maine onneaan etsivänä soturina. -Veljelläni on epäilemättä perheseikkoja puhuttavana minulle. Olisin -kiitollinen, jos menisitte alakertaan, herra kapteeni, ja joisitte -siellä maljan, pari odottaessanne. - -Kapteeni joutui hämilleen ja vilkaisi Mariukseen. Florimond huomasi -sen. Mutta Mariuksen käytös kävi vieläkin hyytävämmäksi. - -— Fortunio, hän selitti, käännähti hiukan ja laski kätensä kapteenin -olalle, — on perin läheinen ystäväni. En salaa häneltä mitään. - -— Vai niin, kuten tahdot, vastasi markiisi kylmästi. Kenties ystäväsi -suvaitsee istua, ja sinä myös, Marius. Ja hän esiintyi isäntänä -reippaasti ja miellyttävästi. Osoittaen vierailleen tuolit hän pakotti -heidät istumaan ja tarjosi heille viiniä. - -Marius viskasi hattunsa ja vaippansa samalle tuolille, jolle -Garnachen tamineet olivat jääneet. Pariisilaisen hatun ja vaipan hän -luonnollisesti otaksui kuuluvan veljelleen. Särkynyttä pulloa ja -lattialle valunutta viiniä hän tuskin huomasikaan, laskien sen joko -veljensä tai palvelijan kömpelyyden syyksi. He joivat kumpikin, Marius -ääneti, kapteeni esittäen maljan. - -— Palaamisenne onneksi, herra markiisi. - -Florimond kiitti häntä kumartamalla päätään. Sitten markiisi kääntyi -Mariuksen puoleen. - -— Teillä on siis varusväkeä Condillacissa. Mitä hittoa siellä -on tapahtunut! Olen kuullut teistä outoja uutisia. Saattaisipa -melkein luulla, että te aiotte kapinoida pienessä rauhallisessa -kulmakunnassamme Dauphinéssa. - -Marius kohautti olkapäitään, hänen kasvoistaan näkyi, että hän oli -pahalla päällä. - -— Condillacissa on huolta neiti de La Vauvrayen tähden. - -Florimond hätkähti ja kumartui eteenpäin, alkaen heti näytellä -hätäilevää rakastunutta. - -— Eihän hänelle ole mitään pahaa tapahtunut? hän huudahti. Sano, ettei -hänelle ole tapahtunut mitään pahaa! - -— Rauhoitu, vastasi Marius naurahtaen pilkallisesti, ja mustasukkainen -raivo teki hänen kasvonsa harmaiksi. — Ei hänelle ole mitään vahinkoa -sattunut. Pulma oli se, että minä kosin häntä, mutta hän ei huolinut -minusta, koska hän on kihlattu sinulle. Niin ollen veimme hänet -Condillaciin, yhä toivoen saavamme hänet suostutetuksi. Muistanet, -että äitini on hänen holhoojansa. Mutta tyttöä ei saatu taipumaan. -Hän lahjoi yhden miehistämme viemään häneltä Pariisiin kirjeen, ja -vastaukseksi siihen kuningatar lähetti kuumapäisen, ajattelemattoman -tomppelin Dauphinéhen huolehtimaan hänen vapauttamisestaan. Mies viruu -nyt Condillacin vallihaudan pohjassa. - -Florimondin kasvoilla kuvastui kauhu ja suuttumus. - -— Rohkenetko kertoa minulle sellaista? hän kivahti. - -— Rohkenenko? vastasi Marius, naurahtaen ilkeästi. — Tämän asian tähden -on jo kuollut monta miestä. Sama Garnache jätti eilen illalla käsiimme -muutamia ruumiita, ennen kuin hän itse lähti toiseen maailmaan. Et voi -aavistaa, kuinka pitkälle uskallan mennä tässä jutussa. Olen valmis -lisäämään tähän asti kuolleiden luetteloon niin monta nimeä kuin -tarvitaan, ennen kuin sinä astut jalallasi Condillaciin. - -— Aa! sanoi Florimond ikään kuin valo olisi äkkiä välähtänyt hänen -mieleensä. — Tämä asiako sinut siis toi luokseni! Olen epäillyt -veljenrakkauttasi, se minun on tunnustettava, rakas Marius. Mutta -sanopa, veljeni, mitä arvelet isämme toivomuksista tässä suhteessa! -Etkö kunnioita niitä vähääkään? - -— Kunnioititko sinä? kivahti Marius, jonka ääni nyt kävi kovemmaksi -raivosta. — Oliko rakastuneen miehen tapaista viipyä poissa kolme -vuotta — antaa koko sen ajan kulua lähettämättä ainoatakaan sanomaa -kihlatullesi.-' Mitä olet tehnyt tukeaksesi vaatimuksiasi häneen? - -— En mitään, sen myönnän, mutta — - -— No niin, nyt sinun on tehtävä jotakin, huudahti Marius, nousten -seisomaan. — Olen tullut antaakseni sinulle tilaisuuden. Jos vielä -tahdot voittaa neiti de La Vauvrayen omaksesi, niin sinun täytyy -voittaa hänet minulta — miekallasi. Fortunio, sulkekaa ovi! - -— Malta, Marius! huusi Florimond, näyttäen todella pelästyneeltä. — -Kuuntele minua hetkinen! Jos haluat pakottaa minut tähän luonnottomaan -taisteluun, niin anna ainakin kaiken käydä asianmukaisessa -järjestyksessä! Älkäämme taistelko täällä, näissä ahtaissa huoneissa, -vaan avoimessa ulkoilmassa. Jos tämä kapteeni suostuu sinun -sekundantiksesi, niin minä etsin jonkun ystäväni, joka tekee minulle -saman palveluksen. - -— Me ratkaisemme asiamme täällä ja nyt, vastasi Marius tyynesti, mutta -jyrkästi. - -— Mutta jos minä surmaisin sinut — alkoi Florimond. - -— Ole huoleti, murahti Marius hymyillen ilkeästi. - -— No niin, kumpi mahdollisuus hyvänsä kelpaa pohjaksi sille -kysymykselle, jonka tahdon esittää. Jos sinä tappaisit minut — -voitaisiin sitä pitää murhana. Taistelumme säännönvastaisuus ei voisi -olla herättämättä huomiota. - -— Kapteeni toimii meidän kummankin sekundanttina. - -— Olen kokonaan käytettävissänne, vakuutti Fortunio kohteliaasti, -kumartaen vuorotellen kummallekin veljekselle. - -Florimond katseli häntä. — En pidä hänen ilmeestään, hän huomautti. -— Hän lienee sinun paras ystäväsi, Marius, et kenties salaa häneltä -mitään, mutta minä puolestani, avoimesti puhuen, toivoisin mieluummin, -että saapuvilla olisi joku minun ystäväni hänen vastustajanaan. - -Marius kohautti olkapäitään. - -— Puheessasi on järkeä, hän myönsi. — Mutta minulla on kiire. En voi -odottaa, kunnes sinä kävisit etsimässä jonkun ystäväsi. - -— No siispä, vastasi markiisi nauraen huolettomasti, — täytyy minun -koettaa manata esille haamu huvittamaan teitä, herra kapteeni. Sitten -hän kohotti ääntään, hänen ja Mariuksen säilien sattuessa vastakkain, -ja huusi: - -— Halloo, herra de Garnache! Tänne! - -Huoneen toisessa päässä olevan astiakaapin ovet lennähtivät äkkiä auki, -ja niiden välistä astui esille Martin de Garnache kädessään paljastettu -miekka, joka välkkyi ikkunasta tulvivassa auringonpaisteessa. - -Murhaajat jäivät seisomaan kauhistuneina ja kalmankalpeina. Sitten -välähti kummankin mieleen sama selitys tästä ilmiöstä. Tämä Garnache -oli samannäköinen kuin se mies, joka oli esittäytynyt sen nimisenä -tullessaan Condillaciin kaksi viikkoa sitten. Siispä se keltanaamainen, -mustatukkainen palkkasoturi, joka eilen illalla oli väittänyt olevansa -valepukuun puettu Garnache, oli petturi. Siihen johtopäätökseen he -pääsivät heti, ja niin pahasti kuin heitä harmittikin Florimondin -liittolaisen ilmestyminen, antoi se usko heille taaskin rohkeutta. -Mutta tuskin he olivat ehtineet päätellä siten, kun Garnachen ääni sen -pian kumosi. - -— Herra kapteeni, hän lausui, ja Fortunio vavahti sen kuullessaan, -sillä se oli sama ääni, jonka hän oli kuullut puhuvan vain muutamia -tunteja sitten, — olen iloinen siitä, että saamme tilaisuuden jatkaa -eilen illalla keskeytynyttä otteluamme. Ja hän astui tyynesti eteenpäin. - -Mariuksen miekka oli pudonnut irralleen veljen säilästä, ja molemmat -taistelijat seisoivat liikahtamatta. Fortunio syöksähti muitta mutkitta -ovea kohti. Mutta yhdellä hyppäyksellä Garnache katkaisi häneltä tien. - -— Kääntykää! hän huusi. — Kääntykää! Tai minä pistän miekan selkäänne. -Pian pääsette ovesta, mutta tarvitaan kaksi miestä kantamaan teidät -siitä ulos. Varokaa saastaista nahkaanne! - - - - -Kirkon velvollisuudet - - -Pari tuntia markiisi de Condillacin huoneessa Sanglier Noirin -majatalossa La Rochettessa tapahtuneen kohtauksen jälkeen de -Garnache ratsasti Rabecquen seuraamana ripeätä vauhtia pieneen -Cheylasin kaupunkiin, joka on Isèren laaksoon ja Condillaciin -vievän tien varrella. Noin kolmen kilometrin päässä itäänpäin -Cheylasista olevalla kukkulalla, jonka rinteet olivat kaikki rehevien -viinitarhojen peitossa, sijaitsi Pyhän Fransiskuksen luostarin matala, -neliskulmainen, harmaa rakennus. Pariisilainen ja hänen palvelijansa -ratsastivat iltapäivä-auringon miellyttävässä paisteessa pitkää, -valkeata tietä, joka kiemurteli ylöspäin fransiskaanien viinitarhojen -välitse. - -Vihdoin he pääsivät kukkulalle, ja Rabecque laskeutui satulasta -koputtamaan raipallaan luostarin portille. - -Heille tuli avaamaan maallikkoveli, joka vastaukseksi Garnachen -pyyntöön saada puhutella isä apottia kehotti heitä astumaan sisään. - -Garnache seurasi opastaan jykevää rakennusta ympäröivän pihan läpi ja -sitten portaita ylös apotin kammioon. - -Cheylasin fransiskaaniluostarin johtaja — kookas, laiha mies, jolla -oli askeettiset kasvot, ulkonevat poskipäät ja jonka nenä muistutti -suuresti Garnachen nenää ja olisi sopinut pikemminkin toiminnan -miehelle kuin rukoilijalle, kumarsi juhlallisesti muukalaiselle ja -pyysi saada tietää, miten hän voisi palvella vierasta. - -Hattu kädessä Garnache astahti askeleen eteenpäin alastomassa, niukasti -kalustetussa pikku huoneessa, jossa oli heikko vahan tuoksu. Empimättä -hän ilmoitti vierailunsa syyn. - -— Isä, yksi Condillacin perheen jäsenistä kuoli tänä aamuna La -Rochettessa. - -Munkin silmät saivat eloa ikään kuin hänen mielenkiintonsa ulkoista -maailmaa kohtaan olisi äkkiä virinnyt. - -— Se on Jumalan käsi, hän huudahti. — Heidän huono elämänsä on -viimeinkin nostattanut vihan. Miten tämä onneton sai surmansa? - -Garnache kohautti olkapäitään. - -_De mortuis nihil nisi bonum_. Hänen ilmeensä oli vakava, sinisissä -silmissä juhlallinen katse, eikä apotilla ollut mitään syytä varoa -tuon silmäparin valpasta tarkkailua. Hän punastui hieman epäsuorasta -nuhteesta, mutta taivutti päätään ikään kuin alistuen oikaistavaksi, ja -odotti, että toinen jatkaisi. - -— Hänen ruumiinsa pitäisi haudata, isä, sanoi Garnache hiljaa. - -Silloin munkki nosti päätään ja — suuttumuksen puna — levisi hänen -kellahtavan kalpeille poskilleen. Garnache huomasi sen ja oli iloissaan. - -— Miksi tulette minun luokseni? kysyi apotti. - -— Miksi? kertasi Garnache, ja nyt hänen äänensä kuulosti empivältä. -— Eikö vainajien hautaaminen kuulu kirkolle? Eikö se ole yksi teidän -pyhiä velvollisuuksianne? - -— Kysytte sitä ikään kuin vaatisitte minulta vastausta, virkkoi munkki -päätään pudistaen. — Asia on kuten sanotte, mutta velvollisuutemme ei -ole haudata jumalattomia kuolleita eikä sellaisia, jotka eläessään ovat -olleet erotettuja seurakunnasta ja kuolleet katumatta. - -— Kuinka voitte otaksua, että hän kuoli katumatta? - -— Sitä en otaksu, vaan oletan hänen kuolleen ilman synninpäästöä, -sillä ei yksikään pappi olisi rohjennut ripittää häntä, tietäen hänen -nimensä, ja jos joku olisi tehnyt sen tietämättä, kuka hän oli ja että -hän oli pannassa, niin se olisi katsottava tekemättömäksi. Pyytäkää -muita hautaamaan tämä Condillacin perheen poika. - -— Kirkko on kovin tyly, isä, huomautti Garnache. - -— Kirkko on hyvin oikeamielinen, vastasi pappi. - -— Eläessään hän oli mahtava ylimys, arveli Garnache miettivänä. — On -oikein ja kohtuullista, että hänen ruumiilleen osoitetaan kunnioitusta -ja arvonantoa. - -— No kunnioittakoot tätä kuollutta Condillacia siis ne, jotka itse -ovat saaneet osakseen kunnioitusta Condillacien puolelta. Kirkko ei -kuulu niiden joukkoon, monsieur. Markiisi-vainajan kuolemasta saakka on -Condillacin perhe ollut kapinassa meitä vastaan, pappejamme on kohdeltu -pahoin, arvovaltaamme pilkattu, Condillacit eivät ole maksaneet -kymmenyksiä eivätkä olleet osallisina sakramenteistä. Tuskastuneena -heidän jumalattomuudestaan kirkko julisti heidät pannaan, näyttää -siltä, että he kuolevat tämän pannan alaisina. Sydäntäni kirvelee -heidän tähtensä, mutta... - -Hän levitti pitkät ja melkein läpinäkyvät laihat kätensä, ja hänen -kasvoillaan oli murhetta. - -— Siitä huolimatta, intti Garnache, — kaksikymmentä -fransiskaaniveljestä kantaa ruumiin kotiin Condillaciin, ja te itse -kävelette tämän synkän kulkueen etunenässä. - -— Minä? Munkki astahti taaksepäin, ja hänen vartalonsa näytti venyvän -pitemmäksi. — Kuka olette te, monsieur, joka määräätte, mitä minun on -tehtävä, vastoin kirkon lakeja? - -Garnache tarttui apotin karkean puvun hihaan ja veti häntä lempeästi -ikkunaa kohti. Hänen huulillaan ja hänen terävissä silmissään oli -suostutteleva hymy, jota munkki totteli melkein tietämättään. - -— Kerron teille jotakin, lupasi Garnache, — ja samalla koetan taivuttaa -teitä luopumaan tylystä kannastanne. - -Samaan aikaan kuin herra de Garnache hellytteli Cheylasin -fransiskaaniluostarin apottia lempeämmäksi kuollutta miestä kohtaan, -rouva de Condillac istui päivällispöydässä seurassaan Valérie de La -Vauvraye. Ei kumpikaan nainen syönyt juuri ollenkaan. Toista kalvoi -suru, toista levoton huoli. Vihdoin puhkesi markiisitar puhumaan. - -— Muutamia päiviä sitten saimme sanoman, että Florimond oli matkalla -kotiin, mutta että kuume pidätti häntä La Rochettessa. Sittemmin -kuulimme hänen sairautensa muuttuneen niin vakavaksi, että hänen -paranemisestaan on vain vähän toiveita. - -— Ja hänen viime hetkiään lohduttamaanko Marius lähti Condillacista -tänä aamuna? - -Markiisitar katsahti terävästi tyttöön, mutta Valérien kasvot olivat -poispäin käännetyt, ja hän tuijotti tuleen. Hänen äänensä ei ilmaissut -muuta kuin luonnollista uteliaisuutta. - -— Niin, vastasi markiisitar. - -— Ja siltä varalta, etteivät hänen omat ponnistuksensa yksin riittäisi -auttamaan hänen veljeään pois tästä maailmasta, hän otti kapteeni -Fortunion mukaansa? jatkoi Valérie yhtä ilmeettömällä äänellä. - -— Mitä tarkoitat? kysäisi markiisitar melkein sähisten. - -Valérie kääntyi häneen päin kalpeilla kasvoillaan heikko puna. - -— Juuri sitä, mitä sanoin, madame. Tahdotteko tietää mitä olen -rukoillut? Siitä alkaen, kun tulin jälleen tajuihini, olin koko -yön polvillani ja rukoilin, että taivas sallisi Florimondin tuhota -poikanne. En sen tähden, että toivoisin Florimondin palaavan, sillä en -välitä, vaikka en enää ikinä häntä näkisi. Tätä taloa painaa kirous, -madame, jatkoi tyttö, nousten tuoliltaan ja puhuen nyt kiihkeämmin, -samalla kun markiisitar, jonka kasvot olivat kaameasti muuttuneet -ja äkkiä käyneet harmaiksi, horjahti askeleen taaksepäin, — ja olen -rukoillut että se kirous kohdistuisi Mariukseen, tuohon salamurhaajaan. -Soman puolison, madame, te työntäisitte Gaston de La Vauvrayen -tyttärelle! - -Hän pyörähti ympäri, poistui vastausta odottamatta verkkaisesti salista -ja meni omiin huoneisiinsa. Ne olivat täynnä muistoja miehestä, jota -hän suri, jota kuten hänestä tuntui, hänen piti aina surra, joka lepäsi -kuolleena hänen ikkunansa alla tummassa vallihaudassa. - -Äkillisen, selittämättömän kauhun valtaamana hypähti leskimarkiisitar -pystyyn ja lähti ulos tiedustelemaan eikö vielä ollut saapunut -sanansaattajaa, vaikka hän tiesikin, ettei sanansaattaja olisi vielä -ennättänyt linnaan. Hän nousi kivisiä kiertoportaita myöten muurille -ja asteli siellä yksin edestakaisin marraskuun auringon paistaessa, -odottaen tietoja, pinnistäen katsettaan nähdäkseen Isèren laaksoon ja -hakien silmillään ratsumiestä, jonka piti tulla sitä tietä. - -Vihdoin hän erotti kaukana liikkuvan olennon, ja hiljaisessa -iltailmassa kantautui hänen korviinsa etäinen kavioiden kapse. Siellä -ratsasti joku täyttä laukkaa. Vihdoinkin hän palasi! Markiisitar -nojautui rintasuojusta vasten, hänen hengityksensä oli nopeata, lyhyttä -läähätystä, ja hän silmäili ratsastajaa, joka kasvoi isommaksi hevosen -jokaisella harppauksella. - -Sitten häneltä pääsi parahdus, ja hän puri huultaan tukahduttaakseen -toisen, sillä hän oli nähnyt ratsastajan kasvot, ja ne olivat -Fortunion. Fortunio — ja haavoittuneena! Siispä oli Marius varmasti -kuollut! - -Fortunio oli vihdoin perillä; hän horjahteli kävellessään jäykkänä -pitkästä ratsastuksesta. Markiisitar astui askeleen häntä kohti. Rouvan -huulet avautuivat. - -— No? hän kysyi ja hänen äänensä oli käheä ja pingoittunut. — Kuinka -yritys luonnistui? - -— Kaikki kävi ainoalla mahdollisella tavalla, vastasi kapteeni. — Niin -kuin te toivoitte. - -Sen kuullessaan luuli markiisitar pyörtyvänsä. Hänen keuhkonsa -tuntuivat nytkähtelevän saadakseen ilmaa; hän avasi suunsa ja veti -pitkin henkäyksin nousevaa usvaa, virkkamatta vähään aikaan sanaakaan, -kunnes hän oli kylliksi toipunut pelkonsa kauheasta vastavaikutuksesta. - -— Missä sitten on Marius? hän kysyi vihdoin. - -— Hän jäi jälkeen saattamaan ruumista kotiin. He tuovat sen tänne. - -— He? kertasi markiisitar. — Kutka »he»? - -— Cheylasin fransiskaaniluostarin munkit, vastasi Fortunio. - -Kapteenin äänensävy, hänen eloisien silmiensä ilme ja hänen -kauniita, tavallisesti vilkkaita kasvojaan synkistävä pilvi herätti -markiisittaressa epäluuloja ja masensi hänen uudelleen virinnyttä -rohkeuttaan. - -Hän tarttui rajusti Fortunion käsivarteen ja pakotti miehen katsomaan -itseään silmiin hämärtyvässä valossa. - -— Puhutteko minulle totta, Fortunio? hän tiukkasi, ja hänen äänensä oli -puolittain kiukkuinen, puolittain pelokas. - -Italialainen kohtasi hänen katseensa värähtämättä ja kohotti kätensä -ylös antaakseen pontta sanoilleen. - -—- Vannon sieluni autuuden nimessä, madame, että herra Marius on terve -ja vahingoittumaton. - -Markiisitar rauhoittui ja hellitti irti hänen kätensä. - -— Tuleeko hän tänä iltana? - -— Ei tänään, vaan huomenna. Siitä tuli jonkin verran hälyä, selitti -kapteeni. — Markiisilla oli väkeä mukanaan, ja jos tämä juttu olisi -tapahtunut Ranskassa, niin siitä olisi voinut koitua ikävyyksiä. - -— Teidän on selostettava se minulle täydellisesti, sanoi markiisitar, -aivan oikein arvellen, että asiassa oli vielä jotakin selitettävää. - - - - -Garnache tuomarina - - -Seuraavana aamuna leskimarkiisitar nousi ylös hyvissä ajoin ja pukeutui -säädyllisyyden vuoksi mustiin. - -Myös käskynhaltija lähti hyvissä ajoin Grenoblesta parin palvelijan -saattamana Condillaciin, vähääkään aavistamatta, että hän siten -menetteli ennen kaikkea Garnachen toivomusten mukaisesti. - -Oli ihana aamu, leuto ja aurinkoinen ikään kuin luonto olisi ottanut -osaa markiisittaren voitonriemuun ja halunnut esiintyä parhaassa -talviasussaan sen kunniaksi. - -Lihavan kosijan saapuminen oli rouva de Condillacille mieleen. Hänen ei -enää tarvitsisi, kuten hän kerran oli pelännyt, kuunnella tuon miehen -kosiskelua kauempaa kuin suvaitsisi. Mutta Tressanin tervehdyssanat -olivat ensimmäinen epäsointuinen sävel markiisittaren haaveilemaan -täydelliseen harmoniaan. - -— Madame, valitti käskynhaltija, — mieltäni pahoittaa suuresti, -etten tuo parempia sanomia. Mutta mitä tarkimmista etsiskelyistämme -huolimatta ei Rabecquea ole saatu pidätetyksi. Emme kuitenkaan ole -vielä tyyten lakanneet toivomasta, hän lisäsi osoittaakseen, että hänen -maalaamassaan synkässä pilvessä oli hiukan hopeista hohdetta. - -Markiisittaren otsa rypistyi hetkiseksi. Hän oli siihen asti unohtanut -koko Rabecquen. - -— Hänet on löydettävä, Tressan, hän kivahti. - -Tressan hymyili tyrmistyneenä ja pureksi partaansa. - -— Vaivoja ei säästetä, hän lupasi. — Siitä saatte olla varma. Olen -lähettänyt hänen jälkeensä miehiä kaikkia kolmea Pariisiin vievää -tietä myöten. Heidän on käsketty rahaa ja ratsuja säästämättä etsiä -hänen jälkensä ja vangita hänet. Uskon, että sittenkin saamme hänet -siepatuksi. - -— Hän on nyt ainoa meitä uhkaava vaara, vastasi markiisitar, — sillä -Florimond on kuollut — kuumeeseen, hän lisäsi pilkallisesti hymyillen, -mikä herätti Tressanissa samanlaisen tunnelman kuin hän olisi saanut -kylmää vettä niskaansa. — Olisi kohtalon ivaa, jos tuo kurja lakeija -pääsisi nyt Pariisiin ja turmelisi voittomme, jonka saavuttamiseksi -olemme niin ankarasti työskennelleet. - -— Totisesti se olisi, myönsi Tressan, — ja meidän on huolehdittava -siitä, ettei hän pääse. - -— Mutta jos hän pääsee, huomautti markiisitar, — niin sitten on meidän -vedettävä yhtä köyttä. - -— Sitä toivon aina, Clotilde, vakuutti käskynhaltija. - -Hän tarttui markiisittaren käteen ja olisi heti paikalla langennut -polvilleen rouvan jalkojen juureen öisestä kasteesta vielä kosteaan -ruohikkoon, jollei hänen mieleensä olisi ajoissa juolahtanut, kuinka -pahasti hänen komea pukunsa siitä kärsisi. - -— Luvatkaa tulla puolisokseni kuuden kuukauden kuluessa — pääsiäisenä, -luvatkaa! - -Markiisitar älysi, että hänen oli annettava vastaus, ja niinpä hän -antoi Tressanin haluaman vastauksen. Ja tämä ei ollenkaan huomannut -hänen äänensä sointua, joka helähti kuin väärä raha, ei lainkaan -aavistanut markiisittaren luvatessaan ajatelleen, että lupaus -voitaisiin vaaratta rikkoa kuuden kuukauden perästä, jolloin Tressania -ja hänen uskollisuuttaan ei enää tarvittaisi. - -Heitä lähestyi linnasta päin mies ripein askelin. Hän ilmoitti, -että monilukuinen seurue munkkeja laskeutui Isèren laaksoa pitkin -Condillacia kohti. Markiisitarta kannusti lievä kiihtymys, ja hän -palasi Tressanin saattamana rintasuojukselle, josta hän voisi katsella -kulkueen saapumista. - -Matkalla sinne Tressan tiedusteli, miten tällainen saattue oli saatu -aikaan, ja vastaukseksi hän kertoi, mitä Fortunio oli puhunut edellisen -päivän tapahtumista La Rochettessa. Rintavarustuksilta hän katseli -itäänpäin, suojaten kädellään silmiään aamuauringon säteiltä, ja -tarkasteli kulkuetta, joka hitaan arvokkaasti läheni laaksoa alaspäin -Condillacia kohti. - -Sen etunenässä asteli kookas ja laiha Cheylasin fransiskaaniluostarin -apotti, kantaen korkealla hopeista ristiinnaulitun kuvaa, joka -säihkyen välkkyi auringonpaisteessa. Hänen päähineensä oli sysätty -taaksepäin, niin että hänen kalpeat, askeettiset kasvonsa ja ajeltu -päänsä näkyivät. Hänen jäljessään kantoi kuusi mustakaapuista ja -mustapäähineistä munkkia ruumisarkkua, joka oli mustan verhon peitossa, -ja sen takana asteli neljätoista fransiskaaniveljestä, verhotut päät -kumarassa, käsivarret ristissä ja kädet piilotettuina leveihin hihoihin. - -Se oli lukuisa saattue, ja tarkkaillessaan sen tuloa alkoi markiisitar -ihmetellä, millä tavoin ylpeä apotti oli saatu taivutetuksi suostumaan -näin suureen kunnianosoitukseen kuolleelle Condillacille ja saattamaan -hänen ruumiinsa kotiin tähän pannaan julistettuun taloon. - -Munkkien jäljessä tulla rämistivät suljetut vaunut rosoista -vuoristotietä alaspäin, ja niiden takana ratsasti neljä Condillacin -liveriin puettua palvelijaa. Mariuksesta ei markiisitar nähnyt -merkkiäkään ja arveli, että hän oli vaunuissa ja että niitä saattavat -palvelijat olivat markiisivainajan väkeä. - -Äänettömänä hän meni Tressanin vierellä alas ottamaan kulkuetta -vastaan. Mutta pihalle saapuessaan hän hämmästyksekseen näki, ettei -se ollutkaan pysähtynyt, kuten sopivaisuus olisi varmasti vaatinut. -Käskemättä oli apotti mennyt edelleen isosta ovesta Condillacin saliin -vievään käytävään. - -Hän pysytti kasvonpiirteensä asianmukaisen juhlallisina ja astui -reippaasti saliin Tressan yhä kintereillään. Siellä hän näki, että -arkku, jonka laaja, musta, hopeareunuksinen samettiverho riippui -lattiaan saakka, oli asetettu pöydälle. - -Erittäin arvokkaasti markiisitar asteli pää pystyssä upean salin -toiseen päähän apotin luokse, joka seisoi suorana kuin keihäs pöydän -päässä häntä odottamassa. Ja hyvä oli, että papin mielenlaatu oli -ankara, sillä muutoin olisi rouvan majesteettinen, verraton kauneus -hellyttänyt hänen sydämensä ja pehmittänyt hänen päättäväisen -kovuutensa. - -Hän kohotti kättään, kun markiisitar oli miekan mitan päässä hänestä, -ja rikkoi painostavan hiljaisuuden pelottavilla sanoilla, jotka -lausuttiin jyrisevällä äänellä. - -— Turmeltunut nainen, hän julisti, — syntisi ovat tuottaneet sinulle -tuomion. Oikeus on tyydytettävä, ja niskasi on taivuttava jäykästä -ylpeydestäsi huolimatta. Sinä pappien pilkkaaja, puhtauden turmelija, -pyhän kirkon herjaaja, sinun jumalaton valtasi on lopussa. - -Tressan horjahti kauhistuneena taaksepäin, ja hänen kasvonsa kävivät -kalmankalpeiksi, sillä jos markiisitar joutuisi tuomiolle, kuten apotti -oli sanonut, joutuisi hän myös. Missä heidän suunnitelmansa olivat -menneet myttyyn? Mikä heikko kohta oli häneltä siihen saakka jäänyt -huomaamatta? Hän kyseli itseltään äkillisen kauhun vallassa. - -Mutta markiisittareen ei pelko pystynyt kuten Tressaniin. Hänen -silmänsä menivät hieman enemmän levälleen, heikko puna nousi hänen -poskilleen, mutta hän tunsi vain hämmästystä ja harmia. Oliko mies -hullu, tuo kaljupää munkki? Se kysymys välähti hänen mieleensä, ja -saman kysymyksen hän kylmästi lausui vastaukseksi apotin purkaukseen. - -— Sillä vain hulluus, hän katsoi sopivaksi lisätä, — voi selittää -harkitsemattoman uhkarohkeutenne. - -— Se ei ole hulluutta, madame, vastasi apotti hyytävän ylväästi, — -vaan oikeutettua suuttumusta. Olette uhmannut pyhän kirkon valtaa -samoin kuin olette uhkaillut kuningattaremme mahtia, ja oikeuden käsi -on niskassanne. Me olemme tulleet esittämään laskun ja pitämään huolta -siitä, että se maksetaan täydellisesti. - -Markiisitar kuvitteli mielessään, että munkki tarkoitti arkussa olevaa -ruumista — hänen poikapuolensa ruumista — ja hän olisi voinut nauraa -apotin typerälle luulolle, että hän muka pitäisi Florimondin kuolemaa -rangaistuksena jumalattomuudestaan. Mutta yltyvä kiukku esti hänet -nauramasta. - -— Minä luulin, herra pappi, teidän tulleen hautaamaan vainajaa. Mutta -pikemminkin näyttää siltä, että olette tullut puhelemaan. - -Apotti silmäili häntä pitkään ja ankarasti. Sitten hän pudisti päätään, -ja hänen askeettisilla kasvoillaan väikkyi hienon hieno hymy. - -— En ole tullut puhumaan, madame, en suinkaan puhumaan, hän vastasi -hitaasti, — vaan toimimaan. Olen tullut, madame, vapauttamaan tästä -sudenluolasta sen hennon lampaan, jota pidätte vangittuna. - -Silloin kävivät rouvan posket hieman kalpeammiksi, hänen silmiinsä tuli -tyrmistynyt ilme ja vihdoin hän alkoi älytä, ettei kaikki ollut niin -kuin hän oli luullut — kuten hänelle oli uskoteltu. Mutta sittenkin hän -vaistomaisesti koetti vielä uhmailla. - -— _Vertudieu!_ hän jyräytti. — Mitä tarkoitatte? - -Markiisittaren takana seisovan Tressanin paksut, kömpelöt sormet -tutisivat vastakkain. Mikä hupsu hän olikaan ollut tullessaan -Condillaciin sinä päivänä ja mennessään ansaan rouva de Condillacin -kanssa, joutuen osalliseksi hänen syyllisyydestään! Tuolla kopealla -apotilla, joka uhkaavasti julisti tuomiota, oli voimaa takanaan, sillä -muutoin hän ei ikinä olisi uskaltanut kohottaa ääntään Condillacissa, -huutomatkan päässä epätoivoisista miehistä, jotka vähät välittäisivät -hänen pyhyydestään. - -— Mitä tarkoitatte? toisti markiisitar ja lisäsi uhkaavasti hymyillen: -— Innoissanne, herra apotti, unohdatte, että väkeni on huutomatkan -päässä. - -— Niin, madame, ovat minunkin, oli apotin ällistyttävä vastaus, ja hän -viittasi kädellään munkkeihin, jotka seisoivat rivissä, päät kumarassa, -käsivarret ristissä. - -Silloin pääsi markiisittarelta kimakka nauru, joka kajahteli huoneessa. - -— Nuo kaljupääraukatko? - -— Juuri nämä kaljupääraukat, madame, vastasi apotti, kohotti taas -kätensä ja teki merkin. Ja silloin tapahtui omituinen seikka, joka -herätti todellista kauhua markiisittaren sydämessä ja lisäsi Tressanin -pelkoa. - -Munkit ojentautuivat suoriksi. Näytti siltä kuin äkillinen tuulenpuuska -olisi pyyhkäissyt pitkin heidän rivejään ja pannut heidät kaikki -liikkeeseen. Päähineet putosivat taaksepäin, ja kaavut vetäistiin -syrjään. Siinä, missä äsken oli ollut kaksikymmentä munkkia, seisoi -nyt kaksikymmentä joustavaa, jäntevää miestä puettuina Condillacin -liveriin, kaikki täysissä aseissa ja naurahdellen huvittuneina -markiisittaren ja Tressanin säikähdykselle. - -Yksi heistä astui syrjään ja lukitsi salin oven. Mutta hänen liikkeensä -jäivät huomaamatta markiisittarelta, jonka kauniit, kauhusta levällään -olevan silmät kiintyivät jälleen tuikeaan apottiin melkein ihmettelevän -näköisinä, kun hänessä ei ollut tapahtunut mitään muutosta. - -— Petosta! hän huohotti kaamealla äänellä, joka ei ollut kuiskausta -voimakkaampi, ja taas hänen silmänsä lipuivat pitkin seuruetta, jääden -äkkiä tuijottamaan Fortuniöon, joka seisoi kuuden askeleen päässä -hänestä oikealle, vedellen miettivästi viiksiään nähtävästi lainkaan -ihmettelemättä sitä, mitä oli tapahtunut. - -Äkillisen, sokean vimman vallassa hän pyörähti ympäri, tempasi tikarin -Tressanin vyöstä ja karkasi kavaltajakapteenin kimppuun. Tämä oli -pettänyt häntä jollakin tavoin, luovuttanut Condillacin — kenen -valtaan, sitä hänellä ei ollut vielä ollut aikaa ajatella. Hän tarttui -italialaista kurkkuun niin rajun jäntevästi, ettei sellaista voimaa -olisi luullut olevan hänen valkeissa, siroissa käsissään. Tikari oli -koholla, ja yllätetty kapteeni lamaantui ällistyksestä eikä kyennyt -nostamaan kättään torjuakseen uhkaavaa iskua. - -Mutta apotti astui ripeästi markiisittaren luokse ja puristi hänen -rannettaan läpikuultavan ohuella kädellään. - -— Malttakaa mielenne! Mies on vain välikappale. - -Markiisitar horjui taaksepäin — melkein apotin vetämänä — huohottaen -raivosta ja tuskasta. Sitten hän huomasi, että verho oli vedetty pois -arkun päältä. Koristelematon mäntyarkku kiinnitti hänen huomionsa -puoleensa, syrjäyttäen hetkiseksi hänen kiukkunsa. Mitä uutta yllätystä -hänelle valmistettiin? - -Tuskin hän oli tehnyt itselleen tämän kysymyksen, kun hän jo itse -vastasikin siihen, ja kylmä käsi tuntui kouristavan hänen sydäntään. -Vainaja oli Marius. Hänelle oli valehdeltu. Juuri Mariuksen olivat he -— nuo hänen poikapuolensa liveriin puetut miehet — kantaneet ruumiina -Condillaciin. - -Hänen kurkkuunsa kohosi nyyhkytys, ja hän astui askeleen arkkua -kohti. Hän tahtoi itse katsoa. Millä tavoin hyvänsä hänen täytyi -saada poistetuksi tämä kalvava epäilys. Mutta ennen kuin hän oli -ennättänyt astua kolmea askelta, jäi hän taas seisomaan kuin lattiaan -naulattuna, hänen kätensä tempautuivat nytkähtäen rintaa vasten, -hänen huulensa avautuivat ja häneltä pääsi kauhun kirkaisu. Sillä -arkun kansi oli hitaasti noussut ja kääntynyt sivulle. Ja ikään kuin -kasaamaan hänelle kauhua kauhun päälle nousi arkusta olento istumaan -ja katseli ympärilleen tuimasti hymyillen, ja se olento oli mies, -jonka hän tiesi kuolleeksi, joka oli saanut surmansa hänen puuhiensa -tähden — se olento oli Garnache. Se oli Garnache sellaisena kuin hän -oli ollut sinä päivänä, jolloin he tavoittelivat hänen henkeään juuri -tässä samassa huoneessa. Kuinka hyvin hän tunsi tuon vankan, kaarevan -nenän, kirkkaat, siniset, teräksenhohtoiset silmät, tummanruskean -tukan, joka ohimoilta oli iän mukana harmaantunut tuhkanväriseksi, -ja lujapiirteisen suun ylähuulta ja pitkää, vankkaa leukaa peittävän -tuuhean, punertavan parran! - -Hän tuijotti tuijottamistaan, kauniit kasvot lyijynharmaina ja -vääntyneinä, kunnes niissä ei näkynyt mitään kaunista, samalla kun -apotti silmäili häntä kylmästi ja hänen takanaan oleva Tressan oli -pyörtymäisillään pelosta. Mutta häntä ei kammottanut haamujen pelko. -Hän näki Garnachessa miehen, joka oli vielä elävä ja täysissä voimissa -— se mies oli jonkin ihmeen kautta välttänyt sen kohtalon, johon he -olivat otaksuneet hänen sortuneen, ja hän pelkäsi tilitystä, jota tämä -mies vaatisi. - -Oltuaan hetkisen ääneti, ikään kuin nauttien herättämästään -vaikutuksesta, Garnache nousi seisomaan ja hyppäsi reippaasti -lattialle. Jysähdys, joka kuului, kun hän putosi markiisittaren eteen, -ei ollut vähääkään aavemainen. Rouva de Condillacin kauhu väheni -hieman, mutta ei haihtunut täydellisesti. Hän tajusi, että hän oli -tekemisissä vain ihmisen kanssa, mutta hän alkoi käsittää, että tämä -ihminen oli hyvin pelottava. - -— Taaskin Garnache! hän huohotti. - -Pariisilainen kumarsi rauhallisena, hymy huulillaan. - -— Niin, madame, hän sanoi ystävällisesti, — aina Garnache. Sitkeä kuin -iilimato, madame, ja iilimadon lailla olen tullut tänne suorittamaan -hieman puhdistustyötä. - -Markiisittaren katse kirkastui jälleen, kun hän voitti äskeisen -säikähdyksensä, ja hän vilkaisi Fortunioon. Garnache huomasi sen ja -arvasi, mitä hänen mielessään liikkui. - -— Kaikki, mitä Fortunio on tehnyt, hän virkkoi, — hän on tehnyt teidän -poikanne käskystä ja suostumuksella. - -— Mariuksenko? kysyi markiisitar, melkein peläten kuulevansa, että -Garnache tarkoitti hänen pojallaan hänen poikapuoltaan ja että Marius -oli kuollut. - -— Niin, Mariuksen, vastasi Garnache. — Pakotin hänet alistumaan -tahtooni. Uhkasin, että hän ja tämä hänen asetoverinsa, joka on niin -isäntänsä arvoinen, teilattaisiin kumpikin, jollei minua ehdottomasti -toteltaisi. Jos he tahtoivat pelastaa henkensä, niin tässä tarjoutui -heille tilaisuus. He olivat ymmärtäväisiä ja käyttivät tilaisuutta -hyväkseen antaen siten minulle keinon tunkeutua Condillaciin ja -pelastaa neiti de La Vauvrayen. - -— Siis Marius...? Markiisitar jätti kysymyksensä kesken, puristellen -hermostuneesti nyrkkiään. - -— On terve ja reipas, kuten Fortunio lienee totuudenmukaisesti teille -kertonut. Mutta en ole vielä päästänyt häntä vallastani enkä päästä -ennen kuin Condillacin asiat on järjestetty. Sillä jos minua täällä -vielä vastustetaan, niin hänet teilataan, sen vakuutan. - -Vielä viimeisen kerran koetti markiisitar uhmata. Pitkäaikaisesta -isännöimistottumuksesta on vaikea luopua. Hän nykäisi niskansa kenoon, -hänen rohkeutensa elpyi nyt, kun hän tiesi Mariuksen olevan elossa ja -terveenä. - -— Komeita sanoja, hän pilkkasi. — Mutta kuinka te voitte tuolla tavoin -uhkailla ja vakuutella? - -— Olen kuningattaren halpa puhetorvi, madame. Uhkaukseni lausun hänen -nimessään. Älkää kiemurrelko enää, se on neuvoni. Se ei maksa vaivaa. -Valtanne on mennyttä, madame, ja teidän olisi viisainta suhtautua -siihen arvokkaasti ja rauhallisesti — niin kehotan teitä kaikessa -ystävyydessä. - -— En ole vielä painunut niin alhaalle, että kaipaan neuvojanne, vastasi -rouva happamesti. - -— Kenties painutte ennen kuin aurinko laskee, virkkoi Garnache, -hymyillen tyyntä hymyään. — Markiisi de Condillac ja hänen vaimonsa -ovat vielä La Rochettessa odottamassa, kunnes minä ehdin suorittaa -täällä tehtäväni, jotta he voivat tulla kotiinsa. - -— Hänen vaimonsa? huudahti markiisitar. - -— Niin, hänen vaimonsa, madame. Hän on tuonut puolison Italiasta. - -— Siis — siis — Marius? Enempää hän ei sanonut. Kenties hän ei aikonut -jupista ajatuksiaan ääneen niinkään paljon. Mutta Garnache arvasi, -mitä hänen mielessään liikkui, ja häntä ihmetytti, kuinka sitkeästi -ajatukset saattavat pysyä totutulla urallaan. Heti kun markiisitar -oli kuullut Florimondin avioliitosta, olivat hänen mielessään taas -heränneet tavanmukaiset mietteet Mariuksen mahdollisuuksista mennä -naimisiin Valérien kanssa. - -Mutta Garnache haihdutti tällaiset haaveet. - -— Ei, madame, hän sanoi. — Marius saa katsella itselleen puolisoa -muualta — jollei neiti de La Vauvraye omasta vapaasta tahdostaan suostu -hänen vaimokseen — mikä ei ole todennäköistä. Sitten hän muuttui äkkiä -ankaraksi. — Neiti de La Vauvraye voi kai hyvin, madame? - -Markiisitar nyökkäsi, mutta ei virkkanut mitään. Pariisilainen kääntyi -Fortunioon päin. - -— Menkää noutamaan hänet tänne! hän käski kapteenia. - -Garnache käveli edestakaisin lattialla ja meni Tressanin ohitse aivan -läheltä. Hän nyökkäsi käskynhaltijalle niin ystävällisesti, että tämä -säikähti pahasti. - -— Sattuipa hyvin, rakas herra käskynhaltija. Olen iloissani siitä, että -tapasin teidät täällä. Muutoin minun olisi pitänyt lähettää kutsumaan -teitä. Meidän keskemme on järjestettävä eräs pikku asia. Saatte -luottaa, että hoidan sen teidän nykyiseksi tyydytykseksenne, joskin -vastaiseksi suruksenne. Ja hymyillen hän asteli edelleen, jättäen -käskynhaltijan liian tyrmistyneeksi vastaamaan tai väittämään, ettei -hän ollut osaltaan syypää Condillacin tapahtumiin. - -— Aiotteko esittää minulle ehtoja? tiedusteli markiisitar kopeasti. - -— Kyllä varmasti, vastasi Garnache tuikean kohteliaasti. — Sen varassa, -hyväksyttekö _ne_ ehdot, on Mariuksen henki ja oma vastainen vapautenne. - -— Mitkä ne ovat? - -— Että kaikki väkenne — alinta keittiöpoikaa myöten — laskee aseensa -tunnin sisässä ja poistuu Condillacista. - -Markiisitar ei uskaltanut vastata kieltävästi. - -— Markiisi ei häädä minua pois? hän lausui puolittain kysyvästi. - -— Markiisilla, madame, ei ole lainkaan valtaa tässä suhteessa. Teidän -niskuroimistanne käsittelee kuningatar — minä kuningattaren lähettinä. - -— Jos minä suostun siihen, monsieur, niin entä sitten? - -— Ette voi sanoa _jos_, madame. Teidän on pakko suostua tahtoen tai -tahtomattanne. Ollakseni varma siitä olen tullut takaisin tällä tavoin -väkeä mukanani. Mutta jos ryhdytte taisteluun, niin teidät voitetaan — -ja silloin teille käy perin huonosti. Käskekää miestenne lähteä, kuten -ehdotin, niin saatte itsekin vapaana poistua täältä. - -— Niin, mutta minne? huudahti markiisitar äkillisen raivon puuskassa. - -— Mikäli tunnen olosuhteitanne, madame, käsitän teidän jäävän melkein -kodittomaksi. Teidän olisi pitänyt ajatella kerran joutuvanne -riippuvaiseksi markiisi de Condillacin jalomielisyydestä, ennen -kuin kävitte juonittelemaan häntä vastaan ja suunnittelemaan hänen -surmaamistaan. Nyt voitte tuskin odottaa jalomielisyyttä häneltä -ja jäätte niin ollen melkein kodittomaksi, jollei... Hän katkaisi -lauseensa kesken, vilkaisten Tressaniin hyvin ivallinen ilme silmissään. - -— Käytätte minua kohtaan kovin uskaliasta kieltä, huomautti -markiisitar. — Sillä tavoin ei ainoakaan ihminen ole ennen rohjennut -minulle puhua. - -— Kun valta oli teillä, madame, kohtelitte minua sillä tavoin, ettei -kukaan ole koskaan uskaltanut kohdella minua siten. Nyt olen minä -voiton puolella. Saatte nähdä, että käytän sitä teidän eduksenne. -Pankaa merkille, kuinka jalomielisesti kohtelen teitä, murhan -suunnittelijaa! Herra de Tressan, hän kutsui käskevästi. Käskynhaltija -syöksähti eteenpäin ikään kuin jonkun sysäämänä. - -— He... herra? - -— Teihinkin nähden käännän pahan hyväksi. Tulkaa tänne! - -Käskynhaltija lähestyi ihmetellen, mitä oli tekeillä. Markiisitar -katseli häntä kylmä väike silmissään, sillä älykkäämpänä kuin Tressan -hän oli jo arvannut Garnachen aikeen. - -Sotilaat nauraa virnistelivät, apotti seisoi värähtämättömin kasvoin. - -— Markiisitar de Condillac joutuu tästä lähtien todennäköisesti -kodittomaksi, sanoi pariisilainen Tressanille. — Ettekö te, herra de -Tressan, ole kyllin ritarillinen tarjotaksenne hänelle kodin? - -— Minäkö? änkytti Tressan, tuskin tohtien uskoa korviaan. — Markiisitar -tietää hyvin, kuinka kernaasti sen teen. - -— Tietääkö hän? Tehkää se sitten, monsieur! Ja sillä ehdolla annan -anteeksi ajattelemattomat puuhanne. Vakuutan sanallani, ettette -joudu tekemään tiliä niistä ihmishengistä, jotka ovat tuhoutuneet -petollisuutenne ja puuttuvan uskollisuutenne tähden, kun vain omasta -vapaasta tahdostanne luovutte Dauphinén käskynhaltijan toimesta, jota -en voi sallia teidän tästä lähtien pitää. - -Tressan silmäili vuorotellen markiisitarta ja Garnachea. Rouva seisoi -liikkumattomana ikään kuin Garnachen sanat olisivat muuttaneet hänet -marmoripatsaaksi, kykenemättä puhumaan raivoltaan. Sitten avautui ovi, -ja saliin astui neiti de La Vauvraye Fortunion seuraamana. - -Nähdessään Garnachen Valérie pysähtyi, vei käden sydämelleen ja -huudahti hiljaa. Näkikö hän todellakin Garnachen — uljaan vaeltavan -ritarinsa? Garnache ei ollut enää sen näköinen kuin niinä päivinä, -jotka hän oli ollut hänen vartijanaan; mutta hän oli sellainen, -jollaisena tyttö häntä mielellään ajatteli, sen jälkeen kun hän piti -häntä kuolleena. Pariisilainen meni häntä vastaan silmissään kaihoisa -ilme, ojensi hänelle molemmat kätensä, hän tarttui niihin ja kaikkien -nähden, ennen kuin Garnache ehti temmata käsiään pois, hän kumartui ja -suuteli niitä, samalla kun hänen huuliltaan pääsi kuiskaus: - -— Jumalan kiitos! Jumalan kiitos! - -— Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! esteli pariisilainen, mutta liian -myöhäistä oli jo pidättää tyttöä. - -Hän ei nähnyt tässä teossa mitään muuta kuin kiitollisuutta siitä, mitä -hän oli tehnyt auttaakseen Valérieta, ja siitä vaarasta, mihin hän niin -alttiisti oli pannut henkensä palvellessaan tyttöä. Garnachen sanat -saivat Valérien jälleen tyyntymään, mutta äkkiä hänet taaskin valtasi -pelko tässä paikassa, jossa hän ei ollut tuntenut mitään muuta kuin -pelkoa. - -— Miksi olette täällä, monsieur? Oletteko taaskin antautunut vaaraan? - -Garnache nauroi. — En, en suinkaan. Nämä miehet ovat minun väkeäni — -ainakin tällä hetkellä. Tällä kertaa olen tullut voimakkaana säätämään -oikeutta. Mitä on tehtävä tälle naiselle, mademoiselle? hän kysyi, -ja tietäen hyvin, kuinka lempeän herttainen tyttö oli, hän lisäsi: — -Puhukaa nyt! Hänen kohtalonsa on teidän kädessänne. - -Valérie katsahti viholliseensa, ja sitten hänen katseensa lipui ympäri -huonetta, tarkastellen siellä äänettöminä seisovia miehiä ja apottia, -joka yhä oli pöydän päässä tämän kummallisen näyttämön kalpeana, -kylmänä katselijana. - -Muutos oli tullut niin äkkiä. Muutamia minuutteja sitten hän oli vielä -ollut vanki, ja häntä oli raadellut tuska, sillä hän oli kuullut, -että Mariuksen piti palata sinä päivänä ja heidät vihittäisiin, -suostuipa hän tai oli suostumatta. Ja nyt hän näki olevansa vapaa. -Hänen sankarinsa oli palannut mahtavana ja pyytänyt häntä ratkaisemaan -äskeisten sortajiensa kohtalon. - -Markiisitar oli tuhkanharmaa. Hän arvosteli tyttöä oman mittapuunsa -mukaan. Markiisitar odotti kuolemantuomiota, sillä hän tiesi, että hän -olisi julistanut sellaisen tuomion, jos osat olisivat olleet toisin -päin. Hän ei voinut uskoa, vaan luuli itseään pilkattavan kuullessaan -Valérien lausuvan: - -— Antakaa hänen mennä rauhassa! - -Ja ikään kuin kaikki olisikin ollut pilaa, Garnache nauroi ja vastasi: - -— Annamme hänen mennä, mademoiselle — mutta emme aivan omaa -valitsemaansa tietä. Teidän laisenne luonteet tarvitsevat miehen -ohjausta. Mielestäni saatte kylliksi ankaran rangaistuksen menemällä -avioliittoon tämän harkitsemattoman herra de Tressanin kanssa, aivan -kuten hänkin saa riittävän rangaistuksen myöhemmin, kun väärät haaveet -haihtuvat. Tehkää siis toisenne onnellisiksi! Tämä arvoisa isä liittää -teidät yhteen heti paikalla ja sitten, herra käskynhaltija, saatte -viedä nuorikkonne kotiin. Hänen poikansa seuraa teitä. - -Markiisitar vimmastui. Hän polki jalkaansa, ja hänen silmänsä -liekehtivät. - -— En ikinä, monsieur! En koskaan eläissäni! hän huusi. — Olen -markiisitar de Condillac, monsieur. Älkää unohtako sitä! - -— Tuskin on pelättävissä, että sitä unohdan. Juuri sen vuoksi, että -muistan sen, kehotan teitä vaihtamaan nimeä kaikella kiireellä -ja lakkaamaan olemasta markiisitar de Condillac. Mainitulla -markiisittarella on varsin raskas velka maksettavanaan. Antaa hänen -välttyä sitä suorittamasta muuttamalla nimeään. Olen avannut teille -oven, madame, josta voitte pelastautua. - -— Te olette hävytön, kivahti markiisitar. — En ole mikään letukka, -josta joku mies määräilee. - -Silloin tulistui myös Garnache. Hänen suuttumuksensa oli kuin teräs, -joka kalahti hänen luonteensa piikiveen, ja hänet valtasi yksi hänen -pelottavan rajuja kiivaudenpuuskiaan. - -— Entä tämä lapsi sitten? hän jyräytti. — Entä hän, madame? Oliko hän -mikään letukka, josta kukaan mies tai nainen sai määrätä? Kuitenkin -te koetitte määrätä hänestä vastoin hänen sydäntään, vastoin hänen -luontoaan ja vastoin hänen lupaustaan. Siinä kaikki! hän ärjäisi ja -hänen ilmeensä ja äänensä olivat niin pelottavat, että kopealuontoinen -markiisitar säikähti ja horjahti taaksepäin, kun Garnache astui -askeleen häntä kohti. — Laittautukaa naimisiin! Ottakaa tämä mies -puolisoksenne, te, joka niin kylmäverisesti tahdoitte pakottaa -toista vastenmieliseen avioliittoon! Tehkää se, madame, ja tehkää se -nyt, sillä muutoin, taivaan nimessä, teidän on lähdettävä mukanani -Pariisiin, ja saatte nähdä, ettei siellä olla lempeitä. Siellä ette -kostu paljoa, jos riehutte ja kiljutte olevanne markiisitar de -Condillac. Teidät tuomitaan murhaajana ja kapinoitsijana ja poikanne -myös. Valitkaa siis, madame! - -Hän lakkasi puhumasta. Valérie oli tarttunut hänen käsivarteensa. Heti -lauhtui hänen raivonsa, ja hän kääntyi tyttöön päin. - -— Mitä nyt? - -— Älkää pakottako häntä, jollei hän tahdo ottaa herra de Tressania -puolisokseen. — Minä tiedän — mutta hän ei tiennyt — kuinka kauheaa se -on. - -— Rauhoittukaa, tyynnytti Garnache häntä kasvoillaan hymy, joka -muistutti päivänpaistetta ukkosen jälkeen. — Hänen laitansa ei ole -lainkaan huonosti. Näyttää siltä, että he olivat jo kihloissa. Enkä -sitä paitsi pakota häntä. Hänen on mentävä naimisiin omasta vapaasta -tahdostaan — tai muutoin lähdettävä Pariisiin tutkittavaksi ja -tuomittavaksi. - -— He olivat kihlautuneet, niinkö? - -— Niin — ettekö ollutkin, herra käskynhaltija? - -— Olimme, monsieur, vastasi Tressan itsetietoisen ylpeästi, — ja minä -puolestani olen valmis heti vihittäväksi. - -— Jumalan nimessä siis antakoon markiisitar vastauksensa nyt! Me emme -voi tuhlata näin koko päivää. - -Markiisitar seisoi katsellen häntä, naputtaen kenkänsä kärjellä -lattiaa, silmät synkän kiukkuisina. Mutta vihdoin hän melkein pyörtyen -inhosta lupasi täyttää Garnachen tahdon. Pariisi ja teilauspyörä olivat -liian hirvittävä vaihtoehto. Ja joskin hän säästyisi siitä, ei hänellä -ollut muuta kuin pahanpäiväinen hökkeli Tourainessa, ja vaikka Tressan -olikin ruma, niin hän oli rikas. - -Niinpä apotti valmistautui kuningattaren lähetin määräyksestä -juhlallisesti toimittamaan vihkimisen. - -Se oli pian tehty. Fortunio oli Tressanin puhemiehenä ja Garnache itse -vaati saada taluttaa morsiamen käskynhaltijan luokse, mikä pilkka -kirveli Condillacin ylpeää emäntää pahemmin kuin kaikki muut viimeisen -puolituntisen kärsimykset. - -Kun toimitus oli ohitse, ja Condillacin leskimarkiisitar oli -muuttunut kreivitär de Tressaniksi, käski Garnache avioparin poistua -rauhallisesti ja heti paikalla. - -— Kuten lupasin, ei teitä ollenkaan ahdisteta oikeudellisesti, herra de -Tressan, hän vakuutti käskynhaltijalle erottaessa. — Mutta teidän on -heti luovuttava kuninkaan käskynhaltijan toimesta Dauphinéessa, sillä -muutoin on minun pakko toimia niin, että se teiltä riistetään — ja -siitä voisi aiheutua ikäviä seurauksia. - -He lähtivät, markiisittaren pää painuksissa; hänen jäykkä ylpeytensä -oli vihdoinkin nujerrettu, kuten fransiskaaniapotti oli niin varmana -hänelle uhannut. Heidän jälkeensä poistuivat apotti ja Florimondin -palvelijat. Fortunio meni heidän seurassaan panemaan toimeen Garnachen -määräystä, että leskimarkiisittaren varusväkeen kuuluvat miehet oli -heti lähetettävä tiehensä, jättäen pariisilaisen luokse isoon saliin -vain neiti de La Vauvrayen. - - - - -Martin päivän aatto - - -Apein mielin pohtien, miten hän kertoisi Valérielle tietonsa ja -vapautuisi kiusallisesta tehtävästään, Garnache käveli edestakaisin -salin lattialla. - -Valérie nojasi pöytään ja tarkkaili häntä. Pariisilainen mietti -turhaan, hän ei voinut keksiä mitään sopivaa ilmoittamistapaa. -Tyttö oli sanonut, ettei hän varsinaisesti rakastanut Florimondia, -ettei hänen uskollisuutensa ollut muuta kuin isän toivomuksien -kunnioittamista. Mutta kuinka pahan kolauksen hänen ylpeytensä siitä -huolimatta saisi, kun hän kuulisi, että Florimond oli tuonut puolison -mukanaan kotiin? Garnache tunsi voimakasta sääliä häntä kohtaan. -Kuinka yksinäiseksi hän jäisikään tästä lähtien suurten tiluksien -omistajattarena, yksin ja ystävittä? Ja hieman pahoillaan hän oli -omastakin puolestaan, yksinäiseksi täytyisi hänenkin tästedes tuntea -itsensä, mutta se oli sivuseikka. - -Vihdoin Valérie itse keskeytti äänettömyyden. - -— Monsieur, ehdittekö ajoissa pelastamaan Florimondin? - -— Kyllä, mademoiselle, vastasi Garnache iloisena siitä, että Valérie -otti asian puheeksi. - -— Entä Marius? Teidän puheistanne päättäen otaksun, ettei hän ole -vahingoittunut. - -— Ei lainkaan. Säästin hänet, jotta hän voisi ottaa osaa iloon, jota -avioliitto herra de Tressanin kanssa tuottaa hänen äidilleen. - -— Olen hyvilläni, että asia on niin. Kertokaa minulle, miten kaikki -kävi. - -Mutta Garnache joko ei kuullut tai ei välittänyt mitään hänen -pyynnöstään. - -— Mademoiselle, hän virkkoi hitaasti. — Florimond on tulossa... - -— Florimond? - -— Hän on vielä La Rochettessa. Mutta hän vain odottaa sanomaa siitä, -että hänen äitipuolensa on poistunut Condillacista. - -— Mutta — miksi — miksi —? Eikö hänellä sitten ollut vähääkään kiire -minun luokseni? - -— Hän on... Garnache keskeytti lauseensa ja alkoi pureksia viiksiään, -silmäillen Valérieta synkkänä. Hän oli pysähtynyt aivan tytön eteen, -laski kätensä keveästi hänen olalleen ja katseli pieniä, soikeita, -viehättäviä kasvoja. — - -— Mademoiselle, koskisiko teihin hyvin kipeästi, jollette sittenkään -olisi määrätty herra de Condillacin puolisoksi? - -— Koskisiko se minuun? kertasi tyttö. Pelkästään se kysymys pani hänet -huohottamaan toivosta. — Ei — ei, monsieur, se ei koskisi minuun. - -— Onko se totta? Onko se todella, ihan todella totta? huudahti toinen, -ja hänen sävynsä näytti muuttuvan vähemmän alakuloiseksi. - -— Ettekö tiedä, kuinka totta se on? sanoi Valérie, korostaen sanojaan -sillä tavoin ja luoden ylöspäin niin kainon silmäyksen, että Garnache -tunsi äkkiä kurkkuaan kuristavan. Veri tulvahti hänen poskiinsa. -Hän aavisti noissa sanoissa olevan sellaisen merkityksen, joka sai -hänen suonensa sykkimään kiivaammin kuin milloinkaan ennen vaaroissa -ja iloissa. Sitten hän hillitsi itseään ja oli sydämensä sisimmässä -kuulevinaan raikuvaa pilkkanaurua — aivan samanlaista pilkkanaurua, -jota hän itse oli toissa yönä nauranut juostessaan Voironiin. Hän -palasi asiaan. - -— Minua ilahduttaa, että ajattelette niin, sillä Florimond on tuonut -mukanaan kotiin puolison. - -Sanat oli lausuttu, ja hän astahti taaksepäin kuten mies, joka -sinkautettuaan loukkauksen valmistautuu torjumaan vastaukseksi -odottamaansa iskua. Hän oli otaksunut näkevänsä myrskyn, rajun, -epätoivoisen purkauksen, suuttumuksesta leimuavat silmät. Mutta Valérie -oli lempeän tyyni, hänen herttaisille, kalpeille kasvoilleen levisi -hymy ja sitten hän piilotti kasvonsa käsiinsä, painoi kasvonsa ja -kätensä Garnachen olkaa vasten ja alkoi itkeä hyvin hiljaa. - -Tämä oli pariisilaisesta melkein pahempaa kuin hänen pelkäämänsä -myrskynpuuska. Kuinka hän olisi voinut tietää, että nämä kyyneleet -tulvivat sellaisesta sydämestä, joka oli pakahtumaisillaan ilosta? Hän -taputti Valérieta olalle ja tyynnytteli häntä. - -— Lapsukainen, hän kuiskasi tytön korvaan. — Mitäpä sillä väliä? -Ettehän oikeastaan rakastanut häntä. Hän ei ole läheskään teidän -arvoisenne. Älkää surko. Näin on parempi. - -Valérie katsoi häntä silmiin hymyillen kyyneltensä lävitse. - -— Itken ilosta, monsieur, hän sanoi. - -— Ilosta? _Vertudieu!_ Mistä kaikesta naiset voivatkaan itkeä? - -Tietämättään, melkein vaistomaisesti Valérie painautui lähemmäksi -Garnachea, ja taas miehen sydämenlyönti kiihtyi ja puna lehahti hänen -laihoille kasvoilleen. Hyvin lempeästi hän kuiskasi Valérien korvaan: - -— Tahdotteko lähteä kanssani Pariisiin, mademoiselle? - -Hänen tarkoituksensa oli vain kysyä, eikö Valérien nyt, kun hän jäisi -Dauphinéhen yksin ja ystävittä, olisi parasta antautua kuningattaren -hoivattavaksi. Mutta voiko tyttöä moittia siitä, jos hän käsitti -kysymyksen väärin, jos hän piti sitä juuri niinä sanoina, joita -hänen sydämensä kaipasi kuulla Garnachen lausuvan? Garnachen äänen -hellä sointu oli omiaan viittaamaan, että hänen tarkoituksensa oli -juuri Valérien toivoma. Tyttö katsoi häntä ruskeilla silmillään ja -painautui vielä lähemmäksi häntä, sitten värähtivät hänen silmäluomensa -kainoudesta, hieno puna valahti hänen poskilleen, ja hän vastasi hyvin -hiljaa: - -—Tahdon tulla kanssanne minne tahansa, monsieur .. minne tahansa. - -Hän tarttui Valérien olkapäihin ja piti häntä käsivarren matkan päässä -itsestään, tarkastellen häntä, terävissä silmissään huolestunut ilme. - -■— Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! hän huudahti. — Valérie, mitä te -sanoitte minulle. - -— Mitä minun olisi pitänyt sanoa? kysyi tyttö, katse maahan luotuna. -— Onko kukaan koskaan auttanut ketään naista siten kuin te olette -auttanut minua? Onko kellään naisella koskaan ollut parempaa ja -ylevämpää ystävää? Miksi minun pitäisi sitten ujostella tunnustaessani -rakkauteni? - -Garnache nielaisi rajusti, ja hänen silmiensä edessä leijaili -utua, vaikka ne olivat värähtämättä katsoneet vastustajaan monissa -verileikeissä. - -— Ette ymmärrä mitä teette. Minä olen vanha. - -— Vanha? kertasi Valérie syvästi kummastuneena ja silmäili Garnachea -ikään kuin etsien todistuksia hänen väitteelleen. - -— Niin, vanha, vakuutti pariisilainen katkerasti. — Katsokaa harmaita -hiuksiani. En ole sopiva teille. Te tarvitsette komean, nuoren keikarin. - -Valérie katseli häntä heikon hymyn värähdellessä suupielissään. Hän -näki Garnachen suoran uljaan vartalon, hänen hienon, arvokkaan ja -voimakkaan olemuksensa. Hänessä oli miestä joka tuuma. - -— Olette juuri sellainen kuin toivoisin teidän olevan, vastasi Valérie. - -— Olen äreä ja kärttyinen. Rakkaus ei ole milloinkaan osunut kohdalleni -ennen kuin nyt. Minkälainen mies minusta voi mielestänne tulla? - -Tytön katse oli kiintynyt Garnachen takana oleviin ikkunoihin. Niiden -läpi paistava päivä tuntui antavan hänelle vastauksen, jota hän etsi. - -— Huomenna on Pyhän Martin päivä, mutta katsokaapas, kuinka lämpimästi -aurinko paistaa! - -— Surkea, kuviteltu Pyhän Martin kesä, syksyn hetkellinen -lenseytyminen. Sain sopivan vastauksen vertauksestanne. - -— Oi, ei se ole kuviteltua, huudahti tyttö. — Auringon kirkkaudessa -ja lämmössä ei ole mitään luuloteltua. Me näemme sen ja tunnemme sen, -emmekä ole yhtään vähemmän iloissamme siitä sen tähden, että sattuu -olemaan marraskuu, pikemminkin riemuitsemme siitä sitäkin enemmän. Eikä -teidän elämänne ole vielä marraskuussa, ei vielä moneen kuukauteen. - -— Sananne ovat kenties sattuvat, koska nimeni on Martin, vaikka en -olekaan pyhä. Ei, ei! Se olisi arvottomasti tehty. - -— Jos rakastan sinua, Martin? kysyi Valérie hellästi. - -Hetkisen Garnache tuijotti tyttöön ikään kuin tahtoisi noiden -kirkkaiden silmien lävitse tunkeutua hänen sielunsa sisimpiin -sopukoihin. Sitten hän vaipui polvilleen tytön eteen kuten rakastunut -poikanulikka ja suuteli Valérien käsiä merkiksi siitä, että hänet oli -voitettu. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KUNINGATTAREN LÄHETTI *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/67857-0.zip b/old/67857-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 47efc7e..0000000 --- a/old/67857-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old/10330-0.txt b/old/old/10330-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8760182..0000000 --- a/old/old/10330-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17448 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fruitfulness, by Emile Zola - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Fruitfulness - Fecondite - -Author: Emile Zola - -Release Date: March 17, 2009 [EBook #10330] -Last Updated: September 5, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger and Dagny - - - - - - - -FRUITFULNESS - -(FECONDITE) - - -By Emile Zola - - -Translated and edited by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly - - - - - -TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE - -“FRUITFULNESS” is the first of a series of four works in which M. Zola -proposes to embody what he considers to be the four cardinal principles -of human life. These works spring from the previous series of The Three -Cities: “Lourdes,” “Rome,” and “Paris,” which dealt with the principles -of Faith, Hope, and Charity. The last scene in “Paris,” when Marie, -Pierre Froment’s wife, takes her boy in her arms and consecrates him, -so to say, to the city of labor and thought, furnishes the necessary -transition from one series to the other. “Fruitfulness,” says M. Zola, -“creates the home. Thence springs the city. From the idea of citizenship -comes that of the fatherland; and love of country, in minds fed by -science, leads to the conception of a wider and vaster fatherland, -comprising all the peoples of the earth. Of these three stages in the -progress of mankind, the fourth still remains to be attained. I have -thought then of writing, as it were, a poem in four volumes, in four -chants, in which I shall endeavor to sum up the philosophy of all my -work. The first of these volumes is ‘Fruitfulness’; the second will -be called ‘Work’; the third, ‘Truth’; the last, ‘Justice.’ In -‘Fruitfulness’ the hero’s name is Matthew. In the next work it will be -Luke; in ‘Truth,’ Mark; and in ‘justice,’ John. The children of my -brain will, like the four Evangelists preaching the gospel, diffuse the -religion of future society, which will be founded on Fruitfulness, Work, -Truth, and Justice.” - -This, then, is M. Zola’s reply to the cry repeatedly raised by his hero, -Abbe Pierre Froment, in the pages of “Lourdes,” “Paris,” and “Rome”: “A -new religion, a new religion!” Critics of those works were careful to -point out that no real answer was ever returned to the Abbe’s despairing -call; and it must be confessed that one must yet wait for the greater -part of that answer, since “Fruitfulness,” though complete as a -narrative, forms but a portion of the whole. It is only after the -publication of the succeeding volumes that one will be able to judge how -far M. Zola’s doctrines and theories in their ensemble may appeal to the -requirements of the world. - -While “Fruitfulness,” as I have said, constitutes a first instalment of -M. Zola’s conception of a social religion, it embodies a good deal else. -The idea of writing some such work first occurred to him many years ago. -In 1896 he contributed an article to the Paris _Figaro_, in which he -said: “For some ten years now I have been haunted by the idea of a -novel, of which I shall, doubtless, never write the first page.... That -novel would have been called ‘Wastage’... and I should have pleaded in -it in favor of all the rights of life, with all the passion which I -may have in my heart.” * M. Zola’s article then proceeds to discuss the -various social problems, theories, and speculations which are set -forth here and there in the present work. Briefly, the genesis of -“Fruitfulness” lies in the article I have quoted. - - * See _Nouvelle Campagne_ (1896), par Emile Zola. - Paris, 1897, pp. 217-228. - -“Fruitfulness” is a book to be judged from several standpoints. It would -be unjust and absurd to judge it from one alone, such, for instance, -as that of the new social religion to which I have referred. It must -be looked at notably as a tract for the times in relation to certain -grievous evils from which France and other countries--though more -particularly France--are undoubtedly suffering. And it may be said that -some such denunciation of those evils was undoubtedly necessary, and -that nobody was better placed to pen that denunciation than M. Zola, -who, alone of all French writers nowadays, commands universal attention. -Whatever opinion may be held of his writings, they have to be reckoned -with. Thus, in preparing “Fruitfulness,” he was before all else -discharging a patriotic duty, and that duty he took in hand in an hour -of cruel adversity, when to assist a great cause he withdrew from France -and sought for a time a residence in England, where for eleven months I -was privileged to help him in maintaining his incognito. “Fruitfulness” - was entirely written in England, begun in a Surrey country house, and -finished at the Queen’s Hotel, Norwood. - -It would be superfluous for me to enter here into all the questions -which M. Zola raises in his pages. The evils from which France suffers -in relation to the stagnancy of its population, are well known, and that -their continuance--if continuance there be--will mean the downfall of -the country from its position as one of the world’s great powers before -the close of the twentieth century, is a mathematical certainty. That -M. Zola, in order to combat those evils, and to do his duty as a good -citizen anxious to prevent the decline of his country, should have dealt -with his subject with the greatest frankness and outspokenness, was only -natural. Moreover, absolute freedom of speech exists in France, which is -not the case elsewhere. Thus, when I first perused the original proofs -of M. Zola’s work, I came to the conclusion that any version of it in -the English language would be well-nigh impossible. For some time I -remained of that opinion, and I made a statement to that effect in -a leading literary journal. Subsequently, however, my views became -modified. “The man who is ridiculous,” wrote a French poet, Barthelemy, -“is he whose opinions never change,” and thus I at last reverted to a -task from which I had turned aside almost in despair. - -Various considerations influenced me, and among them was the thought -that if “Fruitfulness” were not presented to the public in an English -dress, M. Zola’s new series would remain incomplete, decapitated so -far as British and American readers were concerned. After all, the -criticisms dealing with the French original were solely directed against -matters of form, the mould in which some part of the work was cast. Its -high moral purpose was distinctly recognized by several even of its -most bitter detractors. For me the problem was how to retain the whole -ensemble of the narrative and the essence of the lessons which the work -inculcates, while recasting some portion of it and sacrificing those -matters of form to which exception was taken. It is not for me to say -whether I have succeeded in the task; but I think that nothing in any -degree offensive to delicate susceptibilities will be found in this -present version of M. Zola’s book. - -The English reviews of the French original showed that if certain -portions of it were deemed indiscreet, it none the less teemed with -admirable and even delightful pages. Among the English reviewers were -two well-known lady writers, Madame Darmesteter (formerly Miss Mary -Robinson), and Miss Hannah Lynch. And the former remarked in one part of -her critique: “Even this short review reveals how honest, how moral, -how human and comely is the fable of _Fecondite_,” * while the latter -expressed the view that the work was “eminently, pugnaciously virtuous -in M. Zola’s strictly material conception of virtue.” And again: “The -pages that tell the story of Mathieu and Marianne, it must be admitted, -are as charming as possible. They have a bloom, a beauty, a fragrance we -never expected to find in M. Zola’s work. The tale is a simple one: the -cheerful conquest of fortune and the continual birth of offspring.” ** - - * _Manchester Guardian_, October 27, 1899. - - ** _Fortnightly Review_, January 1900. - -Of course, these lady critics did not favor certain features of the -original, and one of them, indeed, referred to the evil denounced by -M. Zola as a mere evil of the hour, whereas it has been growing and -spreading for half a century, gradually sapping all the vitality of -France. But beside that evil, beside the downfall of the families it -attacks, M. Zola portrays the triumph of rectitude, the triumph which -follows faith in the powers of life, and observance of the law of -universal labor. “Fruitfulness” contains charming pictures of homely -married life, delightful glimpses of childhood and youth: the first -smile, the first step, the first word, followed by the playfulness -and the flirtations of boyhood, and the happiness which waits on the -espousals of those who truly love. And the punishment of the guilty -is awful, and the triumph of the righteous is the greatest that can be -conceived. All those features have been retained, so far as my abilities -have allowed, in the present version, which will at the same time, I -think, give the reader unacquainted with the French language a general -idea of M. Zola’s views on one of the great questions of the age, as -well as all the essential portions of a strongly conceived narrative. - - E. A. V. - - MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND: April, 1900. - - - - - -FRUITFULNESS - - - - -I - -THAT morning, in the little pavilion of Chantebled, on the verge of the -woods, where they had now been installed for nearly a month, Mathieu was -making all haste in order that he might catch the seven-o’clock train -which every day conveyed him from Janville to Paris. It was already -half-past six, and there were fully two thousand paces from the pavilion -to Janville. Afterwards came a railway journey of three-quarters of an -hour, and another journey of at least equal duration through Paris, from -the Northern Railway terminus to the Boulevard de Grenelle. He seldom -reached his office at the factory before half-past eight o’clock. - -He had just kissed the children. Fortunately they were asleep; otherwise -they would have linked their arms about his neck, laughed and kissed -him, being ever unwilling to let him go. And as he hastily returned to -the principal bedroom, he found his wife, Marianne, in bed there, but -awake and sitting up. She had risen a moment before in order to pull -back a curtain, and all the glow of that radiant May morning swept in, -throwing a flood of gay sunshine over the fresh and healthy beauty of -her four-and-twenty years. He, who was three years the elder, positively -adored her. - -“You know, my darling,” said he, “I must make haste, for I fear I may -miss the train--and so manage as well as you can. You still have thirty -sous left, haven’t you?” - -She began to laugh, looking charming with her bare arms and her -loose-flowing dark hair. The ever-recurring pecuniary worries of -the household left her brave and joyous. Yet she had been married at -seventeen, her husband at twenty, and they already had to provide for -four children. - -“Oh! we shall be all right,” said she. “It’s the end of the month -to-day, and you’ll receive your money to-night. I’ll settle our little -debts at Janville to-morrow. There are only the Lepailleurs, who worry -me with their bill for milk and eggs, for they always look as if they -fancied one meant to rob them. But with thirty sous, my dear! why, we -shall have quite a high time of it!” - -She was still laughing as she held out her firm white arms for the -customary morning good-by. - -“Run off, since you are in a hurry. I will go to meet you at the little -bridge to-night.” - -“No, no, I insist on your going to bed! You know very well that even -if I catch the quarter-to-eleven-o’clock train, I cannot reach Janville -before half-past eleven. Ah! what a day I have before me! I had to -promise the Moranges that I would take dejeuner with them; and this -evening Beauchene is entertaining a customer--a business dinner, which -I’m obliged to attend. So go to bed, and have a good sleep while you are -waiting for me.” - -She gently nodded, but would give no positive promise. “Don’t forget to -call on the landlord,” she added, “to tell him that the rain comes into -the children’s bedroom. It’s not right that we should be soaked here as -if we were on the high-way, even if those millionaires, the Seguins du -Hordel, do let us have this place for merely six hundred francs a year.” - -“Ah, yes! I should have forgotten that. I will call on them, I promise -you.” - -Then Mathieu took her in his arms, and there was no ending to their -leave-taking. He still lingered. She had begun to laugh again, while -giving him many a kiss in return for his own. There was all the love of -bounding health between them, the joy that springs from the most perfect -union, as when man and wife are but one both in flesh and in soul. - -“Run off, run off, darling! Remember to tell Constance that, before -she goes into the country, she ought to run down here some Sunday with -Maurice.” - -“Yes, yes, I will tell her--till to-night, darling.” - -But he came back once more, caught her in a tight embrace, and pressed -to her lips a long, loving kiss, which she returned with her whole -heart. And then he hurried away. - -He usually took an omnibus on his arrival at the Northern Railway -terminus. But on the days when only thirty sous remained at home he -bravely went through Paris on foot. It was, too, a very fine walk by way -of the Rue la Fayette, the Opera-house, the Boulevards, the Rue Royale, -and then, after the Place de la Concorde, the Cours la Reine, the Alma -bridge, and the Quai d’Orsay. - -Beauchene’s works were at the very end of the Quai d’Orsay, between the -Rue de la Federation and the Boulevard de Grenelle. There was hereabouts -a large square plot, at one end of which, facing the quay, stood a -handsome private house of brickwork with white stone dressings, that had -been erected by Leon Beauchene, father of Alexandre, the present master -of the works. From the balconies one could perceive the houses which -were perched aloft in the midst of greenery on the height of Passy, -beyond the Seine; whilst on the right arose the campanile of the -Trocadero palace. On one side, skirting the Rue de la Federation, one -could still see a garden and a little house, which had been the modest -dwelling of Leon Beauchene in the heroic days of desperate toil when he -had laid the foundations of his fortune. Then the factory buildings -and sheds, quite a mass of grayish structures, overtopped by two huge -chimneys, occupied both the back part of the ground and that which -fringed the Boulevard de Grenelle, the latter being shut off by -long windowless walls. This important and well-known establishment -manufactured chiefly agricultural appliances, from the most powerful -machines to those ingenious and delicate implements on which particular -care must be bestowed if perfection is to be attained. In addition to -the hundreds of men who worked there daily, there were some fifty women, -burnishers and polishers. - -The entry to the workshops and offices was in the Rue de la Federation, -through a large carriage way, whence one perceived the far-spreading -yard, with its paving stones invariably black and often streaked by -rivulets of steaming water. Dense smoke arose from the high chimneys, -strident jets of steam emerged from the roof, whilst a low rumbling and -a shaking of the ground betokened the activity within, the ceaseless -bustle of labor. - -It was thirty-five minutes past eight by the big clock of the central -building when Mathieu crossed the yard towards the office which he -occupied as chief designer. For eight years he had been employed at the -works where, after a brilliant and special course of study, he had made -his beginning as assistant draughtsman when but nineteen years old, -receiving at that time a salary of one hundred francs a month. His -father, Pierre Froment,* had four sons by Marie his wife--Jean the -eldest, then Mathieu, Marc, and Luc--and while leaving them free to -choose a particular career he had striven to give each of them some -manual calling. Leon Beauchene, the founder of the works, had been dead -a year, and his son Alexandre had succeeded him and married Constance -Meunier, daughter of a very wealthy wall-paper manufacturer of the -Marais, at the time when Mathieu entered the establishment, the master -of which was scarcely five years older than himself. It was there -that Mathieu had become acquainted with a poor cousin of Alexandre’s, -Marianne, then sixteen years old, whom he had married during the -following year. - - * Of _Lourdes_, _Rome_, and _Paris_. - -Marianne, when only twelve, had become dependent upon her uncle, Leon -Beauchene. After all sorts of mishaps a brother of the latter, one Felix -Beauchene, a man of adventurous mind but a blunderhead, had gone to -Algeria with his wife and daughter, there to woo fortune afresh; and -the farm he had established was indeed prospering when, during a sudden -revival of Arab brigandage, both he and his wife were murdered and their -home was destroyed. Thus the only place of refuge for the little girl, -who had escaped miraculously, was the home of her uncle, who showed her -great kindness during the two years of life that remained to him. With -her, however, were Alexandre, whose companionship was rather dull, -and his younger sister, Seraphine, a big, vicious, and flighty girl -of eighteen, who, as it happened, soon left the house amid a frightful -scandal--an elopement with a certain Baron Lowicz, a genuine baron, but -a swindler and forger, to whom it became necessary to marry her. She -then received a dowry of 300,000 francs. Alexandre, after his father’s -death, made a money match with Constance, who brought him half a million -francs, and Marianne then found herself still more a stranger, still -more isolated beside her new cousin, a thin, dry, authoritative woman, -who ruled the home with absolute sway. Mathieu was there, however, and a -few months sufficed: fine, powerful, and healthy love sprang up between -the young people; there was no lightning flash such as throws the -passion-swayed into each other’s arms, but esteem, tenderness, faith, -and that mutual conviction of happiness in reciprocal bestowal which -tends to indissoluble marriage. And they were delighted at marrying -penniless, at bringing one another but their full hearts forever and -forever. The only change in Mathieu’s circumstances was an increase of -salary to two hundred francs a month. True, his new cousin by marriage -just vaguely hinted at a possible partnership, but that would not be -till some very much later date. - -As it happened Mathieu Froment gradually became indispensable at the -works. The young master, Alexandre Beauchene, passed through an anxious -crisis. The dowry which his father had been forced to draw from his -coffers in order to get Seraphine married, and other large expenses -which had been occasioned by the girl’s rebellious and perverse conduct, -had left but little working capital in the business. Then, too, on -the morrow of Leon Beauchene’s death it was found that, with the -carelessness often evinced in such matters, he had neglected to leave -a will; so that Seraphine eagerly opposed her brother’s interests, -demanding her personal share of the inheritance, and even suggesting -the sale of the works. The property had narrowly escaped being cut up, -annihilated. And Alexandre Beauchene still shivered with terror and -anger at the recollection of that time, amidst all his delight at having -at last rid himself of his sister by paying her in money the liberally -estimated value of her share. It was in order to fill up the void -thus created in his finances that he had espoused the half-million -represented by Constance--an ugly creature, as he himself bitterly -acknowledged, coarse male as he was. Truth to tell, she was so thin, so -scraggy, that before consenting to make her his wife he had often called -her “that bag of bones.” But, on the other hand, thanks to his marriage -with her, all his losses were made good in five or six years’ time; the -business of the works even doubled, and great prosperity set in. And -Mathieu, having become a most active and necessary coadjutor, ended -by taking the post of chief designer, at a salary of four thousand two -hundred francs per annum. - -Morange, the chief accountant, whose office was near Mathieu’s, -thrust his head through the doorway as soon as he heard the young man -installing himself at his drawing-table. “I say, my dear Froment,” he -exclaimed, “don’t forget that you are to take dejeuner with us.” - -“Yes, yes, my good Morange, it’s understood. I will look in for you at -twelve o’clock.” - -Then Mathieu very carefully scrutinized a wash drawing of a very simple -but powerful steam thresher, an invention of his own, on which he had -been working for some time past, and which a big landowner of Beauce, M. -Firon-Badinier, was to examine during the afternoon. - -The door of the master’s private room was suddenly thrown wide open -and Beauchene appeared--tall, with a ruddy face, a narrow brow, and big -brown, protruding eyes. He had a rather large nose, thick lips, and a -full black beard, on which he bestowed great care, as he likewise did on -his hair, which was carefully combed over his head in order to conceal -the serious baldness that was already coming upon him, although he was -scarcely two-and-thirty. Frock-coated the first thing in the morning, -he was already smoking a big cigar; and his loud voice, his peals of -gayety, his bustling ways, all betokened an egotist and good liver still -in his prime, a man for whom money--capital increased and increased by -the labor of others--was the one only sovereign power. - -“Ah! ah! it’s ready, is it not?” said he; “Monsieur Firon-Badinier has -again written me that he will be here at three o’clock. And you know -that I’m going to take you to the restaurant with him this evening; for -one can never induce those fellows to give orders unless one plies them -with good wine. It annoys Constance to have it done here; and, besides, -I prefer to entertain those people in town. You warned Marianne, eh?” - -“Certainly. She knows that I shall return by the -quarter-to-eleven-o’clock train.” - -Beauchene had sunk upon a chair: “Ah! my dear fellow, I’m worn out,” - he continued; “I dined in town last night; I got to bed only at one -o’clock. And there was a terrible lot of work waiting for me this -morning. One positively needs to be made of iron.” - -Until a short time before he had shown himself a prodigious worker, -endowed with really marvellous energy and strength. Moreover, he -had given proof of unfailing business instinct with regard to many -profitable undertakings. Invariably the first to appear at the works, he -looked after everything, foresaw everything, filling the place with his -bustling zeal, and doubling his output year by year. Recently, however, -fatigue had been gaining ground on him. He had always sought plenty of -amusement, even amid the hard-working life he led. But nowadays certain -“sprees,” as he called them, left him fairly exhausted. - -He gazed at Mathieu: “You seem fit enough, you do!” he said. “How is it -that you manage never to look tired?” - -As a matter of fact, the young man who stood there erect before his -drawing-table seemed possessed of the sturdy health of a young oak -tree. Tall and slender, he had the broad, lofty, tower-like brow of the -Froments. He wore his thick hair cut quite short, and his beard, which -curled slightly, in a point. But the chief expression of his face rested -in his eyes, which were at once deep and bright, keen and thoughtful, -and almost invariably illumined by a smile. They showed him to be at -once a man of thought and of action, very simple, very gay, and of a -kindly disposition. - -“Oh! I,” he answered with a laugh, “I behave reasonably.” - -But Beauchene protested: “No, you don’t! The man who already has four -children when he is only twenty-seven can’t claim to be reasonable. And -twins too--your Blaise and your Denis to begin with! And then your boy -Ambroise and your little girl Rose. Without counting the other little -girl that you lost at her birth. Including her, you would now have had -five youngsters, you wretched fellow! No, no, I’m the one who behaves -reasonably--I, who have but one child, and, like a prudent, sensible -man, desire no others!” - -He often made such jesting remarks as these, through which filtered his -genuine indignation; for he deemed the young couple to be over-careless -of their interests, and declared that the prolificness of his cousin -Marianne was quite scandalous. - -Accustomed as Mathieu was to these attacks, which left him perfectly -serene, he went on laughing, without even giving a reply, when a workman -abruptly entered the room--one who was currently called “old Moineaud,” - though he was scarcely three-and-forty years of age. Short and -thick-set, he had a bullet head, a bull’s neck, and face and hands -scarred and dented by more than a quarter of a century of toil. By -calling he was a fitter, and he had come to submit a difficulty which -had just arisen in the piecing together of a reaping machine. But, his -employer, who was still angrily thinking of over-numerous families, did -not give him time to explain his purpose. - -“And you, old Moineaud, how many children have you?” he inquired. - -“Seven, Monsieur Beauchene,” the workman replied, somewhat taken aback. -“I’ve lost three.” - -“So, including them, you would now have ten? Well, that’s a nice state -of things! How can you do otherwise than starve?” - -Moineaud began to laugh like the gay thriftless Paris workman that he -was. The little ones? Well, they grew up without his even noticing it, -and, indeed, he was really fond of them, so long as they remained at -home. And, besides, they worked as they grew older, and brought a little -money in. However, he preferred to answer his employer with a jest which -set them all laughing. - -After he had explained the difficulty with the reaper, the others -followed him to examine the work for themselves. They were already -turning into a passage, when Beauchene, seeing the door of the women’s -workshop open, determined to pass that way, so that he might give -his customary look around. It was a long, spacious place, where the -polishers, in smocks of black serge, sat in double rows polishing and -grinding their pieces at little work-boards. Nearly all of them were -young, a few were pretty, but most had low and common faces. An animal -odor and a stench of rancid oil pervaded the place. - -The regulations required perfect silence there during work. Yet all the -girls were gossiping. As soon, however, as the master’s approach was -signalled the chatter abruptly ceased. There was but one girl who, -having her head turned, and thus seeing nothing of Beauchene, went on -furiously abusing a companion, with whom she had previously started a -dispute. She and the other were sisters, and, as it happened, daughters -of old Moineaud. Euphrasie, the younger one, she who was shouting, was -a skinny creature of seventeen, light-haired, with a long, lean, -pointed face, uncomely and malignant; whereas the elder, Norine, barely -nineteen, was a pretty girl, a blonde like her sister, but having a -milky skin, and withal plump and sturdy, showing real shoulders, arms, -and hips, and one of those bright sunshiny faces, with wild hair and -black eyes, all the freshness of the Parisian hussy, aglow with the -fleeting charm of youth. - -Norine was ever quarrelling with Euphrasie, and was pleased to have her -caught in a misdeed; so she allowed her to rattle on. And it thereupon -became necessary for Beauchene to intervene. He habitually evinced great -severity in the women’s workshop, for he had hitherto held the view that -an employer who jested with his workgirls was a lost man. Thus, in spite -of the low character of which he was said to give proof in his walks -abroad, there had as yet never been the faintest suggestion of scandal -in connection with him and the women in his employ. - -“Well, now, Mademoiselle Euphrasie!” he exclaimed; “do you intend to be -quiet? This is quite improper. You are fined twenty sous, and if I hear -you again you will be locked out for a week.” - -The girl had turned round in consternation. Then, stifling her rage, she -cast a terrible glance at her sister, thinking that she might at least -have warned her. But the other, with the discreet air of a pretty wench -conscious of her attractiveness, continued smiling, looking her employer -full in the face, as if certain that she had nothing to fear from him. -Their eyes met, and for a couple of seconds their glances mingled. Then -he, with flushed cheeks and an angry air, resumed, addressing one and -all: “As soon as the superintendent turns her back you chatter away like -so many magpies. Just be careful, or you will have to deal with me!” - -Moineaud, the father, had witnessed the scene unmoved, as if the two -girls--she whom the master had scolded, and she who slyly gazed at -him--were not his own daughters. And now the round was resumed and the -three men quitted the women’s workshop amidst profound silence, which -only the whir of the little grinders disturbed. - -When the fitting difficulty had been overcome downstairs and Moineaud -had received his orders, Beauchene returned to his residence accompanied -by Mathieu, who wished to convey Marianne’s invitation to Constance. A -gallery connected the black factory buildings with the luxurious private -house on the quay. And they found Constance in a little drawing-room -hung with yellow satin, a room to which she was very partial. She was -seated near a sofa, on which lay little Maurice, her fondly prized and -only child, who had just completed his seventh year. - -“Is he ill?” inquired Mathieu. - -The child seemed sturdily built, and he greatly resembled his father, -though he had a more massive jaw. But he was pale and there was a faint -ring round his heavy eyelids. His mother, that “bag of bones,” a little -dark woman, yellow and withered at six-and-twenty, looked at him with an -expression of egotistical pride. - -“Oh, no! he’s never ill,” she answered. “Only he has been complaining of -his legs. And so I made him lie down, and I wrote last night to ask Dr. -Boutan to call this morning.” - -“Pooh!” exclaimed Beauchene with a hearty laugh, “women are all the -same! A child who is as strong as a Turk! I should just like anybody to -tell me that he isn’t strong.” - -Precisely at that moment in walked Dr. Boutan, a short, stout man of -forty, with very keen eyes set in a clean-shaven, heavy, but extremely -good-natured face. He at once examined the child, felt and sounded him; -then with his kindly yet serious air he said: “No, no, there’s nothing. -It is the mere effect of growth. The lad has become rather pale through -spending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in the -country, will set him right again.” - -“I told you so!” cried Beauchene. - -Constance had kept her son’s little hand in her own. He had again -stretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, -in her happiness, continued smiling. Whenever she chose she could appear -quite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features. -The doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chatting -in the houses of friends. A general practitioner, and one who more -particularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturally -a confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in family -circles. It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of that -much-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four children -she already had. - -Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver his -invitation. “Well,” said he, “if you are soon leaving for the country, -you must come one Sunday to Janville. My wife would be so delighted to -see you there, to show you our encampment.” - -Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they -occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and -five egg-cups. But Beauchene knew the pavilion, for he went shooting -in the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some -extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out -by the owner. - -“Seguin,” said he, “is a friend of mine. I have lunched at your -pavilion. It’s a perfect hovel!” - -Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled what -Madame Seguin--to whom she referred as Valentine--had told her of the -dilapidated condition of the old shooting-box. But the doctor, after -listening with a smile, broke in: - -“Mme. Seguin is a patient of mine. At the time when her last child -was born I advised her to stay at that pavilion. The atmosphere is -wholesome, and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass.” - -Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchene began to jest in his -habitual way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there would -probably be no end to Mathieu’s progeny, numerous as it already was. -But this elicited an angry protest from Constance, who on the subject -of children held the same views as her husband himself professed in his -more serious moments. - -Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant. They regarded him -and his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger. - -The advent of the young couple’s last child, little Rose, had already -increased their expenses to such a point that they had been obliged to -seek refuge in the country, in a mere pauper’s hovel. And yet, in spite -of Beauchene’s sneers and Constance’s angry remarks, Mathieu outwardly -remained very calm. Constance and Marianne had never been able to agree; -they differed too much in all respects; and for his part he laughed -off every attack, unwilling as he was to let anger master him, lest a -rupture should ensue. - -But Beauchene waxed passionate on the subject. That question of the -birth-rate and the present-day falling off in population was one which -he thought he had completely mastered, and on which he held forth at -length authoritatively. He began by challenging the impartiality of -Boutan, whom he knew to be a fervent partisan of large families. He -made merry with him, declaring that no medical man could possibly have -a disinterested opinion on the subject. Then he brought out all that he -vaguely knew of Malthusianism, the geometrical increase of births, and -the arithmetical increase of food-substances, the earth becoming so -populous as to be reduced to a state of famine within two centuries. -It was the poor’s own fault, said he, if they led a life of starvation; -they had only to limit themselves to as many children as they could -provide for. The rich were falsely accused of social wrong-doing; they -were by no means responsible for poverty. Indeed, they were the only -reasonable people; they alone, by limiting their families, acted as good -citizens should act. And he became quite triumphant, repeating that he -knew of no cause for self-reproach, and that his ever-growing fortune -left him with an easy conscience. It was so much the worse for the poor, -if they were bent on remaining poor. In vain did the doctor urge that -the Malthusian theories were shattered, that the calculations had been -based on a possible, not a real, increase of population; in vain too did -he prove that the present-day economic crisis, the evil distribution -of wealth under the capitalist system, was the one hateful cause of -poverty, and that whenever labor should be justly apportioned among one -and all the fruitful earth would easily provide sustenance for happy men -ten times more numerous than they are now. The other refused to listen -to anything, took refuge in his egotism, declared that all those matters -were no concern of his, that he felt no remorse at being rich, and that -those who wished to become rich had, in the main, simply to do as he had -done. - -“Then, logically, this is the end of France, eh?” Boutan remarked -maliciously. “The number of births ever increases in Germany, -Russia, and elsewhere, while it decreases in a terrible way among us. -Numerically the rank we occupy in Europe is already very inferior -to what it formerly was; and yet number means power more than ever -nowadays. It has been calculated that an average of four children -per family is necessary in order that population may increase and the -strength of a nation be maintained. You have but one child; you are a -bad patriot.” - -At this Beauchene flew into a tantrum, quite beside himself, and gasped: -“I a bad patriot! I, who kill myself with hard work! I, who even export -French machinery!... Yes, certainly I see families, acquaintances around -me who may well allow themselves four children; and I grant that they -deserve censure when they have no families. But as for me, my dear -doctor, it is impossible. You know very well that in my position I -absolutely can’t.” - -Then, for the hundredth time, he gave his reasons, relating how the -works had narrowly escaped being cut into pieces, annihilated, simply -because he had unfortunately been burdened with a sister. Seraphine had -behaved abominably. There had been first her dowry; next her demands for -the division of the property on their father’s death; and the works had -been saved only by means of a large pecuniary sacrifice which had long -crippled their prosperity. And people imagined that he would be as -imprudent as his father! Why, if Maurice should have a brother or a -sister, he might hereafter find himself in the same dire embarrassment, -in which the family property might already have been destroyed. No, no! -He would not expose the boy to the necessity of dividing the inheritance -in accordance with badly framed laws. He was resolved that Maurice -should be the sole master of the fortune which he himself had derived -from his father, and which he would transmit to his heir increased -tenfold. For his son he dreamt of supreme wealth, a colossal fortune, -such as nowadays alone ensures power. - -Mathieu, refraining from any intervention, listened and remained grave; -for this question of the birth-rate seemed to him a frightful one, -the foremost of all questions, deciding the destiny of mankind and the -world. There has never been any progress but such as has been determined -by increase of births. If nations have accomplished evolutions, if -civilization has advanced, it is because the nations have multiplied and -subsequently spread through all the countries of the earth. And will not -to-morrow’s evolution, the advent of truth and justice, be brought -about by the constant onslaught of the greater number, the revolutionary -fruitfulness of the toilers and the poor? - -It is quite true that Mathieu did not plainly say all these things to -himself; indeed, he felt slightly ashamed of the four children that he -already had, and was disturbed by the counsels of prudence addressed to -him by the Beauchenes. But within him there struggled his faith in life, -his belief that the greatest possible sum of life must bring about the -greatest sum of happiness. - -At last, wishing to change the subject, he bethought himself of -Marianne’s commission, and at the first favorable opportunity exclaimed: -“Well, we shall rely on you, Marianne and I, for Sunday after next, at -Janville.” - -But there was still no answer, for just then a servant came to say that -a woman with an infant in her arms desired to see Madame. And Beauchene, -having recognized the wife of Moineaud, the fitter, bade her come in. -Boutan, who had now risen, was prompted by curiosity to remain a little -longer. - -La Moineaude, short and fat like her husband, was a woman of about -forty, worn out before her time, with ashen face, pale eyes, thin faded -hair, and a weak mouth which already lacked many teeth. A large family -had been too much for her; and, moreover, she took no care of herself. - -“Well, my good woman,” Constance inquired, “what do you wish with me?” - -But La Moineaude remained quite scared by the sight of all those people -whom she had not expected to find there. She said nothing. She had hoped -to speak to the lady privately. - -“Is this your last-born?” Beauchene asked her as he looked at the pale, -puny child on her arm. - -“Yes, monsieur, it’s my little Alfred; he’s ten months old and I’ve -had to wean him, for I couldn’t feed him any longer. I had nine others -before this one, but three are dead. My eldest son, Eugene, is a soldier -in Tonquin. You have my two big girls, Euphrasie and Norine, at the -works. And I have three left at home--Victor, who is now fifteen, then -Cecile and Irma, who are ten and seven. After Irma I thought I had -done with children for good, and I was well pleased. But, you see, this -urchin came! And I, forty too--it’s not just! The good Lord must surely -have abandoned us.” - -Then Dr. Boutan began to question her. He avoided looking at the -Beauchenes, but there was a malicious twinkle in his little eyes, and -it was evident that he took pleasure in recapitulating the employer’s -arguments against excessive prolificness. He pretended to get angry -and to reproach the Moineauds for their ten wretched children--the boys -fated to become food for powder, the girls always liable to misfortune. -And he gave the woman to understand that it was her own fault if she was -in distress; for people with a tribe of children about them could never -become rich. And the poor creature sadly answered that he was quite -right, but that no idea of becoming rich could ever have entered their -heads. Moineaud knew well enough that he would never be a cabinet -minister, and so it was all the same to them how many children they -might have on their hands. Indeed, a number proved a help when the -youngsters grew old enough to go out to work. - -Beauchene had become silent and slowly paced the room. A slight chill, -a feeling of uneasiness was springing up, and so Constance made haste to -inquire: “Well, my good woman, what is it I can do for you?” - -“_Mon Dieu_, madame, it worries me; it’s something which Moineaud didn’t -dare to ask of Monsieur Beauchene. For my part I hoped to find you alone -and beg you to intercede for us. The fact is we should be very, very -grateful if our little Victor could only be taken on at the works.” - -“But he is only fifteen,” exclaimed Beauchene. “You must wait till he’s -sixteen. The law is strict.” - -“No doubt. Only one might perhaps just tell a little fib. It would be -rendering us such a service--” - -“No, it is impossible.” - -Big tears welled into La Moineaude’s eyes. And Mathieu, who had -listened with passionate interest, felt quite upset. Ah! that wretched -toil-doomed flesh that hastened to offer itself without waiting until -it was even ripe for work! Ah! the laborer who is prepared to lie, whom -hunger sets against the very law designed for his own protection! - -When La Moineaude had gone off in despair the doctor continued speaking -of juvenile and female labor. As soon as a woman first finds herself a -mother she can no longer continue toiling at a factory. Her lying-in and -the nursing of her babe force her to remain at home, or else grievous -infirmities may ensue for her and her offspring. As for the child, it -becomes anemic, sometimes crippled; besides, it helps to keep wages down -by being taken to work at a low scale of remuneration. Then the doctor -went on to speak of the prolificness of wretchedness, the swarming of -the lower classes. Was not the most hateful natality of all that which -meant the endless increase of starvelings and social rebels? - -“I perfectly understand you,” Beauchene ended by saying, without any -show of anger, as he abruptly brought his perambulations to an end. “You -want to place me in contradiction with myself, and make me confess that -I accept Moineaud’s seven children and need them, whereas I, with my -fixed determination to rest content with an only son, suppress, as it -were, a family in order that I may not have to subdivide my estate. -France, ‘the country of only sons,’ as folks say nowadays--that’s it, -eh? But, my dear fellow, the question is so intricate, and at bottom I -am altogether in the right!” - -Then he wished to explain things, and clapped his hand to his breast, -exclaiming that he was a liberal, a democrat, ready to demand all -really progressive measures. He willingly recognized that children were -necessary, that the army required soldiers, and the factories workmen. -Only he also invoked the prudential duties of the higher classes, and -reasoned after the fashion of a man of wealth, a conservative clinging -to the fortune he has acquired. - -Mathieu meanwhile ended by understanding the brutal truth: Capital -is compelled to favor the multiplication of lives foredoomed to -wretchedness; in spite of everything it must stimulate the prolificness -of the wage-earning classes, in order that its profits may continue. -The law is that there must always be an excess of children in order that -there may be enough cheap workers. Then also speculation on the wages’ -ratio wrests all nobility from labor, which is regarded as the worst -misfortune a man can be condemned to, when in reality it is the most -precious of boons. Such, then, is the cancer preying upon mankind. In -countries of political equality and economical inequality the capitalist -regime, the faulty distribution of wealth, at once restrains and -precipitates the birth-rate by perpetually increasing the wrongful -apportionment of means. On one side are the rich folk with “only” sons, -who continually increase their fortunes; on the other, the poor folk, -who, by reason of their unrestrained prolificness, see the little they -possess crumble yet more and more. If labor be honored to-morrow, if -a just apportionment of wealth be arrived at, equilibrium will be -restored. Otherwise social revolution lies at the end of the road. - -But Beauchene, in his triumphant manner, tried to show that he possessed -great breadth of mind; he admitted the disquieting strides of a decrease -of population, and denounced the causes of it--alcoholism, militarism, -excessive mortality among infants, and other numerous matters. Then he -indicated remedies; first, reductions in taxation, fiscal means in which -he had little faith; then freedom to will one’s estate as one pleased, -which seemed to him more efficacious; a change, too, in the marriage -laws, without forgetting the granting of affiliation rights. - -However, Boutan ended by interrupting him. “All the legislative measures -in the world will do nothing,” said the doctor. “Manners and customs, -our notions of what is moral and what is not, our very conceptions -of the beautiful in life--all must be changed. If France is becoming -depopulated, it is because she so chooses. It is simply necessary then -for her to choose so no longer. But what a task--a whole world to create -anew!” - -At this Mathieu raised a superb cry: “Well! we’ll create it. I’ve begun -well enough, surely!” - -But Constance, after laughing in a constrained way, in her turn thought -it as well to change the subject. And so she at last replied to his -invitation, saying that she would do her best to go to Janville, though -she feared she might not be able to dispose of a Sunday to do so. - -Dr. Boutan then took his leave, and was escorted to the door by -Beauchene, who still went on jesting, like a man well pleased with life, -one who was satisfied with himself and others, and who felt certain of -being able to arrange things as might best suit his pleasure and his -interests. - -An hour later, a few minutes after midday, as Mathieu, who had been -delayed in the works, went up to the offices to fetch Morange as he -had promised to do, it occurred to him to take a short cut through the -women’s workshop. And there, in that spacious gallery, already deserted -and silent, he came upon an unexpected scene which utterly amazed -him. On some pretext or other Norine had lingered there the last, and -Beauchene was with her, clasping her around the waist whilst he eagerly -pressed his lips to hers. But all at once they caught sight of Mathieu -and remained thunderstruck. And he, for his part, fled precipitately, -deeply annoyed at having been a surprised witness to such a secret. - - - - -II - -MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchene’s works, was a man of -thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark, -fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes, -straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his -younger days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He -still took great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and -preserved the correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred -clerk. - -“You don’t know our new flat yet, do you?” he asked Mathieu as he led -him away. “Oh! it’s perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and -another for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in -four minutes, watch in hand.” - -He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his -stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a -clerk’s daughter, one Valerie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose -parents’ home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful -wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable -incumbrance. Valerie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky -enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working -fellow, Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this -accomplished, she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up -the social ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty -clerkdom by making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or -a doctor. Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and -Valerie trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters -on her hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, and -she resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that -she might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means -gain that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. -Her husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing -her ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her -benefit. But he had now been eight years at the Beauchene works, and -he still earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and his -wife to despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchene’s that he would ever -make his fortune. - -“You see!” he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with -Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, “it is that new house yonder at -the street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?” - -Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies -and sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor -little houses predominating in the district. - -“Why, it is a palace!” he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who -thereupon drew himself up quite proudly. - -“You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is on -the fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so -easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing.” - -Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were -ushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was -a carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, on -reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey, -he repeated, with an air of delight: “You will see, you will see!” - -Valerie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened -forward. At thirty-two Valerie was still young and charming. She was -a pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of -superb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of -which her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a -low-necked dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very -portrait of her mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer, -face under similar black tresses. - -“Ah! it is very kind of you to accept our invitation,” said Valerie -gayly as she pressed both Mathieu’s hands. “What a pity that Madame -Froment could not come with you! Reine, why don’t you relieve the -gentleman of his hat?” - -Then she immediately continued: “We have a nice light anteroom, you see. -Would you like to glance over our flat while the eggs are being boiled? -That will always be one thing done, and you will then at least know -where you are lunching.” - -All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his side -smiled so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to this -innocent display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, -the walls of which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design of -golden flowers, while the furniture consisted of some of those white -lacquered Louis XVI. pieces which makers turn out by the gross. The -rosewood piano showed like a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, -overlooking the Boulevard de Grenelle, came Reine’s bedroom, pale -blue, with furniture of polished pine. Her parents’ room, a very small -apartment, was at the other end of the flat, separated from the -parlor by the dining-room. The hangings adorning it were yellow; and a -bedstead, a washstand, and a wardrobe, all of thuya, had been crowded -into it. Finally the classic “old carved oak” triumphed in the -dining-room, where a heavily gilded hanging lamp flashed like fire above -the table, dazzling in its whiteness. - -“Why, it’s delightful,” Mathieu, repeated, by way of politeness; “why, -it’s a real gem of a place.” - -In their excitement, father, mother, and daughter never ceased leading -him hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feel -the things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the place -recalled something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with the -arrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which the -nicknacks in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. -Influenced by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despite -themselves, no doubt, had tried to copy the Beauchenes. Always short -of money as they were, they could only and by dint of great sacrifices -indulge in a species of make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they were -proud of it, and, by imitating the envied higher class from afar, they -imagined that they drew nearer to it. - -“And then,” Morange exclaimed, as he opened the dining-room window, -“there is also this.” - -Outside, a balcony ran along the house-front, and at that height the -view was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from the -Beauchene mansion but more extensive, the Seine showing in the distance, -and the heights of Passy rising above the nearer and lower house-roofs. - -Valerie also called attention to the prospect. “It is magnificent, is it -not?” said she; “far better than the few trees that one can see from the -quay.” - -The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seats -at table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogether -cost him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though the -amount was a heavy charge on Morange’s slender income. Mathieu now began -to understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire the -new flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over it -before him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite. -There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing of -the luxury he brushed against in other people’s homes, and he was -quite satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne and -his children. Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges so -desirous of cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with a -somewhat sad smile. - -Valerie was wearing a pretty gown of foulard with a pattern of little -yellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck out -coquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather too -much luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then came -cutlets, and afterwards asparagus. - -The conversation began with some mention of Janville. - -“And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very fine -children indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I think -I should feel dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lack -of amusements. Why, yes, we shall be delighted to go to see you there, -since Madame Froment is kind enough to invite us.” - -Then, as was bound to happen, the talk turned on the Beauchenes. -This was a subject which haunted the Moranges, who lived in perpetual -admiration of the Beauchenes, though at times they covertly criticised -them. Valerie was very proud of being privileged to attend Constance’s -Saturday “at-homes,” and of having been twice invited to dinner by her -during the previous winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, -Tuesday, and she even gave little private parties, and half ruined -herself in providing refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, -she spoke with profound respect of Mme. Seguin du Hordel and that lady’s -magnificent mansion in the Avenue d’Antin, for Constance had obligingly -obtained her an invitation to a ball there. But she was particularly -vain of the friendship of Beauchene’s sister, Seraphine, whom she -invariably called “Madame la Baronne de Lowicz.” - -“The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon,” she said. “She is so -very good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? After -her marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and their -wretched disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has no -great liking for Madame Beauchene, as you must know.” - -Then she again reverted to the manufacturer’s wife, declared that little -Maurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with bad -flesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parents -if they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thus -started, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges, -had but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to compare -him with M. Beauchene, who was such a wealthy man. Valerie, for -her part, pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with four -daughters, who had been obliged to wait months and months for boots and -frocks and hats, and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest they -should never find husbands. A family was all very well, but when it -happened to consist of daughters the situation became terrible for -people of limited means; for if daughters were to be launched properly -into life they must have dowries. - -“Besides,” said she, “I am very ambitious for my husband, and I am -convinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will only -listen to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. As -things stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine a -suitable dowry.” - -Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife’s -hand and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valerie was really -the one with will. It was she who had instilled some ambition into him, -and he esteemed her the more for it. - -“My wife is a thoroughly good woman, you know, my dear Froment,” said -he. “She has a good head as well as a good heart.” - -Then, while Valerie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flat -she would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two months -which, like the Beauchenes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, -Mathieu looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Their -case was very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that he -would never be a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wife -would indeed make him a minister some day. Every petty bourgeois in a -democratic community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, -there is a universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the others -aside so that he may the more speedily climb a rung of the social -ladder. This general ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, -is possible only in a country where political equality and economic -inequality prevail; for each has the same right to fortune and has but -to conquer it. There is, however, a struggle of the vilest egotism, if -one wishes to taste the pleasures of the highly placed, pleasures which -are displayed to the gaze of all and are eagerly coveted by nearly -everybody in the lower spheres. Under a democratic constitution a nation -cannot live happily if its manners and customs are not simple, and if -the conditions of life are not virtually equal for one and all. -Under other circumstances than these the liberal professions prove -all-devouring: there is a rush for public functions; manual toil is -regarded with contempt; luxury increases and becomes necessary; and -wealth and power are furiously appropriated by assault in order that one -may greedily taste the voluptuousness of enjoyment. And in such a state -of affairs, children, as Valerie put it, were incumbrances, whereas one -needed to be free, absolutely unburdened, if one wished to climb over -all one’s competitors. - -Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even the -least fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happy -ones of the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneath -that envied luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts of -useless needs are created, and production is turned aside from the -strictly necessary. One can no longer express hardship by saying that -people lack bread; what they lack in the majority of cases is the -superfluous, which they are unable to renounce without imagining that -they have gone to the dogs and are in danger of starvation. - -At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited by -his good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towards -their guest, saying: - -“Come, he’s a safe friend; one may tell him everything.” - -And when Valerie had consented with a smile and a nod, he went on: -“Well, this is the matter, my dear fellow: it is possible that I may -soon leave the works. Oh! it’s not decided, but I’m thinking of it. Yes, -I’ve been thinking of it for some months past; for, when all is said, to -earn five thousand francs a year, after eight years’ zeal, and to think -that one will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair of -life.” - -“It’s monstrous,” the young woman interrupted: “it is like breaking -one’s head intentionally against a wall.” - -“Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to look -out for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom I -had under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligent -fellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left us -to go to the Credit National, and what do you think he is now earning -there? Twelve thousand francs--you hear me--twelve thousand francs!” - -The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges’ eyes dilated -with ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red. - -“Last March,” continued Morange, “I happened to meet Michaud, who told -me all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take me -with him and help me on in my turn. Only there’s some risk to run. He -explained to me that I must at first accept three thousand six hundred, -so as to rise gradually to a very big figure. But three thousand six -hundred! How can one live on that in the meantime, especially now that -this flat has increased our expenses?” - -At this Valerie broke in impetuously: “‘Nothing venture, nothing have!’ -That’s what I keep on repeating to him. Of course I am in favor of -prudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromise -his future. But, at the same time, he can’t moulder away in a situation -unworthy of him.” - -“And so you have made up your minds?” asked Mathieu. - -“Well, my wife has calculated everything,” Morange replied; “and, yes, -we have made up our minds, provided, of course, that nothing unforeseen -occurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be open -at the Credit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matter -entirely to yourself, for we don’t want to quarrel with the Beauchenes -just now.” - -Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was very -punctual, and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant was -hurried, the coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hot -as it was, when the arrival of a visitor upset the little household and -caused everything to be forgotten. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Valerie, as she hastily rose, flushed with pride, -“Madame la Baronne de Lowicz!” - -Seraphine, at this time nine-and-twenty, was red-haired, tall and -elegant, with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Her -red lips were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flame -ever shone in her large brown eyes flecked with gold. - -“Pray don’t disturb yourselves, my friends,” said she. “Your servant -wanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming in -here, because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch your -charming little Reine to take her to a matinee at the Circus.” - -A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless with -joy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: “Oh! Madame la Baronne, -you are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact is -that she isn’t dressed, and you will have to wait a moment. Come, child, -make haste, I will help you--ten minutes, you understand--I won’t keep -you waiting a moment longer.” - -Seraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture of -surprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she now -shook. - -“And you, are you quite well?” she asked. - -“Quite well,” he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctively -pushed his chair back. He did not seem at all pleased at having met her. - -He had been on familiar terms with her during his earlier days at the -Beauchene works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of both -conscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandal -even before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needy -adventurer with a face like an archangel’s and the soul of a swindler. -The result of the union was a stillborn child. Then Seraphine, who was -extremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband and -drove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawl -at a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Seraphine made every -use of her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every fete, took -part in every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were told -of her; but she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus still -received everywhere. - -“You are living in the country, are you not?” she asked again, turning -towards Mathieu. - -“Yes, we have been there for three weeks past.” - -“Constance told me of it. I met her the other day at Madame Seguin’s. -We are on the best terms possible, you know, now that I give my brother -good advice.” - -In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with her -usual boldness she treated the matter as a joke. - -“We talked about Dr. Gaude,” she resumed; “I fancied that she wanted to -ask for his address; but she did not dare.” - -“Dr. Gaude!” interrupted Morange. “Ah! yes, a friend of my wife’s spoke -to her about him. He’s a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of his -operations are like miracles.” - -Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude’s clinic at the Hopital Marbeuf, a -clinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, just -as they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, and -who bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, was -likewise partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerous -experiments on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. The -newspapers were always talking about him, his cures were constantly -puffed and advertised by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselves -to his skill. And he certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carving -his patients in the quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with never -a scruple, never a doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right or -not. - -Seraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth between -her blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which had -appeared on Mathieu’s face since Gaude had been spoken of. “Ah!” said -she; “there’s a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr. -Boutan, who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can’t understand -why Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the views -she does. She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully share -them.” - -Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinions -were the same. However, as Valerie did not return with Reine, he grew -impatient, and asked permission to go and see what they were about. -Perhaps he himself might be able to help in getting the child ready. - -As soon as Seraphine was alone with Mathieu she turned her big, ardent, -gold-flecked eyes upon him. She no longer laughed with the same laugh as -a moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on her -bold bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, “And is my good -cousin Marianne quite well?” - -“Quite well,” replied Mathieu. - -“And the children are still growing?” - -“Yes, still growing.” - -“So you are happy, like a good paterfamilias, in your little nook?” - -“Perfectly happy.” - -Again she lapsed into silence, but she did not cease to look at him, -more provoking, more radiant than ever, with the charm of a young -sorceress whose eyes burn and poison men’s hearts. And at last she -slowly resumed: “And so it is all over between us?” - -He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been a -passing fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and she -two-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was already -married. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, and -had then entirely freed himself from her. - -“All over--really?” she again inquired, smiling but aggressive. - -She was looking very beautiful and bold, seeking to tempt him and carry -him off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simply -have made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her any -answer, even by a wave of the hand, she went on: “I prefer that: don’t -reply: don’t say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, you -know.” - -For a moment Mathieu’s eyes flashed, then he closed them in order that -he might no longer see Seraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemed -as if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to his -as she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, full -of mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to his -mouth as if she feared that he was again going to say no. - -“Be quiet,” said she; “they are coming.” - -The Moranges were now indeed returning with Reine, whose hair had been -curled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silk -decked with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dress -material. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rose -silk. - -“Oh, what a love!” exclaimed Seraphine by way of pleasing the parents. -“Somebody will be stealing her from me, you know.” - -Then it occurred to her to kiss the child in passionate fashion, -feigning the emotion of a woman who regrets that she is childless. “Yes; -indeed one regrets it very much when one sees such a treasure as this -sweet girl of yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would give -one such a charming child--well, at all events, I shall steal her from -you; you need not expect me to bring her back again.” - -The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew her -well, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short and -passionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In her -estimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of her -in the eyes of man. - -The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they could -not find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing such -coveted wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door of -the flat was closed Valerie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, “Let -us see them drive off.” - -Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a position -near her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean over -and look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with a -superb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put a -finishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Seraphine had -installed the little girl beside her, they laughed aloud. - -“How pretty she looks! How happy she must feel!” - -Reine must have been conscious that they were looking at her, for she -raised her head, smiled and bowed. And Seraphine did the same, while the -horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came a -final explosion-- - -“Look at her!” repeated Valerie; “she is so candid! At twelve years old -she is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trust -her to nobody. Wouldn’t one think her a little duchess who has always -had a carriage of her own?” - -Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. “Well,” said he, “I hope -that she _will_ have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me get -into the Credit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled.” - -And turning towards Mathieu he added, “There are three of us, and, as -I have said before, that is quite enough for a man to provide for, -especially as money is so hard to earn.” - - - - -III - -AT the works during the afternoon Mathieu, who wished to be free earlier -than usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon his -landlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself so -busy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchene. This was a relief, for -the secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he feared -lest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, when -they exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even that -there was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shown -himself more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had felt -in the morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one who -finds life very pleasant, and has no fear whatever of hard work. - -As a rule Mathieu left at six o’clock; but that day he went into -Morange’s office at half-past five to receive his month’s salary. This -rightly amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundred -had been advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalments -of fifty, he now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed with -such an air of satisfaction that the accountant commented on it. - -“Well,” said the young fellow, “the money’s welcome, for I left my wife -with just thirty sous this morning.” - -It was already more than six o’clock when he found himself outside the -superb house which the Seguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenue -d’Antin. Seguin’s grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil at -Janville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made a -considerable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of a -rich, elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, -while passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art and -literature, going for fashion’s sake to extreme opinions. He had proudly -married an almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race, -the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was -narrow. Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of -her one who, while following religious practices, was eager for the -joys of the world. Seguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised -religion, because it was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfather -had had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been content -with six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that -number more than was right. - -One part of Seguin’s fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve -hundred acres--woods and heaths--above Janville, which his father had -purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. -The old man’s long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his -native village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the -point of there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a -vast park when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estate -had come to Seguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had -turned the shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares -of five hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. The -income derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apart -from the woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, -patches of sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the -opinion of the district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn -the expanse to good account. The defunct army contractor alone had been -able to picture there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating -around his regal abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained an -authorization to add to the name of Seguin that of Du Hordel--taken from -a ruined tower called the Hordel which stood on the estate. - -It was through Beauchene, one of the shareholders of the shooting -rights, that Mathieu had made Seguin’s acquaintance, and had discovered -the old hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him -so much that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treated -Marianne as a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her -there, and had declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, -laughing the while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had -known nothing of her property. In reality she herself would not have -lived there for an hour. Her husband had launched her into the -feverish life of literary, artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her -to gatherings, studios, exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure -resorts--all those brasier-like places where weak heads and wavering -hearts are lost. He himself, amid all his passion for show, felt bored -to death everywhere, and was at ease only among his horses; and -this despite his pretensions with respect to advanced literature and -philosophy, his collections of curios, such as the bourgeois of to-day -does not yet understand, his furniture, his pottery, his pewter-work, -and particularly his bookbindings, of which he was very proud. And -he was turning his wife into a copy of himself, perverting her by his -extravagant opinions and his promiscuous friendships, so that the little -devotee who had been confided to his keeping was now on the high road -to every kind of folly. She still went to mass and partook of the holy -communion; but she was each day growing more and more familiar -with wrong-doing. A disaster must surely be at the end of it all, -particularly as he foolishly behaved to her in a rough, jeering way, -which greatly hurt her feelings, and led her to dream of being loved -with gentleness. - -When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows on -each of the stories of its ornate Renaissance facade, he laughed lightly -as he thought: “These folks don’t have to wait for a monthly pittance of -three hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand.” - -The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right hand -were the dining-room and two drawing-rooms; on the left a billiard-room, -a smoking-room, and a winter garden. On the first floor, in front of -the broad staircase, was Seguin’s so-called “cabinet,” a vast apartment, -sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, which -occupied all the central part of the house; while the husband’s bed and -dressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and children -on the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites of -rooms were kept in reserve for the time when the children should have -grown up. - -A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinet -and begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For a -moment the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spacious -room, feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of old -stained glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, the -oak bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes they -contained; the tables laden with bibelots, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith’s -work, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. Then -Eastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats and -couches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one could -hide oneself behind fringes of lofty plants. - -“Oh! so it’s you, Monsieur Froment,” suddenly exclaimed somebody in the -direction of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupon -a tall young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden from -Mathieu’s view, came forward with outstretched hand. - -“Ah!” said Mathieu, after a moment’s hesitation, “Monsieur Charles -Santerre.” - -This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together -once before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a -novelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine -brow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache -and beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to -conceal. He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought -under pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as -instruments of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle he -had remained a bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests of -others. In literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had made -it his specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined -surroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value of -his works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed to -be a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he had -allowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadays -he posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatest -pessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of human -passion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of the -world. - -“Seguin will be here in a moment,” he resumed in an amiable way. “It -occurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant this -evening, before going to a certain first performance where there will -probably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night.” - -Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in evening -dress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist called -attention to a new pewter treasure among Seguin’s collection. It -represented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hair -streaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, -and Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figure -symbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when man -should finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do with -her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped -on the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Seguins’ home. - -However, Seguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age -as Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline -nose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was -in evening dress. - -“Ah! well, my dear fellow,” said he with the slight lisp which he -affected, “Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be -patient; we shall have an hour to wait.” - -Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much -politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. -When the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted -him with the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of the -little pavilion at Janville--he at once consented to let the local -plumber do any necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, -he understood that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required -to be changed entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability -and began to protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in -such repairs a sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six -hundred francs. - -“Some soldering,” he repeated; “some soldering; it’s understood. I will -write to the plumber.” And wishing to change the subject he added: “Oh! -wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I -want to show you a marvel.” - -He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow -possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly -yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart -that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of -a new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which -Seguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On -the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily, -intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work, -“Beauty Imperishable,” was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky. - -“Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!” declared -Mathieu, who was really charmed. “Some bindings nowadays are perfect -gems.” Then he noticed the title: “Why, it’s Monsieur Santerre’s last -novel!” said he. - -Seguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when -he saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment -paid to it, he exclaimed: “My dear fellow, the binder brought it here -this morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. -It is the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea--that -lily which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants -which spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the -world, at last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? -All your work lies in those symbols, you know.” - -“Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud.” - -Mathieu had read Santerre’s novel, having borrowed a copy of it from -Mme. Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book -that everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated -him. Forsaking the customary bachelor’s flat where in previous works he -had been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time -tried to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story -he told was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a -rough-mannered husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge -in Brittany in the company of a young painter endowed with divine -inspiration, one Norbert, who had undertaken to decorate a convent -chapel with paintings that depicted his various visions. And for thirty -years he went on painting there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and -ever having Anne-Marie beside him. And during those thirty years of love -the Countess’s beauty remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh -at the finish as at the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, -introduced into the story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little -town, sank into physical and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. -Mathieu considered the author’s theory that all physical beauty and -moral nobility belonged to virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, and -he could not restrain himself from hinting his disapproval of it. - -Both Santerre and Seguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite a -discussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religious -standpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, “Increase and -multiply,” were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the true -basis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, had -held marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become the -ideal of womanhood. Seguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded to -give his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the taste -of Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty had -often varied. - -“To-day,” said he, “you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim, -attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissance -the type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, -take even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robust -build. Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, -moreover, if we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if women -were not encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figures -so that their very nature, their very organism is changed, there would -perhaps be some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which is -talked about so much nowadays.” - -The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionate -superiority. “Depopulation an evil!” exclaimed Seguin; “can you, my dear -sir, intelligent as you are, still believe in that hackneyed old story? -Come, reflect and reason a little.” - -Then Santerre chimed in, and they went on talking one after the other -and at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche were -passed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But all -this literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his belief -in fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer had -faith in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when he -doubted the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if ten -thousand happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappy -ones; in which connection political and economic conditions had to be -taken into account. But when all was said, he remained almost convinced -that the Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future as -they had proved false in the past. - -“Moreover,” said he, “even if the world should become densely populated, -even if food supplies, such as we know them, should fall short, -chemistry would extract other means of subsistence from inorganic -matter. And, besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it is -impossible to make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. -In France, too, instead of contributing to any such danger, we are going -backward, we are marching towards annihilation. The population of -France was once a fourth of the population of Europe, but now it is only -one-eighth. In a century or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens -and ancient Rome, and we shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now -occupies. Paris seems determined to die.” - -But Santerre protested: “No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain -stationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the most -intelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nations -advance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We -are simply giving the world an example of high culture, superior -intelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example when -in turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs of -this already on every side.” - -“Quite so!” exclaimed Seguin, backing up his friend. “The phenomenon is -general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in -numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is -affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as -Europe forces open the door there.” - -Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated -before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The -pale, slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer -in question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if -communing with himself, he said: “So you do not fear the Yellow Peril, -that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would -at some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it -afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the -sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to -endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence -civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How -was it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their -populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens -and Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes -and renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has -already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but -the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you -please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is -dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is -none the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide -which will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of -equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to -grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will -die, and the country with her.” - -“Well, for my part,” declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant -pessimist, “if she wishes to die, I shan’t oppose her. In fact, I’m -fully determined to help her.” - -“It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any -increase of population,” added Seguin. - -But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: “I know Herbert -Spencer’s law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is -certain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may -picture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now -to increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by -the very effect of culture’s victory when the world shall be entirely -populated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will be -followed, through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More -and more nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and how -many thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment, -compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought -of this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a -pang.” - -Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith -in the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right--he or -those two men so languidly stretched out before him. - -But Valentine, Seguin’s wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition -of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire. - -“Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl -Celeste takes such a time over everything!” - -At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair, -with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she -could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very -free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about -with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite -familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it -was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again -showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw -herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity. - -“Ah! it’s you, Monsieur Froment,” she said amiably, stepping towards -Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. “Is Madame Froment in -good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?” - -Seguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with -unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly -rude fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of -politeness. “What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that -rag on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!” - -And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She -made an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and -assumed an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly -turned her eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing -at her with ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness -of his attitude. - -“You look delicious!” he murmured; “that gown is a marvel.” - -Seguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women. -Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike -gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that -Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone -off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a -promise to repair the pavilion properly. - -“Wait another moment,” Valentine at last said to her husband; “I -told Celeste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before -starting.” - -Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his -request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining -at the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first -performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors -which had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She -appeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even -went further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest -pessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art that -they themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatly -over-estimated, in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, the -free harmony of the passing wind. As for her moral views, they were -enough to make one shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours of -Ibsen’s idiotic, rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory of -pure intangible beauty. She deemed Santerre’s last creation, Anne-Marie, -to be far too material and degraded, because in one deplorable passage -the author remarked that Norbert’s kisses had left their trace on the -Countess’s brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushed -upon the volume and sought the page to which she had referred. - -“But I never degraded her,” exclaimed the novelist in despair. “She -never has a child.” - -“Pooh! What of that?” exclaimed Valentine. “If Anne-Marie is to raise -our hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert’s kisses -should leave no mark upon her.” - -But she was interrupted, for Celeste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an -equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two -children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three. -Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade. -Like their mother, they were fair. The lad’s hair was inclined to be -carroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they -also had their mother’s blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like -that of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed -indeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls. -The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and -insisted on their playing their parts with due propriety. - -“Well, don’t you wish anybody good evening?” - -The children were not timid; they were already used to society and -looked visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was -because they were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at -last made up their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed. - -“Good evening, good friend Santerre.” - -Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them -of the gentleman’s name, though they had already seen him on two or -three occasions. - -“Good evening, Monsieur Froment.” - -Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them -with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them -down again she forgot all about them. - -“So you are going out again, mamma?” asked the little boy. - -“Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to -see to.” - -“So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?” - -Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting -for orders;-- - -“You are not to leave them for a moment, Celeste--you hear? And, above -all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come home -without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them have -their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they go -to sleep.” - -The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful -obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman -peasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to -service, and well knew what was done with children when the master and -mistress were absent. - -“Madame,” she said in a simple way, “Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. She -has been sick again.” - -“What? sick again!” cried the father in a fury. “I am always hearing -of that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we are -going out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; you -ought not to let our children have papier-mache stomachs!” - -The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could not -help it. As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They had -experienced every childish ailment, they were always catching cold -or getting feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhat -anxious demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants. - -“Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?” asked Valentine, stooping -down to the child. “You aren’t poorly now, are you? No, no, it’s -nothing, nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night very -prettily, so that he may not feel worried in leaving you.” - -She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing that -Mathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed: - -“Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves them -dearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, it -would perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, my -duty to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl as -I have.” - -Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with a -laugh: - -“Well, that isn’t the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. He -declares that to make the country prosperous every married couple ought -to have four children.” - -“Four children! He’s mad!” cried Seguin. And again with the greatest -freedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There was -a world of meaning in his wife’s laughter while Celeste stood there -unmoved and the children listened without understanding. But at last -Santerre led the Seguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieu -obtained from his landlord a promise that he would write to the plumber -at Janville and that the roof of the pavilion should be entirely -renovated, since the rain came into the bedrooms. - -The Seguins’ landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into it -with their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at one -of the windows he perceived Celeste standing between the two children, -intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame were -really going. The young man recalled Reine’s departure from her parents; -but here both Lucie and Gaston remained motionless, gravely mournful, -and neither their father nor their mother once thought of looking up at -them. - - - - -IV - -AT half-past seven o’clock, when Mathieu arrived at the restaurant on -the Place de la Madeleine where he was to meet his employer, he found -him already there, drinking a glass of madeira with his customer, M. -Firon-Badinier. The dinner was a remarkable one; choice viands and the -best wines were served in abundance. But Mathieu was struck less by the -appetite which the others displayed than by Beauchene’s activity and -skill. Glass in hand, never losing a bite, he had already persuaded -his customer, by the time the roast arrived, to order not only the new -thresher but also a mowing machine. M. Firon-Badinier was to take the -train for Evreux at nine-twenty, and when nine o’clock struck, the -other, now eager to be rid of him, contrived to pack him off in a cab to -the St.-Lazare railway station. - -For a moment Beauchene remained standing on the pavement with Mathieu, -and took off his hat in order that the mild breezes of that delightful -May evening might cool his burning head. - -“Well, that’s settled,” he said with a laugh. “But it wasn’t so easily -managed. It was the Pommard which induced the beggar to make up his -mind. All the same, I was dreadfully afraid he would make me miss my -appointment.” - -These remarks, which escaped him amid his semi-intoxication, led him to -more confidential talk. He put on his hat again, lighted a fresh -cigar, and took Mathieu’s arm. Then they walked on slowly through the -passion-stirred throng and the nightly blaze of the Boulevards. - -“There’s plenty of time,” said Beauchene. “I’m not expected till -half-past nine, and it’s close by. Will you have a cigar? No? You never -smoke?” - -“Never.” - -“Well, my dear fellow, it would be ridiculous to feign with you, since -you happened to see me this morning. Oh, it’s a stupid affair! I’m quite -of that opinion; but, then, what would you have?” - -Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his marital -life and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and that -girl Norine, old Moineaud’s daughter. He professed the greatest respect -for his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance was -now beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyes -when it would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. She -knew very well that it was essential that the business should be kept -together and pass intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe of -children would have meant the ruin of all their plans. - -Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began to -ask questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchene laughed -gayly, like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extreme -volubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming a -semi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with an -air of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of the -Rue Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a little -bachelor’s lodging, which was kept in order by the concierge of the -house, who, being very well paid, proved an extremely discreet domestic. - -As he hurried off, Mathieu, still standing at the corner of the street, -could not help thinking of the scenes which he had witnessed at the -Beauchene works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whom -he again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women’s workroom while -his daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchene, and while -Norine, the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler’s -children have grown up and gone to join, the lads the army of slaughter, -and the girls the army of vice, the father, degraded by the ills of -life, pays little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter of -indifference to what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings who -fall from the nest. - -It was now half-past nine o’clock, and Mathieu had more than an hour -before him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry, -but strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunk -far more than usual, and Beauchene’s insidious confidential talk, still -buzzing in his ears, helped on his intoxication. His hands were hot, -and now and again a sudden glow passed over his face. And what a warm -evening it was, too, on those Boulevards, blazing with electric lights, -fevered by a swarming, jostling throng, amid a ceaseless rumble of cabs -and omnibuses! It was all like a stream of ardent life flowing away into -the night, and Mathieu allowed himself to be carried on by the torrent, -whose hot breath, whose glow of passion, he ever felt sweeping over him. - -Then, in a reverie, he pictured the day he had just spent. First he -was at the Beauchenes’ in the morning, and saw the father and mother -standing, like accomplices who fully shared one another’s views, beside -the sofa on which Maurice, their only son, lay dozing with a pale and -waxen face. The works must never be exposed to the danger of being -subdivided. Maurice alone must inherit all the millions which the -business might yield, so that he might become one of the princes of -industry. And therefore the husband hurried off to sin while the wife -closed her eyes. In this sense, in defiance of morality and health, -did the capitalist bourgeoisie, which had replaced the old nobility, -virtually re-establish the law of primogeniture. That law had been -abolished at the Revolution for the bourgeoisie’s benefit; but now, also -for its own purposes, it revived it. Each family must have but one son. - -Mathieu had reached this stage in his reflections when his thoughts were -diverted by several street hawkers who, in selling the last edition of -an evening print, announced a “drawing” of the lottery stock of some -enterprise launched by the Credit National. And then he suddenly -recalled the Moranges in their dining-room, and heard them recapitulate -their dream of making a big fortune as soon as the accountant should -have secured a post in one of the big banking establishments, where the -principals raise men of value to the highest posts. Those Moranges lived -in everlasting dread of seeing their daughter marry a needy petty clerk; -succumbing to that irresistible fever which, in a democracy ravaged by -political equality and economic inequality, impels every one to climb -higher up the social ladder. Envy consumed them at the thought of -the luxury of others; they plunged into debt in order that they might -imitate from afar the elegance of the upper class, and all their natural -honesty and good nature was poisoned by the insanity born of ambitious -pride. And here again but one child was permissible, lest they should -be embarrassed, delayed, forever impeded in the attainment of the future -they coveted. - -A crowd of people now barred Mathieu’s way, and he perceived that he -was near the theatre, where a first performance was taking place that -evening. It was a theatre where free farcical pieces were produced, and -on its walls were posted huge portraits of its “star,” a carroty wench -with a long flat figure, destitute of all womanliness, and seemingly -symbolical of perversity. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the bills, the -vilest remarks were heard, and Mathieu remembered that the Seguins and -Santerre were inside the house, laughing at the piece, which was of so -filthy a nature that the spectators at the dress rehearsal, though they -were by no means over-nice in such matters, had expressed their disgust -by almost wrecking the auditorium. And while the Seguins were gloating -over this horror, yonder, at their house in the Avenue d’Antin, Celeste -had just put the children, Gaston and Lucie, to bed, and had then -hastily returned to the kitchen, where a friend, Madame Menoux, who kept -a little haberdasher’s shop in the neighborhood, awaited her. Gaston, -having been given some wine to drink, was already asleep; but Lucie, who -again felt sick, lay shivering in her bed, not daring to call Celeste, -lest the servant, who did not like to be disturbed, should ill-treat -her. And, at two o’clock in the morning, after offering Santerre an -oyster supper at a night restaurant, the Seguins would come home, their -minds unhinged by the imbecile literature and art to which they had -taken for fashion’s sake, vitiated yet more by the ignoble performance -they had witnessed, and the base society they had elbowed at supper. -They seemed to typify vice for vice’s sake, elegant vice and pessimism -as a principle. - -Indeed, when Mathieu tried to sum up his day, he found vice on every -side, in each of the spheres with which he had come in contact. And now -the examples he had witnessed filled him no longer with mere surprise; -they disturbed him, they shook his beliefs, they made him doubt -whether his notions of life, duty, and happiness might not after all be -inaccurate. - -He stopped short and drew a long breath, seeking to drive away his -growing intoxication. He had passed the Grand Opera and was reaching -the crossway of the Rue Drouot. Perhaps his increase of fever was due -to those glowing Boulevards. The private rooms of the restaurants were -still ablaze, the cafes threw bright radiance across the road, the -pavement was blocked by their tables and chairs and customers. All Paris -seemed to have come down thither to enjoy that delightful evening. There -was endless elbowing, endless mingling of breath as the swelling crowd -sauntered along. Couples lingered before the sparkling displays of -jewellers’ shops. Middle-class families swept under dazzling arches -of electric lamps into cafes concerts, whose huge posters promised -the grossest amusements. Hundreds and hundreds of women went by with -trailing skirts, and whispered and jested and laughed; while men darted -in pursuit, now of a fair chignon, now of a dark one. In the open -cabs men and women sat side by side, now husbands and wives long since -married, now chance couples who had met but an hour ago. But Mathieu -went on again, yielding to the force of the current, carried along -like all the others, a prey to the same fever which sprang from the -surroundings, from the excitement of the day, from the customs of the -age. And he no longer took the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins as -isolated types; it was all Paris that symbolized vice, all Paris that -yielded to debauchery and sank into degradation. There were the folks of -high culture, the folks suffering from literary neurosis; there were -the merchant princes; there were the men of liberal professions, the -lawyers, the doctors, the engineers; there were the people of the lower -middle-class, the petty tradesmen, the petty clerks; there were even -the manual workers, poisoned by the example of the upper spheres--all -practising the doctrines of egotism as vanity and the passion for money -grew more and more intense.. .. No more children! Paris was bent on -dying. And Mathieu recalled how Napoleon I., one evening after battle, -on beholding a plain strewn with the corpses of his soldiers, had put -his trust in Paris to repair the carnage of that day. But times -had changed. Paris would no longer supply life, whether it were for -slaughter or for toil. - -And as Mathieu thought of it all a sudden weakness came upon him. Again -he asked himself whether the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins, and -all those thousands and thousands around him were not right, and whether -he were not the fool, the dupe, the criminal, with his belief in life -ever renascent, ever growing and spreading throughout the world. And -before him arose, too, the image of Seraphine, the temptress, opening -her perfumed arms to him and carrying him off to the same existence of -pleasure and baseness which the others led. - -Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in his -pocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, though -out of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. The -remainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jam -for the youngsters’ bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, the -others, the Beauchenes and the Seguins, were rich. He bitterly recalled -their wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildings -covering a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmen -ever increasing the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomely -appointed pavilion and whose only son was growing up for future -sovereignty, under his mother’s vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, the -Seguins’ luxurious mansion in the Avenue d’Antin, the great hall, the -magnificent staircase, the vast room above, crowded with marvels; he -pictured all the refinement, all the train of wealth, all the tokens of -lavish life, the big dowry which would be given to the little girl, the -high position which would be purchased for the son. And he, bare and -empty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not even a stone at the edge of -a field, would doubtless always possess nothing, neither factory buzzing -with workmen, nor mansion rearing its proud front aloft. And he was the -imprudent one, and the others were the sensible, the wise. What would -ever become of himself and his troop of children? Would he not die in -some garret? would they not lead lives of abject wretchedness? Ah! it -was evident the others were right, the others were sensible. And he felt -unhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, like a fool who has allowed -himself to be duped. - -Then once more the image of Seraphine arose before his eyes, more -tempting than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blaze -of the Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic around -it. Wild fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchene. -Why should he not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding to -sudden madness, turned his back upon the station and retraced his steps -towards the Boulevards. Seraphine, he said to himself, was doubtless -waiting for him; she had told him that he would always be welcome. As -for his wife, he would tell her he had missed his train. - -At last a block in the traffic made him pause, and on raising his eyes -he saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still -streamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu’s temples were -beating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the -same life as the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it. -But the block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and -while he stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that -increasing obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all -at once the image of Seraphine faded from before his mind’s eye and -he beheld another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all -smiles and trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could -he deceive her? ... Then all at once he again rushed off towards -the railway station, in fear lest he should lose his train. He was -determined that he would listen to no further promptings, that he would -cast no further glance upon glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reached -the station just in time to climb into a car. The train started and he -journeyed on, leaning out of his compartment and offering his face to -the cool night breeze in order that it might calm and carry off the evil -fever that had possessed him. - -The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowing -stars that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a soft -bluish radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Marianne -found herself on the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway between -Chantebled, the pavilion where she and her husband lived, and the -station of Janville. The children were fast asleep; she had left them -in the charge of Zoe, the servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, the -light of which could be seen from afar, showing like a bright spark amid -the black line of the woods. - -Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o’clock train, as was his -wont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she brought -her two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legs -moved but slowly on the return journey when, in retracing their steps, -a thousand yards or more, they had to climb a rather steep hillside. -And that evening, late though the hour was, Marianne had yielded to -that pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forward -through the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never went -further than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seated -herself on its broad, low parapet, as on some rustic bench, and thence -she overlooked the whole plain as far as the houses of Janville, before -which passed the railway line. And from afar she could see her husband -approaching along the road which wound between the cornfields. - -That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety sky -spangled with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitude -she turned towards the bright little light shining on the verge of the -sombre woods, a light telling of the quietude of the room in which -it burnt, the servant’s tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of the -children in the adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wander -all around her, over the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to the -Seguins. The dilapidated pavilion stood at the extreme edge of the -woods whose copses, intersected by patches of heath, spread over a lofty -plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was not -all, for to the west of the plateau lay more than two hundred and fifty -acres of land, a marshy expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, -vast uncultivated tracts, where one went duck-shooting in winter. And -there was yet a third part of the estate, acres upon acres of equally -sterile soil, all sand and gravel, descending in a gentle slope to the -embankment of the railway line. It was indeed a stretch of country lost -to culture, where the few good patches of loam remained unproductive, -inclosed within the waste land. But the spot had all the beauty and -exquisite wildness of solitude, and was one that appealed to healthy -minds fond of seeing nature in freedom. And on that lovely night one -could nowhere have found more perfect and more balmy quiet. - -Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded the -woodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, -and descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over the -expanse, divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though the -darkness now prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woods -an owl raised its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the right -ascended a faint croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like the -vibration of crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, there -came a growing rumble which, little by little, rose above all the other -sounds of the night. She heard it, and at last lent ear to nothing else. -It was the train, for whose familiar roar she waited every evening. As -soon as it left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token of -its coming, but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguish -its rumble amid the other sounds rising from the country side. For -her part, she heard it immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancy -through every phase of its journey. And never had she been better able -to do so than on that splendid night, amid the profound quietude of -the earth’s slumber. It had left Monval, it was turning beside the -brickworks, it was skirting St. George’s fields. In another two minutes -it would be at Janville. Then all at once its white light shone out -beyond the poplar trees of Le Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of the -engine grew louder, like that of some giant racer drawing near. On that -side the plain spread far away into a dark, unknown region, beneath the -star-spangled sky, which on the very horizon showed a ruddy reflection -like that of some brasier, the reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazing -and smoking in the darkness like a volcano. - -Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then -its rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of -Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes -and ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the -dark patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover -the thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little -bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but -on that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could -distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim -figure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erect -under the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. The -milky whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her beautiful black hair, -caught up in a huge coil, and her big black eyes, which beamed with all -the gentleness of spouse and mother. Her straight brow, her nose, her -mouth, her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed like -savory fruit, her delightful little ears--the whole of her face, full -of love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety which -comes from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that by -loving life she would live as she ought to live. - -“What! so you’ve come then!” Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was near -her. “But I begged you not to come out so late. Are you not afraid at -being alone on the roads at this time of night?” - -She began to laugh. “Afraid,” said she, “when the night is so mild and -healthful? Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me here to kiss you ten -minutes sooner?” - -Those simple words brought tears to Mathieu’s eyes. All the murkiness, -all the shame through which he had passed in Paris horrified him. He -tenderly took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, the -most human of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields. After the -scorching pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the day -and the degrading spectacles of the night, how reposeful was that -far-spreading silence, that faint bluish radiance, that endless -unrolling of plains, steeped in refreshing gloom and dreaming of -fructification by the morrow’s sun! And what suggestions of health, and -rectitude, and felicity rose from productive Nature, who fell asleep -beneath the dew of night solely that she might reawaken in triumph, ever -and ever rejuvenated by life’s torrent, which streams even through the -dust of her paths. - -Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more. He -kept her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neither -could forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them from -the stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields. - -“What a splendid night!” murmured Mathieu. “How beautiful and how -pleasant to live in it!” - -Then, after a moment’s rapture, during which they both heard their -hearts beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him with -loving interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie. - -“No, the Beauchenes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never cared -much for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in the -legs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed -again. I will tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Moranges -have promised to come. You can’t have an idea of the delight and vanity -they displayed in showing me their new flat. What with their eagerness -to make a big fortune I’m much afraid that those worthy folks will do -something very foolish. Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord, -and though I had a good deal of difficulty over it, he ended by -consenting to have the roof entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, those -Seguins have! I came away feeling quite scared. But I will tell you all -about it by and by with the rest.” - -Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited his -confidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and the -children. - -“You received your salary, didn’t you?” she asked. - -“Yes, yes, you need not be afraid about that.” - -“Oh! I’m not afraid, it’s only our little debts which worry me.” - -Then she asked again: “And did your business dinner go off all right? -I was afraid that Beauchene might detain you and make you miss your -train.” - -He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke he -flushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion he -affected sudden gayety. - -“Well, and you, my dear,” he asked, “how did you manage with your thirty -sous?” - -“My thirty sous!” she gayly responded, “why, I was much too rich; we -fared like princes, all five of us, and I have six sous left.” - -Then, in her turn, she gave an account of her day, her daily life, pure -as crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; she -related how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutest -details respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day was -like another; each morning she set herself to live the same life afresh, -with never-failing happiness. - -“To-day, though, we had a visit,” said she; “Madame Lepailleur, the -woman from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some fine -chickens for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, I -believe that she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told her -that I would go to her place to-morrow.” - -While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a big -black pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill which -was still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it for -three generations. The last of them, Francois Lepailleur, who considered -himself to be no fool, had come back from his military service with -little inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrich -him, any more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It then -occurred to him to marry a peasant farmer’s daughter, Victoire Cornu, -whose dowry consisted of some neighboring fields skirting the Yeuse. -And the young couple then lived fairly at their ease, on the produce of -those fields and such small quantities of corn as the peasants of the -district still brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquated -and badly repaired mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modern -appliances, and if the land, instead of being impoverished by adherence -to old-fashioned practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligent -man who believed in progress, there would no doubt have been a fortune -in it all. But Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treated -the soil with contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grown -weary of his eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers loved -too much. Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilize -the soil, it had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hating -it. All his faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of having -lost its fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some old -cow which one sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, -everything went wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, the -weather was never such as it should be, the seasons no longer came in -their proper order. Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster brought -about by some evil power which had a spite against the peasantry, who -were foolish to give their sweat and their blood to such a thankless -creature. - -“Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow three -years old, called Antonin,” resumed Marianne, “and we fell to talking of -children together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, used -to have such large families. But she declared that one child was -quite enough. Yet she’s only twenty-four, and her husband not yet -twenty-seven.” - -These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu’s mind all -day. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, “She gave you her -reasons, no doubt?” - -“Give reasons--she, with her head like a horse’s, her long freckled -face, pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth--I think she’s simply a fool, -ever in admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa and -reads the newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that children -cost one a good deal more than they bring in. But the husband, no doubt, -has ideas of his own. You have seen him, haven’t you? A tall, slim -fellow, as carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, -green eyes, and prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had never -felt in a good humor in his life. And I understand that he is always -complaining of his father-in-law, because the other had three daughters -and a son. Of course that cut down his wife’s dowry; she inherited only -a part of her father’s property. And, besides, as the trade of a miller -never enriched his father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning till -night, and declares that he won’t prevent his boy Antonin from going -to eat white bread in Paris, if he can find a good berth there when he -grows up.” - -Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small family -the rule. Among the causes were the fear of having to split up an -inheritance, the desire to rise in the social system, the disgust of -manual toil, and the thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since the -soil was becoming bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when one -knew that one would never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on the -point of explaining these things to his wife, but he hesitated, and then -simply said: “Lepailleur does wrong to complain; he has two cows and a -horse, and when there is urgent work he can take an assistant. We, this -morning, had just thirty sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, no -scrap of land. For my part I think his mill superb; I envy him every -time I cross this bridge. Just fancy! we two being the millers--why, we -should be very rich and very happy!” - -This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seated -there, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between the -willows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully, -scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made it -ripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed sheltering -the wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, and -creepers, the whole forming a spot of romantic prettiness. And at night, -especially when the mill slept, without a light at any of its windows, -there was nothing of more dreamy, more gentle charm. - -“Why!” remarked Mathieu, lowering his voice, “there is somebody under -the willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise.” - -“Yes, I know,” replied Marianne with tender gayety. “It must be the -young couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder a -fortnight ago. You know whom I mean--Madame Angelin, that schoolmate of -Constance’s.” - -The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments. -The wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hair -and fine eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And the -husband was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much in -love, with moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of a -musketeer. They had married with sudden passion for one another, having -between them an income of some ten thousand francs a year, which the -husband, a fan painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had it -not been for the spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage had -thrown him. And that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desert -of Janville, that they might love freely, passionately, in the midst of -nature. They were always to be met, holding each other by the waist, -on the secluded paths in the woods; and at night they loved to stroll -across the fields, beside the hedges, along the shady banks of the -Yeuse, delighted when they could linger till very late near the -murmuring water, in the thick shade of the willows. - -But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentioned -it to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appeared -that the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, -and did not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu’s worrying -thoughts once more came back to him, and again at this fresh example -he wondered who was right--he who stood alone in his belief, or all the -others. - -“Well,” he muttered at last, “we all live according to our fancy. But -come, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them.” - -They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where the -lamp shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front door -they groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little house -comprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of the -hall, and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there were -four bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those big -rooms; but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed at -this. By way of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains of -red stuff at the windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangings -seemed to them to impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home. - -They found Zoe, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting beside -the lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her as -quietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp and -entered the children’s room to kiss them and make sure that they were -comfortable. It was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placed -the lamp on the mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the three -little beds when Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at one -end of the room lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellows -six years of age; while in the second bed against the opposite wall was -Ambroise, now nearly four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, -a cradle, was occupied by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age and -weaned for three weeks past. She lay there half naked, showing her white -flowerlike skin, and her mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, -which she had thrust aside with her self-willed little fists. Meantime -the father busied himself with Ambroise’s pillow, which had slipped -aside. Both husband and wife came and went very gently, and bent again -and again over the children’s faces to make sure that they were sleeping -peacefully. They kissed them and lingered yet a little longer, fancying -that they had heard Blaise and Denis stirring. At last the mother took -up the lamp and they went off, one after the other, on tiptoe. - -When they were in their room again Marianne exclaimed: “I didn’t want to -worry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I did -not find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at ease -about her.” Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she went -on: “Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt the -least fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free from -anxiety.” - -She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu, -instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, -and drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket. When he had -counted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a -bitter, jesting way, “The money hasn’t grown on the road. Here it is; -you can pay our debts to-morrow.” - -This remark gave him a fresh idea. Taking his pencil he began to jot -down the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary. -“We say twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk. How much do -you owe the butcher?” he asked. - -“The butcher,” replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes; -“well, say twenty francs.” - -“And the grocer and the baker?” - -“I don’t know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether. There is -nobody else.” - -Then Mathieu added up the items: “That makes sixty-two francs,” said he. -“Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and -thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a -nice month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if -little Rose should fall ill.” - -The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, -saying: “Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to -be almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as -full of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life -if one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the -little ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!” - -At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and -mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great -length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty -and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges, -the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they -had said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident -starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never -have factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand -francs a year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had -been their own work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, -improvident. And he went on with his recollections, telling Marianne -that he feared nothing for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn -her and the little ones to want and poverty. She was surprised at first, -and by degrees became colder, more constrained, as he told her all that -he had upon his mind. Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, -however lovingly he spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but -burst into sobs. She did not question what he said, she spoke no words -of revolt, but it was evident that her whole being rebelled, and that -her heart was sorely grieved. - -He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to -her own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with -himself. “Do not weep, my darling!” he exclaimed as he pressed her to -him: “it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that -way. Don’t distress yourself, I beg you; we’ll think it all over and -talk about it some other time.” - -She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her -head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving, -trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and more -confused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heed -to the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basis -of their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which had -possessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have been -instilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honor -and rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fast -returning. Through the window, which had remained open, all the sounds -of the lovely spring night poured into the room. It was spring, the -season of love, and beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, -from fields and forests and waters came the murmur of germinating -life. And never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss may -result, whatever difficulty may arise, whatever fate may be in store, -all the creative powers of the world, whether of the animal order, -whether of the order of the plants, for ever and ever wage life’s great -incessant battle against death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased among -all the other denizens of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, -seeks death for death’s sake, the annihilation of his species. Then -Mathieu again caught his wife in a close embrace, printing on her lips a -long, ardent kiss. - -“Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would be -impossible for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let -the others hold us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us love -and live as nature tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdom -and true courage.” - - - - -V - -MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside -the large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at -her, and saw that she was awake and smiling. - -“What! you are not asleep?” said he. “I hardly dared to stir for fear of -waking you. It is nearly nine o’clock, you know.” - -It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris. -During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful -at Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This -rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was -again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to -accept Beauchene’s amiable offer to place at his disposal the little -pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of the works had -lived before building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who -had occupied this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture -of former days, had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be -near their friend, worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, -and did not intend to return to Chantebled until the first fine days in -April. - -“Wait a moment,” resumed Mathieu; “I will let the light in.” - -He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow, -wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. “Ah! there’s the sun! And it’s -splendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for a -little while with the children this afternoon.” - -Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the -bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: “Well, I hadn’t been sleeping -either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn’t move because I wanted -you to lie in bed a little late, as it’s Sunday. How amusing to think -that we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide -open!” - -“Oh!” said he, “I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one -delight on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and -spend the whole day with you and the children.” Then he uttered a cry of -surprise and remorse: “Why! I haven’t kissed you yet.” - -She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. -In the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked -radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown -tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with -gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face -all kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of -Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of -sovereign dignity. - -They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which -enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne’s pillows, -set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had -tidied the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up -the sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped -a cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoe, the -servant whom they had brought from the country, could very well do all -those things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, -and that he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that there -was to do. Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the -room was cold, and blamed himself for not having already lighted the -fire. Some logs and some small wood were piled in a corner, near the -chimney-piece. - -“How stupid of me!” he exclaimed; “here am I leaving you to freeze.” - -Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: “What an -idea! Leave all that, and call Zoe.” - -“No, no, she doesn’t know how to light the fire properly, and besides, -it amuses me.” - -He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle, -filling the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a -little paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and -dressing when the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous -thumping. - -“Ah! the rascals,” he gayly exclaimed. “They are awake, you see! Oh! -well, we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday.” - -For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion -in the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts -of laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters -flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition -as if it were a drum. - -“Yes, yes,” said the mother, smiling and anxious, “answer them; tell -them to come. They will be breaking everything if you don’t.” - -Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious -outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And -Mathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling -could be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of -them wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they -trotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their -faces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise, -though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the -boldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and -Denis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught the -others to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the -dreamer of them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose, -who looked like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left -amid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily -erect. - -“Ah! mamma,” cried Ambroise, “it’s dreadfully cold, you know; do make me -a little room.” - -Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and -nestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine -curly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of -war, and rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel. - -“Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back, -mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!” - -Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and -indignant. She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back. -“And me, mamma, and me,” she pleaded. - -It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with -her little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that -she might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat -anxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him -not to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled -there was so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled. - -“It’s very nice, it’s so warm,” said Ambroise, who was fond of taking -his ease. - -But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it -was they had made so much noise “Blaise said that he had seen a spider. -And then he felt frightened.” - -This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: “It isn’t -true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it.” - -“So did I! so did I!” stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. “I threw my -pillow like that--houp! houp!” - -They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. -The truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence -of killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This -unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole -brood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their -father could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here -and there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into -perfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts. - -“Oh! what fun! what fun!” - -“All the same,” Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herself -somewhat from the embraces of the children, “all the same, you know, I -want to get up. I mustn’t idle, for it does me no good. And besides, you -little ones need to be washed and dressed.” - -They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly ten -o’clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where the -earthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamed -upon the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-room -and a drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a study -on the left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlooked -the Rue de la Federation, and was filled every morning with cheerfulness -by the rising sun. - -The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, when -a ring at the street door was heard. And it was Dr. Boutan who came in. -His arrival brought a renewal of noisy mirth, for the youngsters were -fond of his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at their -births, and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity is -allowable. And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to dart -towards the doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them. - -“Now, please just leave the doctor quiet,” said she, adding gayly, “Good -morning, doctor. I’m much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, for -I’m sure you ordered it so that I might go for a walk this afternoon.” - -“Why, yes, of course I ordered it--I was passing this way, and thought I -would look in to see how you were getting on.” - -Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieu -explained to him that they had remained late in bed. - -“Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as much -exercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see that -she has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to be -a doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call.” - -Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busy -breakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in the -conversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, -some train of thought which he did not explain: “I hear that you are to -lunch with the Seguins next Thursday,” said he. “Ah! poor little woman! -That is a terrible affair of hers.” - -With a gesture he expressed his feelings concerning the drama that had -just upset the Seguins’ household. Valentine, like Marianne, was to -become a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husband -had given way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, they -had continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spent -her days on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor’s -life. It was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes that -Marianne, on the occasion of her visit to the Seguins, might bring some -good influence to bear on them. - -He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack which -had all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedly -rising from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, and -now they opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found the -twins upon his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round the -waist and the little girl clung to his legs. - -“Puff! puff! do the railway train, do the railway train, please do.” - -They pushed and shook him, amid peal after peal of flute-like laughter, -while their father and mother rushed to his assistance, scolding and -angry. But he calmed the parents by saying: “Let them be! they are -simply wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, you -know, since, as our friend Beauchene says, it is a little bit my fault -if they are in the world. What charms me with your children is that they -enjoy such good health, just like their mother. For the present, at all -events, one can ask nothing more of them.” - -When he had set them down on the floor, and given each a smacking kiss, -he took hold of Marianne’s hands and said to her that everything was -going on beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off, -escorted to the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting and -laughing gayly. - -Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order that -Marianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had been -dressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcely -more than one o’clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de la -Federation and found itself upon the quays. - -This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and the -densely populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspect -all its own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almost -deserted streets running at right angles and fringed by factories with -lofty, interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes along -these streets, and on raising one’s head one sees only lofty chimneys -belching forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings with -dusty window panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be open -one may espy deep yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. The -only sounds are the strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumbling -of machinery, and the sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the carts -to the pavement. But on Sundays the factories do not work, and the -district then falls into death-like silence. In summer time there is but -bright sunshine heating the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden wind -rushing down the lonely streets. The population of Grenelle is said to -be the worst of Paris, both the most vicious and the most wretched. -The neighborhood of the Ecole Militaire attracts thither a swarm of -worthless women, who bring in their train all the scum of the populace. -In contrast to all this the gay bourgeois district of Passy rises up -across the Seine; while the rich aristocratic quarters of the Invalides -and the Faubourg St. Germain spread out close by. Thus the Beauchene -works on the quay, as their owner laughingly said, turned their back -upon misery and looked towards all the prosperity and gayety of this -world. - -Mathieu was very partial to the avenues, planted with fine trees, -which radiate from the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides, -supplying great gaps for air and sunlight. But he was particularly fond -of that long diversified Quai d’Orsay, which starts from the Rue du -Bac in the very centre of the city, passes before the Palais Bourbon, -crosses first the Esplanade des Invalides, and then the Champ de Mars, -to end at the Boulevard de Grenelle, in the black factory region. How -majestically it spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were round -that bend of the Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden of -the Eiffel Tower! The river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; the -avenue stretches out under superb foliage. You can really saunter there -amid delicious quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm and -power of Paris. - -It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little ones -that Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety was -felt respecting Rose’s little legs. She was intrusted to Ambroise, who, -although the youngest of the boys, was already energetic and determined. -These two opened the march; then came Blaise and Denis, the twins, the -parents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well: -they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winter -afternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very cold -in the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of bright -light. There were a great many people out of doors--all the idle folks, -clad in their Sunday best, whom the faintest sunshine draws in crowds to -the promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herself -up as if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed the -whole extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And her -three brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneath -their steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In other -cities of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by four -children would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectacle -was so unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and even -compassion were exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if they -did not actually hear, these comments, but they cared nothing for -them. They bravely went their way, smiling at one another, and feeling -convinced that the course they had taken in life was the right one, -whatever other folks might think or say. - -It was three o’clock when they turned their steps homeward; and -Marianne, feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa in -the drawing-room, where Zoe had previously lighted a good fire. The -children, quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, -listening to a tale which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitor -was announced. This proved to be Constance, who, after driving out with -Maurice, had thought of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom she -saw only once or twice a week, although the little pavilion was merely -separated by a garden from the large house on the quay. - -“Oh! are you poorly, my dear?” she inquired as she entered the room and -perceived Marianne on the sofa. - -“Oh! dear, no,” replied the other, “but I have been out walking for the -last two hours and am now taking some rest.” - -Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife’s rich, vain -cousin, who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appear -amiable. She apologized for not being able to call more frequently, and -explained what a number of duties she had to discharge as mistress -of her home. Meantime Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round her -petticoats, gazing from a distance at the other children, who one and -all returned his scrutiny. - -“Well, Maurice,” exclaimed his mother, “don’t you wish your little -cousins good-day?” - -He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all five -remained embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunity -to quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost out -of their element in the presence of this young Parisian with bourgeois -manners. - -“And are all your little folks quite well?” resumed Constance, who, with -her sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. “Ambroise has -grown; his elder brothers also look very strong.” - -Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice’s advantage. The -latter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion. -Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full of -irony, disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Marianne -was likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of her -disapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever. - -Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussed -the subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. She -inquired after Beauchene. “And Alexandre,” said she, “why did you not -bring him with you? I haven’t seen him for a week!” - -“Why,” broke in Mathieu, “I told you he had gone shooting yesterday -evening. He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled, -so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won’t -be home till to-morrow.” - -“Ah! yes, I remember now. Well, it’s nice weather to be in the woods.” - -This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted -having broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchene -might really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availed -himself so often of this pretext to absent himself from home that -Constance was doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of that -household, whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show a -brave front. - -“Well, you know,” said she, “it is I who compel him to go about and take -as much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the open -air. Shooting is very good for him.” - -At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing -another visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the -room, with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight of -Madame Beauchene, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model -of wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance, -however, profited by the diversion of Valerie’s arrival to declare that -she unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be -waiting for her at home. - -“Well, at all events, leave us Maurice,” suggested Mathieu. “Here’s -Reine here now, and all six children can play a little while together. I -will bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack.” - -But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother’s -skirts. And she refused the invitation. “Oh! no, no!” said she. “He has -to keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away -from home. Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after you -all in passing. Keep well; good-by.” - -Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valerie, but simply shaking -hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other -considered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiled -at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful that -day in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy -black tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed -to be the latter’s younger sister. - -Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: “Come and kiss me, my -dear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautiful -and tall. How old is she?” - -“Nearly thirteen,” Valerie replied. - -She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu -noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes. -After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries, -and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, -she relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who -thanked her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave -her with his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on her -mind, and perhaps she wished to make a confidante of Marianne. - -“My dear Reine,” said he, “come with these little ones into the -dining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay the -cloth.” - -This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the children -trooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later, -when everything was ready there, and Valerie came in, the latter’s eyes -looked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, when -Mathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was. -Morange’s scheme of leaving the Beauchene works and entering the service -of the Credit National, where he would speedily rise to a high and -lucrative position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry and -marrying her off to advantage--all the ambitious dreams of rank and -wealth in which his wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihood -of fulfilment, since it seemed probable that Valerie might again have -a child. Both she and her husband were in despair over it, and though -Marianne had done her utmost to pacify her friend and reconcile her -to circumstances, there were reasons to fear that in her distracted -condition she might do something desperate. - -Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Seguins du Hordel -at the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d’Antin, they came upon similar -trouble there. Seguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple to -accuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite a -bachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had never -fully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like a -fire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night at -his club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ring -at every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society and -appeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite and -jealousy upon his ailing wife. - -She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferred -against her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part to -give up her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as long -as possible. And now she was really very ill, haunted too by an -unreasoning, irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. -Mathieu, who had seen her but a few months previously looking so -fair and fresh, was amazed to find her such a wreck. And on her side -Valentine gazed, all astonishment, at Marianne, noticing with surprise -how calm and strong the young woman seemed, and how limpid her clear and -smiling eyes remained. - -On the day of the Froments’ visit Seguin had gone out early in the -morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch -was for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Celeste, the -maid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was -stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine -turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied: - -“No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my -village is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, -Sophie Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings -nurses to Paris?” - -“Well, what of it?” exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering -Celeste to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be -disturbed in this manner. - -“Well, madame, she’s here; and as I told you before, if you would -intrust her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for -you in the country, and bring her here whenever she’s wanted.” - -La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained -ajar, and scarcely had Celeste finished than, without waiting for an -invitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened -woman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her -frequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed -nose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression of -good nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of -artfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her black -cape, black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her the -appearance of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sunday -best. - -“Have you been a nurse?” Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her. - -“Yes, madame,” replied La Couteau, “but that was ten years ago, when I -was only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn’t likely to make much money -by remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring -others to Paris.” - -As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those -who give their services as wet nurses to bourgeois families are simply -fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much -on the point, and so she added: “But one does what one can, eh, madame? -The doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so -I thought that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another -manner.” - -“And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?” - -“Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more -particularly Madame Broquette’s office in the Rue Roquepine. It’s a very -respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived--And so, if -you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you--the -pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you -can rely on me.” - -As her mistress did not immediately reply, Celeste ventured to -intervene, and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had -called that day. - -“When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes -a baby with her, sometimes a nurse’s child, and sometimes the child of -people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she -takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now -came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby -she is to take away with her.” - -Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the -neighborhood and a great friend of Celeste’s. She had married a former -soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty -francs a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, -and had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled -their income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at -their ease. Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to -spend hours gossiping in Madame Menoux’s little shop, was forever being -scolded for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full -of anxiety and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud -at being questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux’s -baby was a fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a -certain Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher. - -“It was I who recommended her,” continued the servant, “for a friend of -mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt -she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome -a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very -kind and obliging.” - -Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu’s -eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself, -made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no -confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who, -it seemed to him, knew far too much. - -Marianne joined in the conversation. “But why,” asked she, “why does not -this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?” - -Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor, -who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to -prevent others from doing business. - -“Oh! it’s impossible,” exclaimed Celeste, well pleased with -the diversion. “Madame Menoux’s shop is no bigger than my -pocket-handkerchief, and at the back of it there is only one little room -where she and her husband take their meals and sleep. And that room, -too, overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe. -The baby would not live a week in such a place. And, besides, Madame -Menoux would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had a -servant, and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in -time for her husband’s return from the museum, she never has a moment -to spare. Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little -fellow with her.” - -“It is true,” said Marianne sadly; “there are some poor mothers whom I -pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and -yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be -able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown -spot and given to another woman.” - -La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. -Assuming the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which -she always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: -“Oh, Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it’s not far from -Bayeux, so that folks are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, -too, that people come there to recruit their health. And, besides, the -little ones who are confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. -One would have to be heartless to do otherwise than love such little -angels.” - -However, like Celeste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how -significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her -rustic ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. -Besides, of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the -region, since that lady, Madame Seguin, wished to have a nurse at her -house? So she resumed: “Then it’s understood, madame, I will bring you -the best we have, a real treasure.” - -Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found -strength to speak out. “No, no, I won’t pledge myself in advance. I -will send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if -there is one to suit me.” - -Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to -Marianne, and asked: “Shall you nurse your baby yourself?” - -“Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on -that point, my husband and I.” - -“No doubt. I understand you: I should much like to do the same myself; -but it is impossible.” - -La Couteau had remained there motionless, vexed at having come on a -fruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she would -have earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all her -spite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, was -evidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, at -a sign which Celeste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in the -company of the maid. - -A few minutes afterwards, Seguin arrived, and, repairing to the -dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious -meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and -white Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and -Marianne would never have met with Dr. Boutan’s approval; but Seguin -declared the doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could -ever please. - -He, Seguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day -to be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and -even galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at -times that tears came to the unfortunate woman’s eyes. Now that he -scarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was going -wrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him, -entirely his wife’s fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon -earth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place -remark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu -and Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a -harsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to -apologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of the -Vaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in her -haughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on him -for his treatment. - -However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last -turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the -game in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such -wise that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that -his income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret -of the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could -he possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile -plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel? - -Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks -in the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. “Are you -really of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?” he asked. “It’s pitiful -to see all that land lying waste and idle.” - -“Cultivate it!” cried Seguin. “Ah! I should like to see such a miracle! -The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs.” - -They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table -Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss -her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on -account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors -arrived in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the -novelist, who of late had seldom called on the Seguins, and the other, -much to Mathieu’s dislike, proved to be Beauchene’s sister, Seraphine, -the Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, -provoking, significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly -glance of mocking contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the -novelist between them soon turned the conversation on to subjects that -appealed to their vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he had -lately seen Doctor Gaude perform several operations at the Marbeuf -Hospital. He had found there the usual set of society men who attend -first performances at the theatres, and indeed there were also some -women present. - -And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most -precise particulars, much to the delight of Seguin, who every now and -again interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne -grew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with -amazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to -the evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last -book, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with -its theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she at -last glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the -semi-society and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would -like to go off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the -sunlit quays. He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity -rife amid those wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it -was indeed time to take leave. - -“What! are you going already!” Valentine then exclaimed. “Well, I dare -not detain you if you feel tired.” However, when Marianne begged her to -kiss the children for her, she added: “Why, yes, it’s true you have not -seen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself.” - -But when Celeste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced -that Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their -governess. And this made Seguin explode once more. All his rancor -against his wife revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She -spent her days lying on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave -to go out with the children without saying anything? One could not -even see the children now in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of -things. They were left to the servants; in fact, it was the servants now -who controlled the house. - -Thereupon Valentine began to cry. - -“_Mon Dieu_!” said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself out -of doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaning -on his arm; “why, they are quite mad, the people in that house.” - -“Yes,” Mathieu responded, “they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity -them, for they know not what happiness is.” - - - - -VI - -ABOUT nine o’clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as -Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered -near his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated -the pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, -clad in furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchene, who -was accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and -victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife: - -“Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the -fresh air he can. There’s nothing like that and good food to make a -man.” - -Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. “Has Maurice been poorly -again?” he inquired. - -“Oh, no!” hastily replied the boy’s mother, with an appearance of great -gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain -covert fears. “Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so -fine this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition.” - -“Don’t go along the quays,” said Beauchene again. “Go up towards the -Invalides. He’ll have much stiffer marching to do when he’s a soldier.” - -Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went -back into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: “That -youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so -nervous. For my part, I’m quite easy in mind about him, as you can see.” - And with a laugh he concluded: “When one has but one son, he keeps him.” - -That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke -out between old Moineaud’s daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the -factory into a state of commotion. Norine’s intrigue with Beauchene -had ended in the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken -himself to some other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her -shame, and all the consequences of her fault; for although it had -hitherto been possible for her to conceal her condition from her -parents, she was unable to deceive her sister, who was her constant -companion. The two girls were always bickering, and Norine had for some -time lived in dread of scandal and exposure. And that day the trouble -came to a climax, beginning with a trivial dispute about a bit of -glass-paper in the workroom, then developing into a furious exchange of -coarse, insulting language, and culminating in a frantic outburst from -Euphrasie, who shrieked to the assembled work-girls all that she knew -about her sister. - -There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and -scratching one another desperately, and could not be separated until -Beauchene, Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, -rushed into the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for -Beauchene, Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after -giving her employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old -Moineaud was present, and the public revelation of his daughter’s shame -sent him into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and -threatened to throw her out of window should he find her at home when -he returned there in the evening. And Beauchene, both annoyed at the -scandal and ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture to -interfere. It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing -that he found strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, and -assert his authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one and -all of the girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should -ever occur there again. - -Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What -most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchene regained his -self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which -he withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring -order. Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom -Mathieu, to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, -as if indeed he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy -business. But Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for -other reasons. The scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine’s -condition, the fate awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, -icy streets, had revived all his own poignant worries with respect to -Valerie. Mathieu had already heard of the latter’s trouble from his -wife, and he speedily grasped the accountant’s meaning. It vaguely -seemed to him also that Morange was yielding to the same unreasoning -despair as Valerie, and was almost willing that she should take the -desperate course which she had hinted to Marianne. But it was a very -serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to be in any way mixed up in -it. Having tried his best to pacify the cashier, he sought forgetfulness -of these painful incidents in his work. - -That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cecile Moineaud, the old -fitter’s youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from -her mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood -that the woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual -compassionate way he consented to go. The interview took place in one -of the adjacent streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La -Moineaude was there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, -a child eight years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly -while begging Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and -was in a position to approach Beauchene on the subject. La Moineaude was -firmly determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his -future and that of her son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; -for there was no telling what might happen if Beauchene’s name should be -mentioned. Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would become -of them all should the family bread-winners be turned away from the -factory? Norine certainly had no legal claim on Beauchene, the law being -peremptory on that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, and -was driven from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want in -the streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting that -she had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchene. In any case, her -lot remained a very hard one. That Beauchene was the father of her child -there could be no doubt; and at last Mathieu, without promising success, -told the mother that he would do all he could in the matter. - -He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of -difficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchene fumed, stormed, denied, -equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of -blackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart -the matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother should -go to his wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simply -suspected things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, -there would be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, should -he do anything for the girl, it would become known, and everybody would -regard him as responsible. And then there would be no end to what he -called the blackmailing. - -However, when Beauchene reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle -was gained. He smiled and answered: “Of course, one can never tell--the -girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond -endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that -she made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; -she simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak -weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my -opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at -a proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before -she is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred -francs in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after.” - -Beauchene walked nervously up and down, and then replied: “Well, I -haven’t a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will -not inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because -the mere idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. -But if it’s a question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must -be understood, however, that I won’t mix myself up in anything; I wish -even to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl -where you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor -less.” - -Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from -this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge. -And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who -is certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even -jested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions: -“See that my conditions are fully understood. I don’t want to know -anything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear -another word of the matter.” - -That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening -there was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they were -about to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon -the floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could -be revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted, -accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that -morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish -outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one -another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her -boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first -time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a -terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so -acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in -her, she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely -owner of the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If -she was to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none -other? Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling -of desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning -her cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at last -recovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with a -fair appetite. Then Beauchene immediately shrugged his shoulders, and -began to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went by -Constance herself ceased to think of the incident. - -On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which -he had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Celeste, the -maid, had spoken on the day of his visit to the Seguins. He at first -dismissed all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken -so strangely, but he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame -Bourdieu, who accommodated boarders at the little house where she -resided in the Rue de Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this -woman had attended Madame Morange at the time of Reine’s birth, a -circumstance which induced him to question the cashier. - -At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. “Yes, a -lady friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife,” said he; “but why -do you ask me?” - -And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, -as if that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu’s name signified that the -young fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he -had been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim, -haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his -mind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at -that moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled. - -Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of -placing Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him. - -“My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning,” he -began. “Oh! I don’t know how it happened, but, as you are aware, -Reine was born so many years ago that I can’t give you any precise -information. It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the -head of a first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no -doubt you will find what you want there.” - -Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been -warned that Madame Bourdieu’s terms were rather high, he stifled his -prejudices and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to -reconnoitre Madame Rouche’s establishment and make some inquiries of -her. The mere aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the black -houses of old Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into -a small yard which the nurse’s few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the -passage entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name of -Madame Rouche in big letters. She herself proved to be a person of five- -or six-and-thirty, gowned in black and spare of figure, with a leaden -complexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusual -prominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-like -gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous, -unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at her -disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, and -this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have done -with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened by -what he had seen of the place. - -On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu’s establishment, a little -three-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boetie -and the Rue de Penthievre, offered an engaging aspect, with its -bright facade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then -two-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white -face, which had greatly helped her on the road to success. She -expatiated to Mathieu on the preliminary training that was required -by one of her profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to make -a position, the responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of all -sorts that she had to face; and she plainly told the young man that her -charge for a boarder would be two hundred francs a month. This was -far more than he was empowered to give; however, after some further -conversation, when Madame Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of four -months’ board, she became more accommodating, and agreed to accept a -round sum of six hundred francs for the entire period, provided that -the person for whom Mathieu was acting would consent to occupy a -three-bedded room with two other boarders. - -Altogether there were about a dozen boarders’ rooms in the house, some -of these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for -which were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could -accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some -five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the -regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say -who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely -known by some Christian name which they chose to give. - -Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu’s terms, and that same -evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble -ensued with Beauchene, who protested when he learnt that five hundred -francs would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu -managed affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only became -reconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a little -linen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten -francs a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered Madame -Bourdieu’s establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand the -girl her first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything. - -He found her there in the boarders’ refectory with some of her -companions in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with -lifeless eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale -red-haired girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as -Victoire. Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering -to the name of Rosine, a jeweller’s daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, -whose story was at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while -waiting to see Madame Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a time -answering Norine’s questions, and listening to the others, who conversed -before him in a free and open way. His heart was wrung by much that he -heard, and as soon as he could rid himself of Norine he returned to the -waiting-room, eager to complete his business. There, however, two women -who wished to consult Madame Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by side -on a sofa, told him that she was still engaged, so that he was compelled -to tarry a little longer. He ensconced himself in a large armchair, and -taking a newspaper from his pocket, began to read it. But he had not -been thus occupied for many minutes before the door opened and a servant -entered, ushering in a lady dressed in black and thickly veiled, whom -she asked to be good enough to wait her turn. Mathieu was on the point -of rising, for, though his back was turned to the door, he could see, -in a looking-glass, that the new arrival was none other than Morange’s -wife, Valerie. After a moment’s hesitation, however, the sight of her -black gown and thick veil, which seemed to indicate that she desired to -escape recognition, induced him to dive back into his armchair and feign -extreme attention to his newspaper. She, on her side, had certainly -not noticed him, but by glancing slantwise towards the looking-glass he -could observe all her movements. - -Meantime the conversation between the other women on the sofa continued, -and to Mathieu’s surprise it suddenly turned on Madame Rouche, -concerning whom one of them began telling the most horrible stories, -which fully confirmed the young man’s previous suspicions. These stories -seemed to have a powerful fascination for Valerie, who sat in a corner, -never stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her head -towards the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect her -big eyes glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one of -the others inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Rouche -resided, and the other replied, “At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.” - -Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made her -appearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchanged -only a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in his -armchair, the high back of which concealed him from view, Valerie rose -from her seat and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room. - -As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon his -knees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he had -heard, both there and in Norine’s company, and shuddering at the thought -of the dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long an -interval elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly roused -by a sound of voices. - -Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door. She had the same -plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the -other was quivering, as with distress and grief. “You are not sensible, -my dear child,” said Madame Bourdieu to her. “It is simply foolish of -you. Come, go home and be good.” - -Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu -was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. And -she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken -in his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival -of Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly -settled his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would -return some day to see her. - -To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La -Boetie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of -that street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none other -than her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her -in the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they both -stood there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress. -It was plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them. -They stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then -halted once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At one -moment the young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue -La Boetie, they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in -the direction of Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more and -exchanged a few words; and then Mathieu’s heart contracted as he saw -them retrace their steps along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue de -la Pepiniere as far as the Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whither -they were going, but some irresistible force impelled him to follow -them; and before long, from an open doorway, in which he prudently -concealed himself, he saw them look round to ascertain whether they were -observed, and then slink, first the wife and afterwards the husband, -into the dark passage of La Rouche’s house. For a moment Mathieu -lingered in his hiding-place, quivering, full of dread and horror; and -when at last he turned his steps homeward it was with a heavy heart -indeed. - -The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round, -when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that -day--things which he had vainly striven to forget--was revived in the -most startling fashion. One morning at eight o’clock Morange abruptly -called at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompanied -by his daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and -as soon as Reine had joined Mathieu’s children, and could not hear what -he said, he implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he told -the dreadful truth--Valerie was dying. Her daughter believed her to -be in the country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl. -Valerie was elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting -below, but lacked the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was -his grief, so great his dread. - -Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first told -the cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he had -informed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happened -to the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And then -the two men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, and -there found the hapless Valerie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icy -cold. Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell upon -his knees at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also felt -death’s heavy hand upon him. - -For a moment, indeed, the young man anticipated exposure and scandal. -But when he hinted this to La Rouche she faintly smiled. She had friends -on many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valerie’s death at -the municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify the -demise, would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usual -practice! - -Then Mathieu bethought himself of leading Morange away; but the other, -still plunged in painful stupor, did not heed him. - -“No, no, my friend, I pray you, say nothing,” he at last replied, in a -very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate -woman who had fallen asleep forever. “I know what I have done; I shall -never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet -I adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too -much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness -came upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and -dissuaded her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as -for me, it is all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself.” - -All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this -confession of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation, -never rose in a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being, -which would evermore be void. “She wished to be gay, and rich, and -happy,” he continued. “It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she -was so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to -content her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat. -We spent far too much money on it. Then came that story of the Credit -National and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the -trouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce -all her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her -will. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penury -and drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there.” - -Morange’s lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to -violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent -Mathieu’s heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine. - -“Ah, yes!” said the other, “I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her -mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won’t you? -Tell her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful -misfortune. And don’t worry me, I beg you, don’t take me away. I promise -you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her. -Nobody will even hear me; I shan’t disturb any one.” - -Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases -as he sank into a dream of his wrecked life. - -Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him -there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was -indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and -to breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle. -Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast -sky, all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose -before him like a consolatory promise of life’s coming victory, an -atonement for every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting -hope kept full of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her -pangs, love would triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness -for to-morrow’s allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that -Mathieu almost despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little -house, that he might once more take part in life’s poem, that august -festival instinct with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity’s -everlasting hymn, the coming of a new being into the world. - -That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose, -and Reine were sent round to the Beauchenes’, where they filled the -house with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, and -had to lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in -the play of the others. “He has pains in his legs,” said his father to -Mathieu, when he came round to inquire after Marianne; “he’s growing so -fast, and getting such a big fellow, you know.” - -Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face -remained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt -the passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had -made Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in -her arms. - -But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne’s room to answer -Beauchene’s inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now found -the sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new -life. While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to -him: “It is a boy.” - -Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautiful -eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already -smiling with happiness. - -“Dear, dear wife,” said Mathieu, “how good and brave you are, and how I -love you!” - -“Yes, yes, I am very happy,” she faltered, “and I must try to give you -back all the love that you give me.” - -Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant -glory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy -suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming -future. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the -faint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life’s immense treasure was -increased and eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring -night when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature -had streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around -him amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting -the poem of eternal life that sprang from love the eternal. - - - - -VII - -“I TELL you that I don’t need Zoe to give the child a bath,” exclaimed -Mathieu half in anger. “Stay in bed, and rest yourself!” - -“But the servant must get the bath ready,” replied Marianne, “and bring -you some warm water.” - -She laughed as if amused by the dispute, and he ended by laughing also. - -Two days previously they had re-installed themselves in the little -pavilion on the verge of the woods near Janville which they rented from -the Seguins. So impatient, indeed, were they to find themselves once -more among the fields that in spite of the doctor’s advice Marianne had -made the journey but fifteen days after giving birth to her little boy. -However, a precocious springtide brought with it that March such balmy -warmth and sunshine that the only ill-effect she experienced was a -little fatigue. And so, on the day after their arrival--Sunday--Mathieu, -glad at being able to remain with her, insisted that she should rest in -bed, and only rise about noon, in time for dejeuner. - -“Why,” he repeated, “I can very well attend to the child while you rest. -You have him in your arms from morning till night. And, besides, if you -only knew how pleased I am to be here again with you and the dear little -fellow.” - -He approached her to kiss her gently, and with a fresh laugh she -returned his kiss. It was quite true: they were both delighted to be -back at Chantebled, which recalled to them such loving memories. That -room, looking towards the far expanse of sky and all the countryside, -renascent, quivering with sap, was gilded with gayety by the early -springtide. - -Marianne leant over the cradle which was near her, beside the bed. “The -fact is,” said she, “Master Gervais is sound asleep. Just look at him. -You will never have the heart to wake him.” - -Then both father and mother remained for a moment gazing at their -sleeping child. Marianne had passed her arm round her husband’s neck -and was clinging to him, as they laughed delightedly over the cradle -in which the little one slumbered. He was a fine child, pink and white -already; but only a father and mother could thus contemplate their -offspring. As the baby opened his eyes, which were still full of all the -mystery whence he had come, they raised exclamations full of emotion. - -“You know, he saw me!” - -“Certainly, and me too. He looked at me: he turned his head.” - -“Oh, the cherub!” - -It was but an illusion, but that dear little face, still so soft and -silent, told them so many things which none other would have heard! They -found themselves repeated in the child, mingled as it were together; -and detected extraordinary likenesses, which for hours and for days -kept them discussing the question as to which of them he most resembled. -Moreover, each proved very obstinate, declaring that he was the living -portrait of the other. - -As a matter of course, Master Gervais had no sooner opened his eyes than -he began to shriek. But Marianne was pitiless: her rule was the bath -first and milk afterwards. Zoe brought up a big jug of hot water, -and then set out the little bath near the window in the sunlight. And -Mathieu, all obstinacy, bathed the child, washing him with a soft sponge -for some three minutes, while Marianne, from her bed, watched over the -operation, jesting about the delicacy of touch that he displayed, as if -the child were some fragile new-born divinity whom he feared to bruise -with his big hands. At the same time they continued marvelling at the -delightful scene. How pretty he looked in the water, his pink skin -shining in the sunlight! And how well-behaved he was, for it was -wonderful to see how quickly he ceased wailing and gave signs of -satisfaction when he felt the all-enveloping caress of the warm water. -Never had father and mother possessed such a little treasure. - -“And now,” said Mathieu, when Zoe had helped him to wipe the boy with a -fine cloth, “and now we will weigh Master Gervais.” - -This was a complicated operation, which was rendered the more difficult -by the extreme repugnance that the child displayed. He struggled and -wriggled on the platform of the weighing scales to such a degree that -it was impossible to arrive at his correct weight, in order to ascertain -how much this had increased since the previous occasion. As a rule, the -increase varied from six to seven ounces a week. The father generally -lost patience over the operation, and the mother had to intervene. - -“Here! put the scales on the table near my bed, and give me the little -one in his napkin. We will see what the napkin weighs afterwards.” - -At this moment, however, the customary morning invasion took place. The -other four children, who were beginning to know how to dress themselves, -the elder ones helping the younger, and Zoe lending a hand at times, -darted in at a gallop, like frolicsome escaped colts. Having -thrown themselves on papa’s neck and rushed upon mamma’s bed to say -good-morning, the boys stopped short, full of admiration and interest -at the sight of Gervais in the scales. Rose, however, still rather -uncertain on her legs, caught hold of the scales in her impatient -efforts to climb upon the bed, and almost toppled everything over. “I -want to see! I want to see!” she cried in her shrill voice. - -At this the others likewise wished to meddle, and already stretched -out their little hands, so that it became necessary to turn them out of -doors. - -“Now kindly oblige me by going to play outside,” said Mathieu. “Take -your hats and remain under the window, so that we may hear you.” - -Then, in spite of the complaints and leaps of Master Gervais, Marianne -was at last able to obtain his correct weight. And what delight there -was, for he had gained more than seven ounces during the week. After -losing weight during the first three days, like all new-born children, -he was now growing and filling out like a strong, healthy human plant. -They could already picture him walking, sturdy and handsome. His mother, -sitting up in bed, wrapped his swaddling clothes around him with -her deft, nimble hands, jesting the while and answering each of his -plaintive wails. - -“Yes, yes, I know, we are very, very hungry. But it is all right; the -soup is on the fire, and will be served to Monsieur smoking hot.” - -On awakening that morning she had made a real Sunday toilette: her -superb hair was caught up in a huge chignon which disclosed the -whiteness of her neck, and she wore a white flannel lace-trimmed -dressing-jacket, which allowed but a little of her bare arms to be seen. -Propped up by two pillows, she laughingly offered her breast to the -child, who was already protruding his lips and groping with his hands. -And when he found what he wanted he eagerly began to suck. - -Mathieu, seeing that both mother and babe were steeped in sunshine, then -went to draw one of the curtains, but Marianne exclaimed: “No, no, leave -us the sun; it doesn’t inconvenience us at all, it fills our veins with -springtide.” - -He came back and lingered near the bed. The sun’s rays poured over it, -and life blazed there in a florescence of health and beauty. There is no -more glorious blossoming, no more sacred symbol of living eternity -than an infant at its mother’s breast. It is like a prolongation of -maternity’s travail, when the mother continues giving herself to her -babe, offering him the fountain of life that shall make him a man. - -Scarce is he born to the world than she takes him back and clasps him -to her bosom, that he may there again have warmth and nourishment. And -nothing could be more simple or more necessary. Marianne, both for her -own sake and that of her boy, in order that beauty and health might -remain their portion, was naturally his nurse. - -Little Gervais was still sucking when Zoe, after tidying the room, came -up again with a big bunch of lilac, and announced that Monsieur and -Madame Angelin had called, on their way back from an early walk, to -inquire after Madame. - -“Show them up,” said Marianne gayly; “I can well receive them.” - -The Angelins were the young couple who, having installed themselves in -a little house at Janville, ever roamed the lonely paths, absorbed in -their mutual passion. She was delicious--dark, tall, admirably formed, -always joyous and fond of pleasure. He, a handsome fellow, fair -and square shouldered, had the gallant mien of a musketeer with his -streaming moustache. In addition to their ten thousand francs a year, -which enabled them to live as they liked, he earned a little money -by painting pretty fans, flowery with roses and little women deftly -postured. And so their life had hitherto been a game of love, an -everlasting billing and cooing. Towards the close of the previous summer -they had become quite intimate with the Froments, through meeting them -well-nigh every day. - -“Can we come in? Are we not intruding?” called Angelin, in his sonorous -voice, from the landing. - -Then Claire, his wife, as soon as she had kissed Marianne, apologized -for having called so early. - -“We only learnt last night, my dear,” said she, “that you had arrived -the day before. We didn’t expect you for another eight or ten days. And -so, as we passed the house just now, we couldn’t resist calling. You -will forgive us, won’t you?” Then, never waiting for an answer, she -added with the petulant vivacity of a tom-tit whom the open air had -intoxicated: “Oh! so there is the new little gentleman--a boy, am I -not right? And your health is good? But really I need not ask it. _Mon -Dieu_, what a pretty little fellow he is! Look at him, Robert; how -pretty he is! A real little doll! Isn’t he funny now, isn’t he funny! He -is quite amusing.” - -Her husband, observing her gayety, drew near and began to admire the -child by way of following her example. “Ah yes, he is really a pretty -baby. But I have seen so many frightful ones--thin, puny, bluish little -things, looking like little plucked chickens. When they are white and -plump they are quite nice.” - -Mathieu began to laugh, and twitted the Angelins on having no child -of their own. But on this point they held very decided opinions. They -wished to enjoy life, unburdened by offspring, while they were young. As -for what might happen in five or six years’ time, that, of course, was -another matter. Nevertheless, Madame Angelin could not help being struck -by the delightful picture which Marianne, so fresh and gay, presented -with her plump little babe at her breast in that white bed amid the -bright sunshine. - -At last she remarked: “There’s one thing. I certainly could not feed a -child. I should have to engage a nurse for any baby of mine.” - -“Of course!” her husband replied. “I would never allow you to feed it. -It would be idiotic.” - -These words had scarcely passed his lips when he regretted them and -apologized to Marianne, explaining that no mother possessed of means was -nowadays willing to face the trouble and worry of nursing. - -“Oh! for my part,” Marianne responded, with her quiet smile, “if I had a -hundred thousand francs a year I should nurse all my children, even were -there a dozen of them. To begin with, it is so healthful, you know, both -for mother and child: and if I didn’t do my duty to the little one -I should look on myself as a criminal, as a mother who grudged her -offspring health and life.” - -Lowering her beautiful soft eyes towards her boy, she watched him with a -look of infinite love, while he continued nursing gluttonously. And in a -dreamy voice she continued: “To give a child of mine to another--oh no, -never! I should feel too jealous. I want my children to be entirely -my own. And it isn’t merely a question of a child’s physical health. I -speak of his whole being, of the intelligence and heart that will come -to him, and which he ought to derive from me alone. If I should find -him foolish or malicious later on, I should think that his nurse had -poisoned him. Dear little fellow! when he pulls like that it is as if he -were drinking me up entirely.” - -Then Mathieu, deeply moved, turned towards the others, saying: “Ah! she -is quite right. I only wish that every mother could hear her, and make -it the fashion in France once more to suckle their infants. It would be -sufficient if it became an ideal of beauty. And, indeed, is it not of -the loftiest and brightest beauty?” - -The Angelins complaisantly began to laugh, but they did not seem -convinced. Just as they rose to take their leave an extraordinary uproar -burst forth beneath the window, the piercing clamor of little wildings, -freely romping in the fields. And it was all caused by Ambroise throwing -a ball, which had lodged itself on a tree. Blaise and Denis were -flinging stones at it to bring it down, and Rose called and jumped and -stretched out her arms as if she hoped to be able to reach the ball. The -Angelins stopped short, surprised and almost nervous. - -“Good heavens!” murmured Claire, “what will it be when you have a -dozen?” - -“But the house would seem quite dead if they did not romp and shout,” - said Marianne, much amused. “Good-by, my dear. I will go to see you when -I can get about.” - -The months of March and April proved superb, and all went well with -Marianne. Thus the lonely little house, nestling amid foliage, was ever -joyous. Each Sunday in particular proved a joy, for the father did not -then have to go to his office. On the other days he started off early -in the morning, and returned about seven o’clock, ever busily laden with -work in the interval. And if his constant perambulations did not affect -his good-humor, he was nevertheless often haunted by thoughts of the -future. Formerly he had never been alarmed by the penury of his little -home. Never had he indulged in any dream of ambition or wealth. Besides, -he knew that his wife’s only idea of happiness, like his own, was to -live there in very simple fashion, leading a brave life of health, -peacefulness, and love. But while he did not desire the power procured -by a high position and the enjoyment offered by a large fortune, he -could not help asking himself how he was to provide, were it ever so -modestly, for his increasing family. What would he be able to do, should -he have other children; how would he procure the necessaries of life -each time that a fresh birth might impose fresh requirements upon him? -One situated as he was must create resources, draw food from the earth -step by step, each time a little mouth opened and cried its hunger -aloud. Otherwise he would be guilty of criminal improvidence. And such -reflections as these came upon him the more strongly as his penury had -increased since the birth of Gervais--to such a point, indeed, that -Marianne, despite prodigies of economy, no longer knew how to make her -money last her till the end of the month. The slightest expenditure had -to be debated; the very butter had to be spread thinly on the children’s -bread; and they had to continue wearing their blouses till they were -well-nigh threadbare. To increase the embarrassment they grew every -year, and cost more money. It had been necessary to send the three boys -to a little school at Janville, which was as yet but a small expense. -But would it not be necessary to send them the following year to a -college, and where was the money for this to come from? A grave problem, -a worry which grew from hour to hour, and which for Mathieu somewhat -spoilt that charming spring whose advent was flowering the countryside. - -The worst was that Mathieu deemed himself immured, as it were, in his -position as designer at the Beauchene works. Even admitting that his -salary should some day be doubled, it was not seven or eight thousand -francs a year which would enable him to realize his dream of a numerous -family freely and proudly growing and spreading like some happy forest, -indebted solely for strength, health, and beauty to the good common -mother of all, the earth, which gave to all its sap. And this was why, -since his return to Janville, the earth, the soil had attracted him, -detained him during his frequent walks, while he revolved vague but -ever-expanding thoughts in his mind. He would pause for long minutes, -now before a field of wheat, now on the verge of a leafy wood, now on -the margin of a river whose waters glistened in the sunshine, and now -amid the nettles of some stony moorland. All sorts of vague plans -then rose within him, uncertain reveries of such vast scope, such -singularity, that he had as yet spoken of them to nobody, not even his -wife. Others would doubtless have mocked at him, for he had as yet but -reached that dim, quivering hour when inventors feel the gust of their -discovery sweep over them, before the idea that they are revolving -presents itself with full precision to their minds. Yet why did he not -address himself to the soil, man’s everlasting provider and nurse? Why -did he not clear and fertilize those far-spreading lands, those woods, -those heaths, those stretches of stony ground which were left -sterile around him? Since it was just that each man should bring his -contribution to the common weal, create subsistence for himself and his -offspring, why should not he, at the advent of each new child, supply -a new field of fertile earth which would give that child food, without -cost to the community? That was his sole idea; it took no more precise -shape; at the thought of realizing it he was carried off into splendid -dreams. - -The Froments had been in the country fully a month when one evening -Marianne, wheeling Gervais’s little carriage in front of her, came as -far as the bridge over the Yeuse to await Mathieu, who had promised -to return early. Indeed, he got there before six o’clock. And as -the evening was fine, it occurred to Marianne to go as far as the -Lepailleurs’ mill down the river, and buy some new-laid eggs there. - -“I’m willing,” said Mathieu. “I’m very fond of their romantic old mill, -you know; though if it were mine I should pull it down and build another -one with proper appliances.” - -In the yard of the picturesque old building, half covered with ivy, -with its mossy wheel slumbering amid water-lilies, they found the -Lepailleurs, the man tall, dry, and carroty, the woman as carroty and -as dry as himself, but both of them young and hardy. Their child Antonin -was sitting on the ground, digging a hole with his little hands. - -“Eggs?” La Lepailleur exclaimed; “yes, certainly, madame, there must be -some.” - -She made no haste to fetch them, however, but stood looking at Gervais, -who was asleep in his little vehicle. - -“Ah! so that’s your last. He’s plump and pretty enough, I must say,” she -remarked. - -But Lepailleur raised a derisive laugh, and with the familiarity which -the peasant displays towards the bourgeois whom he knows to be hard up, -he said: “And so that makes you five, monsieur. Ah, well! that would be -a deal too many for poor folks like us.” - -“Why?” Mathieu quietly inquired. “Haven’t you got this mill, and don’t -you own fields, to give labor to the arms that would come and whose -labor would double and treble your produce?” - -These simple words were like a whipstroke that made Lepailleur rear. And -once again he poured forth all his spite. Ah! surely now, it wasn’t his -tumble-down old mill that would ever enrich him, since it had enriched -neither his father nor his grandfather. And as for his fields, well, -that was a pretty dowry that his wife had brought him, land in which -nothing more would grow, and which, however much one might water it with -one’s sweat, did not even pay for manuring and sowing. - -“But in the first place,” resumed Mathieu, “your mill ought to be -repaired and its old mechanism replaced, or, better still, you should -buy a good steam-engine.” - -“Repair the mill! Buy an engine! Why, that’s madness,” the other -replied. “What would be the use of it? As it is, people hereabouts have -almost renounced growing corn, and I remain idle every other month.” - -“And then,” continued Mathieu, “if your fields yield less, it is because -you cultivate them badly, following the old routine, without proper care -or appliances or artificial manure.” - -“Appliances! Artificial manure! All that humbug which has only sent -poor folks to rack and ruin! Ah! I should just like to see you trying to -cultivate the land better, and make it yield what it’ll never yield any -more.” - -Thereupon he quite lost his temper, became violent and brutal, launching -against the ungrateful earth all the charges which his love of idleness -and his obstinacy suggested. He had travelled, he had fought in Africa -as a soldier, folks could not say that he had always lived in his hole -like an ignorant beast. But, none the less, on leaving his regiment he -had lost all taste for work and come to the conclusion that agriculture -was doomed, and would never give him aught but dry bread to eat. The -land would soon be bankrupt, and the peasantry no longer believed in it, -so old and empty and worn out had it become. And even the sun got out of -order nowadays; they had snow in July and thunderstorms in December, a -perfect upsetting of seasons, which wrecked the crops almost before they -were out of the ground. - -“No, monsieur,” said Lepailleur, “what you say is impossible; it’s all -past. The soil and work, there’s nothing left of either. It’s barefaced -robbery, and though the peasant may kill himself with labor, he will -soon be left without even water to drink. Children indeed! No, no! -There’s Antonin, of course, and for him we may just be able to provide. -But I assure you that I won’t even make Antonin a peasant against his -will! If he takes to schooling and wishes to go to Paris, I shall tell -him that he’s quite right, for Paris is nowadays the only chance for -sturdy chaps who want to make a fortune. So he will be at liberty to -sell everything, if he chooses, and try his luck there. The only thing -that I regret is that I didn’t make the venture myself when there was -still time.” - -Mathieu began to laugh. Was it not singular that he, a bourgeois with -a bachelor’s degree and scientific attainments, should dream of coming -back to the soil, to the common mother of all labor and wealth, when -this peasant, sprung from peasants, cursed and insulted the earth, and -hoped that his son would altogether renounce it? Never had anything -struck him as more significant. It symbolized that disastrous exodus -from the rural districts towards the towns, an exodus which year by year -increased, unhinging the nation and reducing it to anaemia. - -“You are wrong,” he said in a jovial way so as to drive all bitterness -from the discussion. “Don’t be unfaithful to the earth; she’s an old -mistress who would revenge herself. In your place I would lay myself out -to obtain from her, by increase of care, all that I might want. As in -the world’s early days, she is still the great fruitful spouse, and she -yields abundantly when she is loved in proper fashion.” - -But Lepailleur, raising his fists, retorted: “No, no; I’ve had enough of -her!” - -“And, by the way,” continued Mathieu, “one thing which astonishes me -is that no courageous, intelligent man has ever yet come forward to -do something with all that vast abandoned estate yonder--that -Chantebled--which old Seguin, formerly, dreamt of turning into a -princely domain. There are great stretches of waste land, woods which -one might partly fell, heaths and moorland which might easily be -restored to cultivation. What a splendid task! What a work of creation -for a bold man to undertake!” - -This so amazed Lepailleur that he stood there openmouthed. Then his -jeering spirit asserted itself: “But, my dear sir--excuse my saying -it--you must be mad! Cultivate Chantebled, clear those stony tracts, -wade about in those marshes! Why, one might bury millions there -without reaping a single bushel of oats! It’s a cursed spot, which my -grandfather’s father saw such as it is now, and which my grandson’s -son will see just the same. Ah! well, I’m not inquisitive, but it would -really amuse me to meet the fool who might attempt such madness.” - -“_Mon Dieu_, who knows?” Mathieu quietly concluded. “When one only loves -strongly one may work miracles.” - -La Lepailleur, after going to fetch a dozen eggs, now stood erect -before her husband in admiration at hearing him talk so eloquently to -a bourgeois. They agreed very well together in their avaricious rage at -being unable to amass money by the handful without any great exertion, -and in their ambition to make their son a gentleman, since only a -gentleman could become wealthy. And thus, as Marianne was going off -after placing the eggs under a cushion in Gervais’ little carriage, the -other complacently called her attention to Antonin, who, having made a -hole in the ground, was now spitting into it. - -“Oh! he’s smart,” said she; “he knows his alphabet already, and we are -going to put him to school. If he takes after his father he will be no -fool, I assure you.” - -It was on a Sunday, some ten days later, that the supreme revelation, -the great flash of light which was to decide his life and that of those -he loved, fell suddenly upon Mathieu during a walk he took with his wife -and the children. They had gone out for the whole afternoon, taking a -little snack with them in order that they might share it amid the long -grass in the fields. And after scouring the paths, crossing the copses, -rambling over the moorland, they came back to the verge of the woods and -sat down under an oak. Thence the whole expanse spread out before them, -from the little pavilion where they dwelt to the distant village of -Janville. On their right was the great marshy plateau, from which broad, -dry, sterile slopes descended; while lower ground stretched away on -their left. Then, behind them, spread the woods with deep thickets -parted by clearings, full of herbage which no scythe had ever touched. -And not a soul was to be seen around them; there was naught save wild -Nature, grandly quiescent under the bright sun of that splendid April -day. The earth seemed to be dilating with all the sap amassed within it, -and a flood of life could be felt rising and quivering in the vigorous -trees, the spreading plants, and the impetuous growth of brambles and -nettles which stretched invadingly over the soil. And on all sides a -powerful, pungent odor was diffused. - -“Don’t go too far,” Marianne called to the children; “we shall stay -under this oak. We will have something to eat by and by.” - -Blaise and Denis were already bounding along, followed by Ambroise, to -see who could run the fastest; but Rose pettishly called them back, for -she preferred to play at gathering wild flowers. The open air fairly -intoxicated the youngsters; the herbage rose, here and there, to their -very shoulders. But they came back and gathered flowers; and after -a time they set off at a wild run once more, one of the big brothers -carrying the little sister on his back. - -Mathieu, however, had remained absent-minded, with his eyes wandering -hither and thither, throughout their walk. At times he did not hear -Marianne when she spoke to him; he lapsed into reverie before some -uncultivated tract, some copse overrun with brushwood, some spring which -suddenly bubbled up and was then lost in mire. Nevertheless, she felt -that there was no sadness nor feeling of indifference in his heart; for -as soon as he returned to her he laughed once more with his soft, loving -laugh. It was she who often sent him roaming about the country, even -alone, for she felt that it would do him good; and although she had -guessed that something very serious was passing through his mind, she -retained full confidence, waiting till it should please him to speak to -her. - -Now, however, just as he had sunk once more into his reverie, his glance -wandering afar, studying the great varied expanse of land, she raised a -light cry: “Oh! look, look!” - -Under the big oak tree she had placed Master Gervais in his little -carriage, among wild weeds which hid its wheels. And while she handed -a little silver mug, from which it was intended they should drink while -taking their snack, she had noticed that the child raised his head and -followed the movement of her hand, in which the silver sparkled beneath -the sun-rays. Forthwith she repeated the experiment, and again the -child’s eyes followed the starry gleam. - -“Ah! it can’t be said that I’m mistaken, and am simply fancying it!” she -exclaimed. “It is certain that he can see quite plainly now. My pretty -pet, my little darling!” - -She darted to the child to kiss him in celebration of that first clear -glance. And then, too, came the delight of the first smile. - -“Why, look!” in his turn said Mathieu, who was leaning over the child -beside her, yielding to the same feeling of rapture, “there he is -smiling at you now. But of course, as soon as these little fellows see -clearly they begin to laugh.” - -She herself burst into a laugh. “You are right, he is laughing! Ah! how -funny he looks, and how happy I am!” - -Both father and mother laughed together with content at the sight of -that infantile smile, vague and fleeting, like a faint ripple on the -pure water of some spring. - -Amid this joy Marianne called the four others, who were bounding under -the young foliage around them: “Come, Rose! come, Ambroise! come, Blaise -and Denis! It’s time now; come at once to have something to eat.” - -They hastened up and the snack was set out on a patch of soft grass. -Mathieu unhooked the basket which hung in front of the baby’s little -vehicle; and Marianne, having drawn some slices of bread-and-butter from -it, proceeded to distribute them. Perfect silence ensued while all four -children began biting with hearty appetite, which it was a pleasure to -see. But all at once a scream arose. It came from Master Gervais, who -was vexed at not having been served first. - -“Ah! yes, it’s true I was forgetting you,” said Marianne gayly; “you -shall have your share. There, open your mouth, you darling;” and, with -an easy, simple gesture, she unfastened her dress-body; and then, under -the sunlight which steeped her in golden radiance, in full view of the -far-spreading countryside, where all likewise was bare--the soil, the -trees, the plants, streaming with sap--having seated herself in the long -grass, where she almost disappeared amid the swarming growth of April’s -germs, the babe on her breast eagerly sucked in her warm milk, even as -all the encompassing verdure was sucking life from the soil. - -“How hungry you are!” she exclaimed. “Don’t pinch me so hard, you little -glutton!” - -Meantime Mathieu had remained standing amid the enchantment of the -child’s first smile and the gayety born of the hearty hunger around him. -Then his dream of creation came back to him, and he at last gave voice -to those plans for the future which haunted him, and of which he had so -far spoken to nobody: “Ah, well, it is high time that I should set to -work and found a kingdom, if these children are to have enough soup to -make them grow. Shall I tell you what I’ve thought--shall I tell you?” - -Marianne raised her eyes, smiling and all attention. “Yes, tell me your -secret if the time has come. Oh! I could guess that you had some great -hope in you. But I did not ask you anything; I preferred to wait.” - -He did not give a direct reply, for at a sudden recollection his -feelings rebelled. “That Lepailleur,” said he, “is simply a lazy fellow -and a fool in spite of all his cunning airs. Can there be any more -sacrilegious folly than to imagine that the earth has lost her -fruitfulness and is becoming bankrupt--she, the eternal mother, -eternal life? She only shows herself a bad mother to her bad sons, the -malicious, the obstinate, and the dull-witted, who do not know how to -love and cultivate her. But if an intelligent son comes and devotes -himself to her, and works her with the help of experience and all -the new systems of science, you will soon see her quicken and yield -tremendous harvests unceasingly. Ah! folks say in the district that this -estate of Chantebled has never yielded and never will yield anything but -nettles. Well, nevertheless, a man will come who will transform it and -make it a new land of joy and abundance.” - -Then, suddenly turning round, with outstretched arm, and pointing to -the spots to which he referred in turn, he went on: “Yonder in the rear -there are nearly five hundred acres of little woods, stretching as far -as the farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. They are separated by clearings -of excellent soil which broad gaps unite, and which could easily be -turned into good pastures, for there are numerous springs. And, indeed, -the springs become so abundant on the right, that they have changed that -big plateau into a kind of marshland, dotted with ponds, and planted -with reeds and rushes. But picture a man of bold mind, a clearer, a -conqueror, who should drain those lands and rid them of superfluous -water by means of a few canals which might easily be dug! Why, then a -huge stretch of land would be reclaimed, handed over to cultivation, and -wheat would grow there with extraordinary vigor. But that is not all. -There is the expanse before us, those gentle slopes from Janville to -Vieux-Bourg, that is another five hundred acres, which are left almost -uncultivated on account of their dryness, the stony poverty of their -soil. So it is all very simple. One would merely have to take the -sources up yonder, the waters, now stagnant, and carry them across -those sterile slopes, which, when irrigated, would gradually develop -extraordinary fertility. I have seen everything, I have studied -everything. I feel that there are at least twelve hundred acres of land -which a bold creator might turn into a most productive estate. Yonder -lies a whole kingdom of corn, a whole new world to be created by labor, -with the help of the beneficent waters and our father the sun, the -source of eternal life.” - -Marianne gazed at him and admired him as he stood there quivering, -pondering over all that he evoked from his dream. But she was frightened -by the vastness of such hopes, and could not restrain a cry of -disquietude and prudence. - -“No, no, that is too much; you desire the impossible. How can you think -that we shall ever possess so much--that our fortune will spread over -the entire region? Think of the capital, the arms that would be needed -for such a conquest!” - -For a moment Mathieu remained silent on thus suddenly being brought back -to reality. Then with his affectionate, sensible air, he began to laugh. -“You are right; I have been dreaming and talking wildly,” he replied. “I -am not yet so ambitious as to wish to be King of Chantebled. But there -is truth in what I have said to you; and, besides, what harm can -there be in dreaming of great plans to give oneself faith and courage? -Meantime I intend to try cultivating just a few acres, which Seguin will -no doubt sell me cheaply enough, together with the little pavilion in -which we live. I know that the unproductiveness of the estate weighs on -him. And, later on, we shall see if the earth is disposed to love us and -come to us as we go to her. Ah well, my dear, give that little glutton -plenty of life, and you, my darlings, eat and drink and grow in -strength, for the earth belongs to those who are healthy and numerous.” - -Blaise and Denis made answer by taking some fresh slices of -bread-and-butter, while Rose drained the mug of wine and water -which Ambroise handed her. And Marianne sat there like the symbol of -blossoming Fruitfulness, the source of vigor and conquest, while Gervais -heartily nursed on. He pulled so hard, indeed, that one could hear the -sound of his lips. It was like the faint noise which attends the rise -of a spring--a slender rill of milk that is to swell and become a river. -Around her the mother heard that source springing up and spreading on -all sides. She was not nourishing alone: the sap of April was dilating -the land, sending a quiver through the woods, raising the long herbage -which embowered her. And beneath her, from the bosom of the earth, -which was ever in travail, she felt that flood of sap reaching and ever -pervading her. And it was like a stream of milk flowing through the -world, a stream of eternal life for humanity’s eternal crop. And on -that gay day of spring the dazzling, singing, fragrant countryside was -steeped in it all, triumphal with that beauty of the mother, who, in the -full light of the sun, in view of the vast horizon, sat there nursing -her child. - - - - -VIII - -ON the morrow, after a morning’s hard toil at his office at the works, -Mathieu, having things well advanced, bethought himself of going to see -Norine at Madame Bourdieu’s. He knew that she had given birth to a child -a fortnight previously, and he wished to ascertain the exact state of -affairs, in order to carry to an end the mission with which Beauchene -had intrusted him. As the other, however, had never again spoken to -him on the subject, he simply told him that he was going out in the -afternoon, without indicating the motive of his absence. At the same -time he knew what secret relief Beauchene would experience when he at -last learnt that the whole business was at an end--the child cast adrift -and the mother following her own course. - -On reaching the Rue de Miromesnil, Mathieu had to go up to Norine’s -room, for though she was to leave the house on the following Thursday, -she still kept her bed. And at the foot of the bedstead, asleep in a -cradle, he was surprised to see the infant, of which, he thought, she -had already rid herself. - -“Oh! is it you?” she joyously exclaimed. “I was about to write to you, -for I wanted to see you before going away. My little sister here would -have taken you the letter.” - -Cecile Moineaud was indeed there, together with the younger girl, Irma. -The mother, unable to absent herself from her household duties, had -sent them to make inquiries, and give Norine three big oranges, which -glistened on the table beside the bed. The little girls had made the -journey on foot, greatly interested by all the sights of the streets and -the displays in the shop-windows. And now they were enraptured with the -fine house in which they found their big sister sojourning, and full of -curiosity with respect to the baby which slept under the cradle’s muslin -curtains. - -Mathieu made the usual inquiries of Norine, who answered him gayly, but -pouted somewhat at the prospect of having so soon to leave the house, -where she had found herself so comfortable. - -“We shan’t easily find such soft mattresses and such good food, eh, -Victoire?” she asked. Whereupon Mathieu perceived that another girl was -present, a pale little creature with wavy red hair, tip-tilted nose, and -long mouth, whom he had already seen there on the occasion of a previous -visit. She slept in one of the two other beds which the room contained, -and now sat beside it mending some linen. She was to leave the house on -the morrow, having already sent her child to the Foundling Hospital; and -in the meantime she was mending some things for Rosine, the well-to-do -young person of great beauty whom Mathieu had previously espied, and -whose story, according to Norine, was so sadly pathetic. - -Victoire ceased sewing and raised her head. She was a servant girl by -calling, one of those unlucky creatures who are overtaken by trouble -when they have scarce arrived in the great city from their native -village. “Well,” said she, “it’s quite certain that one won’t be able -to dawdle in bed, and that one won’t have warm milk given one to drink -before getting up. But, all the same, it isn’t lively to see nothing but -that big gray wall yonder from the window. And, besides, one can’t go on -forever doing nothing.” - -Norine laughed and jerked her head, as if she were not of this opinion. -Then, as her little sisters embarrassed her, she wished to get rid of -them. - -“And so, my pussies,” said she, “you say that papa’s still angry with -me, and that I’m not to go back home.” - -“Oh!” cried Cecile, “it’s not so much that he’s angry, but he says that -all the neighbors would point their fingers at him if he let you come -home. Besides, Euphrasie keeps his anger up, particularly since she’s -arranged to get married.” - -“What! Euphrasie going to be married? You didn’t tell me that.” - -Norine looked very vexed, particularly when her sisters, speaking both -together, told her that the future husband was Auguste Benard, a jovial -young mason who lived on the floor above them. He had taken a fancy to -Euphrasie, though she had no good looks, and was as thin, at eighteen, -as a grasshopper. Doubtless, however, he considered her strong and -hard-working. - -“Much good may it do them!” said Norine spitefully. “Why, with her evil -temper, she’ll be beating him before six months are over. You can just -tell mamma that I don’t care a rap for any of you, and that I need -nobody. I’ll go and look for work, and I’ll find somebody to help me. -So, you hear, don’t you come back here. I don’t want to be bothered by -you any more.” - -At this, Irma, but eight years old and tender-hearted, began to cry. -“Why do you scold us? We didn’t come to worry you. I wanted to ask you, -too, if that baby’s yours, and if we may kiss it before we go away.” - -Norine immediately regretted her spiteful outburst. She once more called -the girls her “little pussies,” kissed them tenderly, and told them that -although they must run away now they might come back another day to see -her if it amused them. “Thank mamma from me for her oranges. And as for -the baby, well, you may look at it, but you mustn’t touch it, for if it -woke up we shouldn’t be able to hear ourselves.” - -Then, as the two children leant inquisitively over the cradle, Mathieu -also glanced at it, and saw a healthy, sturdy-looking child, with a -square face and strong features. And it seemed to him that the infant -was singularly like Beauchene. - -At that moment, however, Madame Bourdieu came in, accompanied by -a woman, whom he recognized as Sophie Couteau, “La Couteau,” that -nurse-agent whom he had seen at the Seguins’ one day when she had gone -thither to offer to procure them a nurse. She also certainly recognized -this gentleman, whose wife, proud of being able to suckle her own -children, had evinced such little inclination to help others to do -business. She pretended, however, that she saw him for the first time; -for she was discreet by profession and not even inquisitive, since so -many matters were ever coming to her knowledge without the asking. - -Little Cecile and little Irma went off at once; and then Madame -Bourdieu, addressing Norine, inquired: “Well, my child, have you -thought it over; have you quite made up your mind about that poor little -darling, who is sleeping there so prettily? Here is the person I spoke -to you about. She comes from Normandy every fortnight, bringing nurses -to Paris; and each time she takes babies away with her to put them out -to nurse in the country. Though you say you won’t feed it, you surely -need not cast off your child altogether; you might confide it to this -person until you are in a position to take it back. Or else, if you have -made up your mind to abandon it altogether, she will kindly take it to -the Foundling Hospital at once.” - -Great perturbation had come over Norine, who let her head fall back on -her pillow, over which streamed her thick fair hair, whilst her face -darkened and she stammered: “_Mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_! you are going to -worry me again!” - -Then she pressed her hands to her eyes as if anxious to see nothing -more. - -“This is what the regulations require of me, monsieur,” said Madame -Bourdieu to Mathieu in an undertone, while leaving the young mother for -a moment to her reflections. “We are recommended to do all we can to -persuade our boarders, especially when they are situated like this one, -to nurse their infants. You are aware that this often saves not only the -child, but the mother herself, from the sad future which threatens her. -And so, however much she may wish to abandon the child, we leave it near -her as long as possible, and feed it with the bottle, in the hope that -the sight of the poor little creature may touch her heart and awaken -feelings of motherliness in her. Nine times out of ten, as soon as she -gives the child the breast, she is vanquished, and she keeps it. That is -why you still see this baby here.” - -Mathieu, feeling greatly moved, drew near to Norine, who still lay back -amid her streaming hair, with her hands pressed to her face. “Come,” - said he, “you are a goodhearted girl, there is no malice in you. Why not -yourself keep that dear little fellow?” - -Then she uncovered her burning, tearless face: “Did the father even come -to see me?” she asked bitterly. “I can’t love the child of a man who -has behaved as he has! The mere thought that it’s there, in that cradle, -puts me in a rage.” - -“But that dear little innocent isn’t guilty. It’s he whom you condemn, -yourself whom you punish, for now you will be quite alone, and he might -prove a great consolation.” - -“No, I tell you no, I won’t. I can’t keep a child like that with nobody -to help me. We all know what we can do, don’t we? Well, it is of no use -my questioning myself. I’m not brave enough, I’m not stupid enough to do -such a thing. No, no, and no.” - -He said no more, for he realized that nothing would prevail over that -thirst for liberty which she felt in the depths of her being. With a -gesture he expressed his sadness, but he was neither indignant nor angry -with her, for others had made her what she was. - -“Well, it’s understood, you won’t be forced to feed it,” resumed Madame -Bourdieu, attempting a final effort. “But it isn’t praiseworthy to -abandon the child. Why not trust it to Madame here, who would put it out -to nurse, so that you would be able to take it back some day, when you -have found work? It wouldn’t cost much, and no doubt the father would -pay.” - -This time Norine flew into a passion. “He! pay? Ah! you don’t know -him. It’s not that the money would inconvenience him, for he’s a -millionnaire. But all he wants is to see the little one disappear. If he -had dared he would have told me to kill it! Just ask that gentleman if I -speak the truth. You see that he keeps silent! And how am I to pay -when I haven’t a copper, when to-morrow I shall be cast out-of-doors, -perhaps, without work and without bread. No, no, a thousand times no, I -can’t!” - -Then, overcome by an hysterical fit of despair, she burst into sobs. -“I beg you, leave me in peace. For the last fortnight you have been -torturing me with that child, by keeping him near me, with the idea -that I should end by nursing him. You bring him to me, and set him on my -knees, so that I may look at him and kiss him. You are always worrying -me with him, and making him cry with the hope that I shall pity him and -take him to my breast. But, _mon Dieu_! can’t you understand that if I -turn my head away, if I don’t want to kiss him or even to see him, it is -because I’m afraid of being caught and loving him like a big fool, -which would be a great misfortune both for him and for me? He’ll be far -happier by himself! So, I beg you, let him be taken away at once, and -don’t torture me any more.” - -Sobbing violently, she again sank back in bed, and buried her -dishevelled head in the pillows. - -La Couteau had remained waiting, mute and motionless, at the foot of the -bedstead. In her gown of dark woollen stuff and her black cap trimmed -with yellow ribbons she retained the air of a peasant woman in her -Sunday best. And she strove to impart an expression of compassionate -good-nature to her long, avaricious, false face. Although it seemed to -her unlikely that business would ensue, she risked a repetition of her -customary speech. - -“At Rougemont, you know, madame, your little one would be just the same -as at home. There’s no better air in the Department; people come there -from Bayeux to recruit their health. And if you only knew how well the -little ones are cared for! It’s the only occupation of the district, -to have little Parisians to coddle and love! And, besides, I wouldn’t -charge you dear. I’ve a friend of mine who already has three nurslings, -and, as she naturally brings them up with the bottle, it wouldn’t put -her out to take a fourth for almost next to nothing. Come, doesn’t that -suit you--doesn’t that tempt you?” - -When, however, she saw that tears were Norine’s only answer, she made -an impatient gesture like an active woman who cannot afford to lose -her time. At each of her fortnightly journeys, as soon as she had rid -herself of her batch of nurses at the different offices, she hastened -round the nurses’ establishments to pick up infants, so as to take the -train homewards the same evening together with two or three women who, -as she put it, helped her “to cart the little ones about.” On this -occasion she was in a greater hurry, as Madame Bourdieu, who employed -her in a variety of ways, had asked her to take Norine’s child to the -Foundling Hospital if she did not take it to Rougemont. - -“And so,” said La Couteau, turning to Madame Bourdieu, “I shall have -only the other lady’s child to take back with me. Well, I had better -see her at once to make final arrangements. Then I’ll take this one -and carry it yonder as fast as possible, for my train starts at six -o’clock.” - -When La Couteau and Madame Bourdieu had gone off to speak to Rosine, who -was the “other lady” referred to, the room sank into silence save for -the wailing and sobbing of Norine. Mathieu had seated himself near the -cradle, gazing compassionately at the poor little babe, who was still -peacefully sleeping. Soon, however, Victoire, the little servant girl, -who had hitherto remained silent, as if absorbed in her sewing, broke -the heavy silence and talked on slowly and interminably without raising -her eyes from her needle. - -“You were quite right in not trusting your child to that horrid woman!” - she began. “Whatever may be done with him at the hospital, he will be -better off there than in her hands. At least he will have a chance to -live. And that’s why I insisted, like you, on having mine taken there -at once. You know I belong in that woman’s region--yes, I come from -Berville, which is barely four miles from Rougemont, and I can’t help -knowing La Couteau, for folks talk enough about her in our village. -She’s a nice creature and no mistake! And it’s a fine trade that she -plies, selling other people’s milk. She was no better than she should -be at one time, but at last she was lucky enough to marry a big, coarse, -brutal fellow, whom at this time of day she leads by the nose. And he -helps her. Yes, he also brings nurses to Paris and takes babies back -with him, at busy times. But between them they have more murders -on their consciences than all the assassins that have ever been -guillotined. The mayor of Berville, a bourgeois who’s retired from -business and a worthy man, said that Rougemont was the curse of the -Department. I know well enough that there’s always been some rivalry -between Rougemont and Berville; but, the folks of Rougemont ply a wicked -trade with the babies they get from Paris. All the inhabitants have -ended by taking to it, there’s nothing else doing in the whole village, -and you should just see how things are arranged so that there may be -as many funerals as possible. Ah! yes, people don’t keep their -stock-in-trade on their hands. The more that die, the more they earn. -And so one can understand that La Couteau always wants to take back as -many babies as possible at each journey she makes.” - -Victoire recounted these dreadful things in her simple way, as one -whom Paris has not yet turned into a liar, and who says all she knows, -careless what it may be. - -“And it seems things were far worse years ago,” she continued. “I have -heard my father say that, in his time, the agents would bring back four -or five children at one journey--perfect parcels of babies, which they -tied together and carried under their arms. They set them out in rows -on the seats in the waiting-rooms at the station; and one day, indeed, a -Rougemont agent forgot one child in a waiting-room, and there was quite -a row about it, because when the child was found again it was dead. -And then you should have seen in the trains what a heap of poor little -things there was, all crying with hunger. It became pitiable in winter -time, when there was snow and frost, for they were all shivering and -blue with cold in their scanty, ragged swaddling-clothes. One or another -often died on the way, and then it was removed at the next station and -buried in the nearest cemetery. And you can picture what a state those -who didn’t die were in. At our place we care better for our pigs, for we -certainly wouldn’t send them travelling in that fashion. My father -used to say that it was enough to make the very stones weep. Nowadays, -however, there’s more supervision; the regulations allow the agents -to take only one nursling back at a time. But they know all sorts of -tricks, and often take a couple. And then, too, they make arrangements; -they have women who help them, and they avail themselves of those who -may be going back into the country alone. Yes, La Couteau has all sorts -of tricks to evade the law. And, besides, all the folks of Rougemont -close their eyes--they are too much interested in keeping business -brisk; and all they fear is that the police may poke their noses into -their affairs. Ah! it is all very well for the Government to send -inspectors every month, and insist on registers, and the Mayor’s -signature and the stamp of the Commune; why, it’s just as if it did -nothing. It doesn’t prevent these women from quietly plying their trade -and sending as many little ones as they can to kingdom-come. We’ve got -a cousin at Rougemont who said to us one day: ‘La Malivoire’s precious -lucky, she got rid of four more during last month.’” - -Victoire paused for a moment to thread her needle. Norine was still -weeping, while Mathieu listened, mute with horror, and with his eyes -fixed upon the sleeping child. - -“No doubt folks say less about Rougemont nowadays than they used to,” - the girl resumed; “but there’s still enough to disgust one. We know -three or four baby-farmers who are not worth their salt. The rule is -to bring the little ones up with the bottle, you know; and you’d be -horrified if you saw what bottles they are--never cleaned, always -filthy, with the milk inside them icy cold in the winter and sour in the -summer. La Vimeux, for her part, thinks that the bottle system costs too -much, and so she feeds her children on soup. That clears them off all -the quicker. At La Loiseau’s you have to hold your nose when you go near -the corner where the little ones sleep--their rags are so filthy. As for -La Gavette, she’s always working in the fields with her man, so that the -three or four nurslings that she generally has are left in charge of the -grandfather, an old cripple of seventy, who can’t even prevent the fowls -from coming to peck at the little ones.* And things are worse even at La -Cauchois’, for, as she has nobody at all to mind the children when she -goes out working, she leaves them tied in their cradles, for fear lest -they should tumble out and crack their skulls. You might visit all the -houses in the village, and you would find the same thing everywhere. -There isn’t a house where the trade isn’t carried on. Round our part -there are places where folks make lace, or make cheese, or make cider; -but at Rougemont they only make dead bodies.” - - * There is no exaggeration in what M. Zola writes on this subject. - I have even read in French Government reports of instances in - which nurslings have been devoured by pigs! And it is a well-known - saying in France that certain Norman and Touraine villages are - virtually “paved with little Parisians.”--Trans. - - -All at once she ceased sewing, and looked at Mathieu with her timid, -clear eyes. - -“But the worst of all,” she continued, “is La Couillard, an old thief -who once did six months in prison, and who now lives a little way out -of the village on the verge of the wood. No live child has ever left -La Couillard’s. That’s her specialty. When you see an agent, like La -Couteau, for instance, taking her a child, you know at once what’s in -the wind. La Couteau has simply bargained that the little one shall die. -It’s settled in a very easy fashion: the parents give a sum of three or -four hundred francs on condition that the little one shall be kept till -his first communion, and you may be quite certain that he dies within -a week. It’s only necessary to leave a window open near him, as a nurse -used to do whom my father knew. At winter time, when she had half a -dozen babies in her house, she would set the door wide open and then -go out for a stroll. And, by the way, that little boy in the next room, -whom La Couteau has just gone to see, she’ll take him to La Couillard’s, -I’m sure; for I heard the mother, Mademoiselle Rosine, agree with her -the other day to give her a sum of four hundred francs down on the -understanding that she should have nothing more to do in the matter.” - -At this point Victoire ceased speaking, for La Couteau came in to fetch -Norine’s child. Norine, who had emerged from her distress during the -servant girl’s stories, had ended by listening to them with great -interest. But directly she perceived the agent she once more hid her -face in her pillows, as though she feared to see what was about to -happen. Mathieu, on his side, had risen from his chair and stood there -quivering. - -“So it’s understood, I’m going to take the child,” said La Couteau. -“Madame Bourdieu has given me a slip of paper bearing the date of the -birth and the address. Only I ought to have some Christian names. What -do you wish the child to be called?” - -Norine did not at first answer. Then, in a faint distressful voice, she -said: “Alexandre.” - -“Alexandre, very well. But you would do better to give the boy a second -Christian name, so as to identify him the more readily, if some day you -take it into your head to run after him.” - -It was again necessary to tear a reply from Norine. “Honore,” she said. - -“Alexandre Honore--all right. That last name is yours, is it not?* And -the first is the father’s? That is settled; and now I’ve everything I -need. Only it’s four o’clock already, and I shall never get back in time -for the six o’clock train if I don’t take a cab. It’s such a long way -off--the other side of the Luxembourg. And a cab costs money. How shall -we manage?” - - * Norine is, of course, a diminutive of Honorine, which is the - feminine form of Honore.--Trans. - -While she continued whining, to see if she could not extract a few -francs from the distressed girl, it suddenly occurred to Mathieu to -carry out his mission to the very end by driving with her himself to -the Foundling Hospital, so that he might be in a position to inform -Beauchene that the child had really been deposited there, in his -presence. So he told La Couteau that he would go down with her, take a -cab, and bring her back. - -“All right; that will suit me. Let us be off! It’s a pity to wake the -little one, since he’s so sound asleep; but all the same, we must pack -him off, since it’s decided.” - -With her dry hands, which were used to handling goods of this -description, she caught up the child, perhaps, however, a little -roughly, forgetting her assumed wheedling good nature now that she was -simply charged with conveying it to hospital. And the child awoke and -began to scream loudly. - -“Ah! dear me, it won’t be amusing if he keeps up this music in the cab. -Quick, let us be off.” - -But Mathieu stopped her. “Won’t you kiss him, Norine?” he asked. - -At the very first squeal that sorry mother had dipped yet lower under -her sheets, carrying her hands to her ears, distracted as she was by -the sound of those cries. “No, no,” she gasped, “take him away; take him -away at once. Don’t begin torturing me again!” - -Then she closed her eyes, and with one arm repulsed the child who seemed -to be pursuing her. But when she felt that the agent was laying him on -the bed, she suddenly shuddered, sat up, and gave a wild hasty kiss, -which lighted on the little fellow’s cap. She had scarcely opened her -tear-dimmed eyes, and could have seen but a vague phantom of that poor -feeble creature, wailing and struggling at the decisive moment when he -was being cast into the unknown. - -“You are killing me! Take him away; take him away!” - -Once in the cab the child suddenly became silent. Either the jolting of -the vehicle calmed him, or the creaking of the wheels filled him with -emotion. La Couteau, who kept him on her knees, at first remained -silent, as if interested in the people on the footwalks, where the -bright sun was shining. Then, all of a sudden, she began to talk, -venting her thoughts aloud. - -“That little woman made a great mistake in not trusting the child to me. -I should have put him out to nurse properly, and he would have grown up -finely at Rougemont. But there! they all imagine that we simply worry -them because we want to do business. But I just ask you, if she had -given me five francs for myself and paid my return journey, would that -have ruined her? A pretty girl like her oughtn’t to be hard up for -money. I know very well that in our calling there are some people who -are hardly honest, who speculate and ask for commissions, and then put -out nurslings at cheap rates and rob both the parents and the nurse. -It’s really not right to treat these dear little things as if they were -goods--poultry or vegetables. When folks do that I can understand that -their hearts get hardened, and that they pass the little ones on from -hand to hand without any more care than if they were stock-in-trade. But -then, monsieur, I’m an honest woman; I’m authorized by the mayor of our -village; I hold a certificate of morality, which I can show to anybody. -If ever you should come to Rougemont, just ask after Sophie Couteau -there. Folks will tell you that I’m a hard-working woman, and don’t owe -a copper to a soul!” - -Mathieu could not help looking at her to see how unblushingly she thus -praised herself. And her speech struck him as if it were a premeditated -reply to all that Victoire had related of her, for, with the keen scent -of a shrewd peasant woman, she must have guessed that charges had been -brought against her. When she felt that his piercing glance was diving -to her very soul, she doubtless feared that she had not lied with -sufficient assurance, and had somehow negligently betrayed herself; for -she did not insist, but put on more gentleness of manner, and contented -herself with praising Rougemont in a general way, saying what a perfect -paradise it was, where the little ones were received, fed, cared for, -and coddled as if they were all sons of princes. Then, seeing that the -gentleman uttered never a word, she became silent once more. It was -evidently useless to try to win him over. And meantime the cab rolled -and rolled along; streets followed streets, ever noisy and crowded; and -they crossed the Seine and at last drew near to the Luxembourg. It was -only after passing the palace gardens that La Couteau again began: - -“Well, it’s that young person’s own affair if she imagines that her -child will be better off for passing through the Foundling. I don’t -attack the Administration, but you know, monsieur, there’s a good deal -to be said on the matter. At Rougemont we have a number of nurslings -that it sends us, and they don’t grow any better or die less frequently -than the others. Well, well, people are free to act as they fancy; but -all the same I should like you to know, as I do, all that goes on in -there.” - -The cab had stopped at the top of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau, at a short -distance from the former outer Boulevard. A big gray wall stretched out, -the frigid facade of a State establishment, and it was through a quiet, -simple, unobtrusive little doorway at the end of this wall that La -Couteau went in with the child. Mathieu followed her, but he did not -enter the office where a woman received the children. He felt too much -emotion, and feared lest he should be questioned; it was, indeed, as if -he considered himself an accomplice in a crime. Though La Couteau told -him that the woman would ask him nothing, and the strictest secrecy -was always observed, he preferred to wait in an anteroom, which led -to several closed compartments, where the persons who came to deposit -children were placed to wait their turn. And he watched the woman go -off, carrying the little one, who still remained extremely well behaved, -with a vacant stare in his big eyes. - -Though the interval of waiting could not have lasted more than twenty -minutes, it seemed terribly long to Mathieu. Lifeless quietude reigned -in that stern, sad-looking anteroom, wainscoted with oak, and pervaded -with the smell peculiar to hospitals. All he heard was the occasional -faint wail of some infant, above which now and then rose a heavy, -restrained sob, coming perhaps from some mother who was waiting in one -of the adjoining compartments. And he recalled the “slide” of other -days, the box which turned within the wall. The mother crept up, -concealing herself much as possible from view, thrust her baby into -the cavity as into an oven, gave a tug at the bell-chain, and then -precipitately fled. Mathieu was too young to have seen the real thing; -he had only seen it represented in a melodrama at the Port St. Martin -Theatre.* But how many stories it recalled--hampers of poor little -creatures brought up from the provinces and deposited at the hospital -by carriers; the stolen babes of Duchesses, here cast into oblivion by -suspicious-looking men; the hundreds of wretched work-girls too who had -here rid themselves of their unfortunate children. Now, however, the -children had to be deposited openly, and there was a staff which took -down names and dates, while giving a pledge of inviolable secrecy. -Mathieu was aware that some few people imputed to the suppression of -the slide system the great increase in criminal offences. But each day -public opinion condemns more and more the attitude of society in former -times, and discards the idea that one must accept evil, dam it in, and -hide it as if it were some necessary sewer; for the only course for a -free community to pursue is to foresee evil and grapple with it, and -destroy it in the bud. To diminish the number of cast-off children one -must seek out the mothers, encourage them, succor them, and give them -the means to be mothers in fact as well as in name. At that moment, -however, Mathieu did not reason; it was his heart that was affected, -filled with growing pity and anguish at the thought of all the crime, -all the shame, all the grief and distress that had passed through that -anteroom in which he stood. What terrible confessions must have been -heard, what a procession of suffering, ignominy, and wretchedness must -have been witnessed by that woman who received the children in her -mysterious little office! To her all the wreckage of the slums, all the -woe lying beneath gilded life, all the abominations, all the tortures -that remain unknown, were carried. There in her office was the port for -the shipwrecked, there the black hole that swallowed up the offspring of -frailty and shame. And while Mathieu’s spell of waiting continued he saw -three poor creatures arrive at the hospital. One was surely a work-girl, -delicate and pretty though she looked, so thin, so pale too, and with -so wild an air that he remembered a paragraph he had lately read in a -newspaper, recounting how another such girl, after forsaking her child, -had thrown herself into the river. The second seemed to him to be a -married woman, some workman’s wife, no doubt, overburdened with children -and unable to provide food for another mouth; while the third was tall, -strong, and insolent,--one of those who bring three or four children to -the hospital one after the other. And all three women plunged in, and he -heard them being penned in separate compartments by an attendant, while -he, with stricken heart, realizing how heavily fate fell on some, still -stood there waiting. - - * The “slide” system, which enabled a mother to deposit her child - at the hospital without being seen by those within, ceased to be - employed officially as far back as 1847; but the apparatus was - long preserved intact, and I recollect seeing it in the latter - years of the Second Empire, _cir._ 1867-70, when I was often at - the artists’ studios in the neighborhood. The aperture through - which children were deposited in the sliding-box was close to - the little door of which M. Zola speaks.--Trans. - -When La Couteau at last reappeared with empty arms she said never a -word, and Mathieu put no question to her. Still in silence, they took -their seats in the cab; and only some ten minutes afterwards, when the -vehicle was already rolling through bustling, populous streets, did the -woman begin to laugh. Then, as her companion, still silent and distant, -did not condescend to ask her the cause of her sudden gayety, she ended -by saying aloud: - -“Do you know why I am laughing? If I kept you waiting a bit longer, it -was because I met a friend of mine, an attendant in the house, just as -I left the office. She’s one of those who put the babies out to nurse in -the provinces.* Well, my friend told me that she was going to Rougemont -to-morrow with two other attendants, and that among others they would -certainly have with them the little fellow I had just left at the -hospital.” - - * There are only about 600 beds at the Hopital des Enfants - Assistes, and the majority of the children deposited there - are perforce placed out to purse in the country.--Trans. - -Again did she give vent to a dry laugh which distorted her wheedling -face. And she continued: “How comical, eh? The mother wouldn’t let me -take the child to Rougemont, and now it’s going there just the same. Ah! -some things are bound to happen in spite of everything.” - -Mathieu did not answer, but an icy chill had sped through his heart. It -was true, fate pitilessly took its own course. What would become of -that poor little fellow? To what early death, what life of suffering or -wretchedness, or even crime, had he been thus brutally cast? - -But the cab continued rolling on, and for a long while neither Mathieu -nor La Couteau spoke again. It was only when the latter alighted in -the Rue de Miromesnil that she began to lament, on seeing that it was -already half-past five o’clock, for she felt certain that she would miss -her train, particularly as she still had some accounts to settle and -that other child upstairs to fetch. Mathieu, who had intended to keep -the cab and drive to the Northern terminus, then experienced a -feeling of curiosity, and thought of witnessing the departure of the -nurse-agents. So he calmed La Couteau by telling her that if she would -make haste he would wait for her. And as she asked for a quarter of an -hour, it occurred to him to speak to Norine again, and so he also went -upstairs. - -When he entered Norine’s room he found her sitting up in bed, eating one -of the oranges which her little sisters had brought her. She had all the -greedy instincts of a plump, pretty girl; she carefully detached each -section of the orange, and, her eyes half closed the while, her flesh -quivering under her streaming outspread hair, she sucked one after -another with her fresh red lips, like a pet cat lapping a cup of milk. -Mathieu’s sudden entry made her start, however, and when she recognized -him she smiled faintly in an embarrassed way. - -“It’s done,” he simply said. - -She did not immediately reply, but wiped her fingers on her -handkerchief. However, it was necessary that she should say something, -and so she began: “You did not tell me you would come back--I was not -expecting you. Well, it’s done, and it’s all for the best. I assure you -there was no means of doing otherwise.” - -Then she spoke of her departure, asked the young man if he thought she -might regain admittance to the works, and declared that in any case she -should go there to see if the master would have the audacity to turn -her away. Thus she continued while the minutes went slowly by. The -conversation had dropped, Mathieu scarcely replying to her, when La -Couteau, carrying the other child in her arms, at last darted in like -a gust of wind. “Let’s make haste, let’s make haste!” she cried. “They -never end with their figures; they try all they can to leave me without -a copper for myself!” - -But Norine detained her, asking: “Oh! is that Rosine’s baby? Pray do -show it me.” Then she uncovered the infant’s face, and exclaimed: “Oh! -how plump and pretty he is!” And she began another sentence: “What a -pity! Can one have the heart--” But then she remembered, paused, and -changed her words: “Yes, how heartrending it is when one has to forsake -such little angels.” - -“Good-by! Take care of yourself!” cried La Couteau; “you will make me -miss my train. And I’ve got the return tickets, too; the five others are -waiting for me at the station! Ah! what a fuss they would make if I got -there too late!” - -Then, followed by Mathieu, she hurried away, bounding down the stairs, -where she almost fell with her little burden. But soon she threw herself -back in the cab, which rolled off. - -“Ah! that’s a good job! And what do you say of that young person, -monsieur? She wouldn’t lay out fifteen francs a month on her own -account, and yet she reproaches that good Mademoiselle Rosine, who has -just given me four hundred francs to have her little one taken care of -till his first communion. Just look at him--a superb child, isn’t he? -What a pity it is that the finest are often those who die the first.” - -Mathieu looked at the infant on the woman’s knees. His garments were -very white, of fine texture, trimmed with lace, as if he were some -little condemned prince being taken in all luxury to execution. And the -young man remembered that Norine had told him that the child was the -offspring of crime. Born amid secrecy, he was now, for a fixed sum, -to be handed over to a woman who would quietly suppress him by simply -leaving some door or window wide open. Young though the boy was, he -already had a finely-formed face, that suggested the beauty of a cherub. -And he was very well behaved; he did not raise the faintest wail. But a -shudder swept through Mathieu. How abominable! - -La Couteau quickly sprang from the cab as soon as they reached the -courtyard of the St. Lazare Station. “Thank you, monsieur, you have been -very kind,” said she. “And if you will kindly recommend me to any ladies -you may know, I shall be quite at their disposal.” - -Then Mathieu, having alighted on the pavement in his turn, saw a scene -which detained him there a few moments longer. Amid all the scramble of -passengers and luggage, five women of peasant aspect, each carrying an -infant, were darting in a scared, uneasy way hither and thither, like -crows in trouble, with big yellow beaks quivering and black wings -flapping with anxiety. Then, on perceiving La Couteau, there was one -general caw, and all five swooped down upon her with angry, voracious -mien. And, after a furious exchange of cries and explanations, the six -banded themselves together, and, with cap-strings waving and skirts -flying, rushed towards the train, carrying the little ones, like birds -of prey who feared delay in returning to the charnel-house. - -And Mathieu remained alone in the great crowd. Thus every year did these -crows of ill omen carry off from Paris no fewer than 20,000 children, -who were never, never seen again! Ah! that great question of the -depopulation of France! Not merely were there those who were resolved -to have no children, not only were infanticide and crime of other kinds -rife upon all sides, but one-half of the babes saved from those dangers -were killed. Thieves and murderesses, eager for lucre, flocked to the -great city from the four points of the compass, and bore away all the -budding Life that their arms could carry in order that they might turn -it to Death! They beat down the game, they watched in the doorways, they -sniffed from afar the innocent flesh on which they preyed. And the babes -were carted to the railway stations; the cradles, the wards of hospitals -and refuges, the wretched garrets of poor mothers, without fires and -without bread--all, all were emptied! And the packages were heaped -up, moved carelessly hither and thither, sent off, distributed to be -murdered either by foul deed or by neglect. The raids swept on like -tempest blasts; Death’s scythe never knew dead season, at every hour it -mowed down budding life. Children who might well have lived were taken -from their mothers, the only nurses whose milk would have nourished -them, to be carted away and to die for lack of proper nutriment. - -A rush of blood warmed Mathieu’s heart when, all at once, he thought -of Marianne, so strong and healthy, who would be waiting for him on the -bridge over the Yeuse, in the open country, with their little Gervais at -her breast. Figures that he had seen in print came back to his mind. In -certain regions which devoted themselves to baby-farming the mortality -among the nurslings was fifty per cent; in the best of them it was -forty, and seventy in the worst. It was calculated that in one century -seventeen millions of nurslings had died. Over a long period the -mortality had remained at from one hundred to one hundred and twenty -thousand per annum. The most deadly reigns, the greatest butcheries of -the most terrible conquerors, had never resulted in such massacre. It -was a giant battle that France lost every year, the abyss into which her -whole strength sank, the charnel-place into which every hope was cast. -At the end of it is the imbecile death of the nation. And Mathieu, -seized with terror at the thought, rushed away, eager to seek -consolation by the side of Marianne, amid the peacefulness, the wisdom, -and the health which were their happy lot. - - - - -IX - -ONE Thursday morning Mathieu went to lunch with Dr. Boutan in the rooms -where the latter had resided for more than ten years, in the Rue de -l’Universite, behind the Palais-Bourbon. By a contradiction, at which -he himself often laughed, this impassioned apostle of fruitfulness had -remained a bachelor. His extensive practice kept him in a perpetual -hurry, and he had little time free beyond his dejeuner hour. -Accordingly, whenever a friend wished to have any serious conversation -with him, he preferred to invite him to his modest table, to partake -more or less hastily of an egg, a cutlet, and a cup of coffee. - -Mathieu wished to ask the doctor’s advice on a grave subject. After a -couple of weeks’ reflection, his idea of experimenting in agriculture, -of extricating that unappreciated estate of Chantebled from chaos, -preoccupied him to such a degree that he positively suffered at not -daring to come to a decision. The imperious desire to create, to produce -life, health, strength, and wealth grew within him day by day. Yet -what fine courage and what a fund of hope he needed to venture upon an -enterprise which outwardly seemed so wild and rash, and the wisdom of -which was apparent to himself alone. With whom could he discuss such -a matter, to whom could he confide his doubts and hesitation? When the -idea of consulting Boutan occurred to him, he at once asked the doctor -for an appointment. Here was such a confidant as he desired, a man -of broad, brave mind, one who worshipped life, who was endowed with -far-seeing intelligence, and who would therefore at once look beyond the -first difficulties of execution. - -As soon as they were face to face on either side of the table, Mathieu -began to pour forth his confession, recounting his dream--his poem, as -he called it. And the doctor listened without interrupting, evidently -won over by the young man’s growing, creative emotion. When at last -Boutan had to express an opinion he replied: “_Mon Dieu_, my friend, I -can tell you nothing from a practical point of view, for I have never -even planted a lettuce. I will even add that your project seems to me -so hazardous that any one versed in these matters whom you might consult -would assuredly bring forward substantial and convincing arguments to -dissuade you. But you speak of this affair with such superb confidence -and ardor and affection, that I feel convinced you would succeed. -Moreover, you flatter my own views, for I have long endeavored to show -that, if numerous families are ever to flourish again in France, people -must again love and worship the soil, and desert the towns, and lead a -fruitful fortifying country life. So how can I disapprove your plans? -Moreover, I suspect that, like all people who ask advice, you simply -came here in the hope that you would find in me a brother ready, in -principle at all events, to wage the same battle.” - -At this they both laughed heartily. Then, on Boutan inquiring with what -capital he would start operations, Mathieu quietly explained that he -did not mean to borrow money and thus run into debt; he would begin, -if necessary, with very few acres indeed, convinced as he was of the -conquering power of labor. His would be the head, and he would assuredly -find the necessary arms. His only worry was whether he would be able to -induce Seguin to sell him the old hunting-box and the few acres round it -on a system of yearly payments, without preliminary disbursement. When -he spoke to the doctor on this subject, the other replied: - -“Oh! I think he is very favorably disposed. I know that he would -be delighted to sell that huge, unprofitable estate, for with his -increasing pecuniary wants he is very much embarrassed by it. You -are aware, no doubt, that things are going from bad to worse in his -household.” - -Then the doctor broke off to inquire: “And our friend Beauchene, have -you warned him of your intention to leave the works?” - -“Why, no, not yet,” said Mathieu; “and I would ask you to keep the -matter private, for I wish to have everything settled before informing -him.” - -Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctor -offered to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going there -himself, for Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, in -order that he might keep an eye on Maurice’s health. Not only did -the lad still suffer from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate a -stomach that he had to be dieted severely. - -“It’s the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not been -brought up by their own mothers,” continued Boutan. “Your plucky wife -doesn’t know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever they -fancy. But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such as -four cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion. Well, so it is -settled, I will drive you back to the works. Only I must first make a -call in the Rue Roquepine to choose a nurse. It won’t take me long, I -hope. Quick! let us be off.” - -When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it was -precisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency. There -was a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d’Antin. A few months -previously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husband -had obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself, -pretending that he knew all about such matters. And he had chosen a -big, sturdy young woman of monumental appearance. Nevertheless, for two -months past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor had -discovered, by analyzing the nurse’s milk, that it was deficient in -nutriment. Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation. To change -a nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins’ house was in a tempestuous -state. The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors and -declaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything. - -“And so,” added Boutan, “I have now been instructed to choose a fresh -nurse. And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxious -about that poor little Andree.” - -“But why did not the mother nurse her child?” asked Mathieu. - -The doctor made a gesture of despair. “Ah! my dear fellow, you ask me -too much. But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisie -undertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when she -leads the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees, -and absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little Madame -Seguin is simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress and -says that she would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but that -it was impossible since she had no milk. She never even tried! When her -first child was born she could doubtless have nursed it. But to-day, -with the imbecile, spoilt life she leads, it is quite certain that she -is incapable of making such an effort. The worst is, my dear fellow, -as any doctor will tell you, that after three or four generations of -mothers who do not feed their children there comes a generation that -cannot do so. And so, my friend, we are fast coming, not only in France, -but in other countries where the odious wet-nurse system is in vogue, to -a race of wretched, degenerate women, who will be absolutely powerless -to nourish their offspring.” - -Mathieu then remembered what he had witnessed at Madame Bourdieu’s and -the Foundling Hospital. And he imparted his impressions to Boutan, -who again made a despairing gesture. There was a great work of -social salvation to be accomplished, said he. No doubt a number of -philanthropists were trying their best to improve things, but private -effort could not cope with such widespread need. There must be general -measures; laws must be passed to save the nation. The mother must be -protected and helped, even in secrecy, if she asked for it; she must be -cared for, succored, from the earliest period, and right through all the -long months during which she fed her babe. All sorts of establishments -would have to be founded--refuges, convalescent homes, and so forth; and -there must be protective enactments, and large sums of money voted to -enable help to be extended to all mothers, whatever they might be. -It was only by such preventive steps that one could put a stop to the -frightful hecatomb of newly-born infants, that incessant loss of life -which exhausted the nation and brought it nearer and nearer to death -every day. - -“And,” continued the doctor, “it may all be summed up in this verity: -‘It is a mother’s duty to nurse her child.’ And, besides, a mother, -is she not the symbol of all grandeur, all strength, all beauty? She -represents the eternity of life. She deserves a social culture, she -should be religiously venerated. When we know how to worship motherhood, -our country will be saved. And this is why, my friend, I should like a -mother feeding her babe to be adopted as the highest expression of human -beauty. Ah! how can one persuade our Parisiennes, all our French women, -indeed, that woman’s beauty lies in being a mother with an infant on her -knees? Whenever that fashion prevails, we shall be the sovereign nation, -the masters of the world!” - -He ended by laughing in a distressed way, in his despair at being unable -to change manners and customs, aware as he was that the nation could be -revolutionized only by a change in its ideal of true beauty. - -“To sum up, then, I believe in a child being nursed only by its own -mother. Every mother who neglects that duty when she can perform it is -a criminal. Of course, there are instances when she is physically -incapable of accomplishing her duty, and in that case there is the -feeding-bottle, which, if employed with care and extreme cleanliness, -only sterilized milk being used, will yield a sufficiently good result. -But to send a child away to be nursed means almost certain death; and as -for the nurse in the house, that is a shameful transaction, a source of -incalculable evil, for both the employer’s child and the nurse’s child -frequently die from it.” - -Just then the doctor’s brougham drew up outside the nurse-agency in the -Rue Roquepine. - -“I dare say you have never been in such a place, although you are the -father of five children,” said Boutan to Mathieu, gayly. - -“No, I haven’t.” - -“Well, then, come with me. One ought to know everything.” - -The office in the Rue Roquepine was the most important and the one with -the best reputation in the district. It was kept by Madame Broquette, -a woman of forty, with a dignified if somewhat blotched face, who was -always very tightly laced in a faded silk gown of dead-leaf hue. But if -she represented the dignity and fair fame of the establishment in -its intercourse with clients, the soul of the place, the ever-busy -manipulator, was her husband, Monsieur Broquette, a little man with a -pointed nose, quick eyes, and the agility of a ferret. Charged with the -police duties of the office, the supervision and training of the nurses, -he received them, made them clean themselves, taught them to smile and -put on pleasant ways, besides penning them in their various rooms and -preventing them from eating too much. From morn till night he was ever -prowling about, scolding and terrorizing those dirty, ill-behaved, and -often lying and thieving women. The building, a dilapidated private -house, with a damp ground floor, to which alone clients were -admitted, had two upper stories, each comprising six rooms arranged as -dormitories, in which the nurses and their infants slept. There was no -end to the arrivals and departures there: the peasant women were ever -galloping through the place, dragging trunks about, carrying babes in -swaddling clothes, and filling the rooms and the passages with wild -cries and vile odors. And amid all this the house had another inmate, -Mademoiselle Broquette, Herminie as she was called, a long, pale, -bloodless girl of fifteen, who mooned about languidly among that swarm -of sturdy young women. - -Boutan, who knew the house well, went in, followed by Mathieu. The -central passage, which was fairly broad, ended in a glass door, which -admitted one to a kind of courtyard, where a sickly conifer stood on -a round patch of grass, which the dampness rotted. On the right of the -passage was the office, whither Madame Broquette, at the request of her -customers, summoned the nurses, who waited in a neighboring room, -which was simply furnished with a greasy deal table in the centre. The -furniture of the office was some old Empire stuff, upholstered in red -velvet. There was a little mahogany centre table, and a gilt clock. -Then, on the left of the passage, near the kitchen, was the general -refectory, with two long tables, covered with oilcloth, and surrounded -by straggling chairs, whose straw seats were badly damaged. Just a -make-believe sweep with a broom was given there every day: one could -divine long-amassed, tenacious dirt in every dim corner; and the place -reeked with an odor of bad cookery mingled with that of sour milk. - -When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette was -busy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses. -She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret. “No matter, no -matter,” he exclaimed; “I am not in a hurry: I will wait.” - -Through the open door Mathieu had caught sight of Mademoiselle Herminie, -the daughter of the house, ensconced in one of the red velvet armchairs -near the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother, -standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the old -gentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemed -unable to make up his mind. - -“Let us have a look at the garden,” said the doctor, with a laugh. - -One of the boasts of the establishment, indeed, as set forth in its -prospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty of -good air there, as in the country. They opened the glass door, and on -a bench near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had just -arrived, pretending to clean a squealing infant. She herself looked -sordid, and had evidently not washed since her journey. In one corner -there was an overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots and -greasy and rusty saucepans. Then, at the other end, a French window gave -access to the nurses’ waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseous -spectacle of dirt and untidiness. - -All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had come -it was hard to say. At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a client -that needed attention. “Is my wife busy, then?” said he. “I cannot allow -you to remain waiting here, doctor. Come, come, I pray you.” - -With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girl -cleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should see -nothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of the -establishment. “Pray, doctor, follow me,” he repeated, and understanding -that an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, “What -business have you to be here? Why haven’t you gone upstairs to wash and -dress? I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don’t hurry -off and tidy yourself.” - -Then he forced her to rise and drove her off, all scared and terrified, -in front of him. When she had gone upstairs he led the two gentlemen to -the office entrance and began to complain: “Ah! doctor, if you only knew -what trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands! We who -are so clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean. If ever -a speck of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault.” - -Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on the -upper floors, whence also a vile smell descended. Some dispute, some -battle, seemed to be in progress. There were shouts and howls, followed -by a furious exchange of vituperation. - -“Pray excuse me,” at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; “my wife will -receive you in a minute.” - -Thereupon he slipped off and flew up the stairs with noiseless agility. -And directly afterwards there was an explosion. Then the house suddenly -sank into death-like silence. All that could be heard was the voice -of Madame in the office, as, in a very dignified manner, she kept on -praising her goods. - -“Well, my friend,” said Boutan to Mathieu, while they walked up and down -the passage, “all this, the material side of things, is nothing. What -you should see and know is what goes on in the minds of all these -people. And note that this is a fair average place. There are others -which are real dens, and which the police sometimes have to close. No -doubt there is a certain amount of supervision, and there are severe -regulations which compel the nurses to bring certificates of morality, -books setting forth their names, ages, parentage, the situations -they have held, and so on, with other documents on which they have -immediately to secure a signature from the Prefecture, where the final -authorization is granted them. But these precautions don’t prevent -fraud and deceit of various kinds. The women assert that they have only -recently begun nursing, when they have been doing it for months; they -show you superb children which they have borrowed and which they assert -to be their own. And there are many other tricks to which they resort in -their eagerness to make money.” - -As the doctor and Mathieu chatted on, they paused for a moment near the -door of the refectory, which chanced to be open, and there, among other -young peasant women, they espied La Couteau hastily partaking of -cold meat. Doubtless she had just arrived from Rougemont, and, after -disposing of the batch of nurses she had brought with her, was seeking -sustenance for the various visits which she would have to make before -returning home. The refectory, with its wine-stained tables and greasy -walls, cast a smell like that of a badly-kept sink. - -“Ah! so you know La Couteau!” exclaimed Boutan, when Mathieu had told -him of his meetings with the woman. “Then you know the depths of crime. -La Couteau is an ogress! And yet, think of it, with our fine social -organization, she is more or less useful, and perhaps I myself shall be -happy to choose one of the nurses that she has brought with her.” - -At this moment Madame Broquette very amiably asked the visitors into her -office. After long reflection, the old gentleman had gone off without -selecting any nurse, but saying that he would return some other time. - -“There are folks who don’t know their own minds,” said Madame Broquette -sententiously. “It isn’t my fault, and I sincerely beg you to excuse me, -doctor. If you want a good nurse you will be satisfied, for I have just -received some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you.” - -Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from her -novel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, with -a weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, after -sitting down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on, -while Boutan stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commander -reviewing his troops. And the procession began. - -Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame -Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick -of her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms. -About a dozen were thus inspected: short ones with big heavy limbs, tall -ones suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones -with the whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and -others who were pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, -silly smile, all swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the -anxious mien of the bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she -may not find a purchaser. They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, -radiant with internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, but -clouding over and casting black glances at their companions when the -latter seemed to have the better chance. Out of the dozen the doctor -began by setting three aside, and finally he detained but one, in order -that he might study her more fully. - -“One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business,” Madame -Broquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile. “I don’t -often have such pearls. But she has only just arrived, otherwise she -would probably have been engaged already. I can answer for her as I -could for myself, for I have put her out before.” - -The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, built -strongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-looking -jaw. Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairly -well. - -“So that child is not your first one?” asked the doctor. - -“No, monsieur, he’s my third.” - -Then Boutan inquired into her circumstances, studied her papers, took -her into Madame Broquette’s private room for examination, and on his -return make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, some -three months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on an -armchair. The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his head -to ask, “And that child is really your own?” - -“Oh! monsieur, where could I have got him otherwise?” - -“Oh! my girl, children are borrowed, you know.” - -Then he paused for a moment, still hesitating and looking at the young -woman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed to -embody all requirements. “And are you all quite well in your family?” he -asked; “have none of your relatives ever died of chest complaints?” - -“Never, monsieur.” - -“Well, of course you would not tell me if they had. Your books ought to -contain a page for information of that kind. And you, are you of sober -habits? You don’t drink?” - -“Oh! monsieur.” - -This time the young woman bristled up, and Boutan had to calm her. -Then her face brightened with pleasure as soon as the doctor--with the -gesture of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one may -be there is always an element of chance in such matters--said to her: -“Well, it is understood, I engage you. If you can send your child away -at once, you can go this evening to the address I will give you. Let me -see, what is your name?” - -“Marie Lebleu.” - -Madame Broquette, who, without presuming to interfere with a doctor, -had retained her majestic air which so fully proclaimed the high -respectability of her establishment, now turned towards her daughter: -“Herminie, go to see if Madame Couteau is still there.” - -Then, as the girl slowly raised her pale dreamy eyes without stirring -from her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had better -execute the commission herself. A moment later she came back with La -Couteau. - -The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for the -nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and -Madame Broquette’s charges. Then there was the question of her child’s -return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without -counting a gratuity to La Couteau. - -“I’m going back this evening,” said the latter; “I’m quite willing to -take the little one with me. In the Avenue d’Antin, did you say? Oh! I -know, there’s a lady’s maid from my district in that house. Marie can -go there at once. When I’ve settled my business, in a couple of hours, I -will go and rid her of her baby.” - -On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu, -without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his -chair silently watching the scene--first an inspection as of cattle at -a market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother’s milk. And by -degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed -through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking -child, of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured -her with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, -like some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was -the pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen -from Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was -threatened; for, however careful one may be, the employer’s child often -dies from another’s milk, and the nurse’s child, carried back into the -country like a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap. - -But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion -drove away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene -works, came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, -the accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by -his daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow -of Valerie’s funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of -prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he -had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big -fortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his -flat, though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive. -But then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain -in them. And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all -comfort. All the affection of his weak heart was now given to that -child, whose resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at -her for hours with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing up -within him; his one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happiness -through her, if indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings of -avarice had come to him; he economized with respect to everything that -was not connected with her, and secretly sought supplementary work in -order that he might give her more luxury and increase her dower. Without -her he would have died of weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeed -fast becoming his very life. - -“Why, yes,” said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which -Boutan put to her, “it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to -be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other -wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn’t stir.” - -Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as -he was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of -a collection of his wife’s portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing -her at all ages, which he had hung on the walls. - -“It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange,” said Boutan, “you do right -in taking a stroll.” - -The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the -sun as if he had not previously noticed it. “That is true, it is fine -weather--and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little.” - -Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her -black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored -during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant. -To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned, -and whom he accused himself of having killed. - -“Papa won’t believe that one never feels _ennui_ at my age,” said the -girl gayly. “Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be -a little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me -out.” - -Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the -curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her. - -“Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and -Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here.” - -This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to the -carriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughter -had sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusively -thanking the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear child -was going to amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till it -disappeared, he entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, -as if his grief had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelming -him that he quite forgot the others, and did not even take leave of -them. - -“Poor fellow!” muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeing -Seraphine’s bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window. - -Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from one -of the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair of -them found Constance and Maurice in the little drawing-room, whither -the father had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutan -immediately attended to the child, who was much better with respect -to his legs, but who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, the -slightest departure from the prescribed diet leading to troublesome -complications. - -Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxious -about the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with all -eagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on one -side. - -“I say,” he began, laughing, “why did you not tell me that everything -was finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the street -yesterday.” - -Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order to -render an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the first -to raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenses -had proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he could -produce receipts for his various disbursements. He was already entering -into particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him. - -“You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask for -work, not of me of course, but of the foreman of the women’s work-room. -Fortunately I had foreseen this and had given strict orders; so the -foreman told her that considerations of order and discipline prevented -him from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be married -next week, is still working here. Just fancy them having another set-to! -Besides, her place is not here.” - -Then he went to take a little glass of cognac which stood on the -mantelpiece. - -Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving Madame -Bourdieu’s, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, not -caring to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents’ home. Besides -her attempt to regain admittance at Beauchene’s, she had applied at two -other establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince any -particular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months’ idleness and -coddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand’s life, and -the inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came back -sipping his cognac, resumed: “Yes, I met her in the street. She was -quite smartly dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded young -fellow, who did nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come to -that, you know. I always thought so.” - -Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he remembered -something else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, “What -was it you were telling me about the child?” And as soon as Mathieu had -related that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so as -to be certain that it was deposited there, he warmly pressed his hand. -“That’s perfect. Thank you, my dear fellow; I shall be at peace now.” - -He felt, indeed, intensely relieved, hummed a lively air, and then took -his stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. She -was holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with the -jealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the health -of her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industry -and wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, she -exclaimed: “Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say that -a child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution than -others, and can the better resist the ailments of childhood?” - -“Oh! there is no doubt of it, madame.” - -Beauchene, ceasing to chew his cigar, shrugged his shoulders, and burst -into a sonorous laugh: “Oh! don’t you worry, that youngster will live -to be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as a -rock! But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass a -law for obligatory nursing by mothers?” - -At this sally Boutan also began to laugh. “Well, why not?” said he. - -This at once supplied Beauchene with material for innumerable jests. -Why, such a law would completely upset manners and customs, social life -would be suspended, and drawing-rooms would become deserted! Posters -would be placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: “Closed on -account of nursing.” - -“Briefly,” said Beauchene, in conclusion, “you want to have a -revolution.” - -“A revolution, yes,” the doctor gently replied, “and we will effect it.” - - - - -X - -MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivation -of Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all the -audacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warned -Beauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the -month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had found -him quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acres -around it on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin’s affairs -were in a very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gaming -table and spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a most -disastrous life since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomed -the transaction which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that the -young man would end by ridding him of the whole of that unprofitable -estate should his first experiment prove successful. Then came other -interviews between them, and Seguin finally consented to sell on a -system of annual payments, spread over a term of years, the first to be -made in two years’ time from that date. As things stood, the property -seemed likely to remain unremunerative forever, and so there was nothing -risked in allowing the purchaser a couple of years’ credit. However, -they agreed to meet once more and settle the final details before a -formal deed of sale was drawn up. And one Monday morning, therefore, -about ten o’clock, Mathieu set out for the house in the Avenue d’Antin -in order to complete the business. - -That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid received in the linen -room, where she usually remained, a visit from her friend Madame Menoux, -the little haberdasher of the neighborhood, in whose tiny shop she was -so fond of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever since -La Couteau, at Celeste’s instigation, had taken Madame Menoux’s child, -Pierre, to Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possible -way for the sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also very -complaisantly promised to call each month at one or another of her -journeys in order to receive the thirty francs, thereby saving the -mother the trouble of sending the money by post, and also enabling her -to obtain fresh news of her child. Thus, each time a payment became -due, if La Couteau’s journey happened to be delayed a single day, Madame -Menoux grew terribly frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to make -inquiries of her. And, moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity of -conversing with this girl, who came from the very part where her little -Pierre was being reared. - -“You will excuse, me, won’t you, mademoiselle, for calling so early,” - said she, “but you told me that your lady never required you before nine -o’clock. And I’ve come, you know, because I’ve had no news from over -yonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received a -letter.” - -Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poor -clerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad, -expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang her -passionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could have -crushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she was -endowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would have -killed herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognac -which he liked to sip after each repast. - -“Ah! it’s hard,” she continued, “to have had to send our Pierre so far -away. As it is, I don’t see my husband all day, and now I’ve a child -whom I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, and -how could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, where -from morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can’t -help crying at the thought that I wasn’t able to keep and nurse him. -When my husband comes home from the museum every evening, we do nothing -but talk about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, -mademoiselle, that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are never -any nasty illnesses about there?” - -But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another early -visitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight. - -“Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it was -of mine to call here!” - -Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that she -had arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had started -on her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the Rue -Roquepine. - -“After bidding Celeste good-day in passing,” said she, “I intended to -call on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle our -accounts here, if you are agreeable.” - -Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. “And how is -my little Pierre?” she asked. - -“Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of the -strongest; one can’t say that he’s a big child. Only he’s so pretty and -nice-looking with his rather pale face. And it’s quite certain that if -there are bigger babies than he is, there are smaller ones too.” - -She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words which -might render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. These -were her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers’ hearts, and -then extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion she -must have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe a -slight illness to the child. - -“However, I must really tell you, because I don’t know how to lie; and -besides, after all, it’s my duty--Well, the poor little darling has been -ill, and he’s not quite well again yet.” - -Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: “_Mon -Dieu_! he will die of it.” - -“No, no, since I tell you that he’s already a little better. And -certainly he doesn’t lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseau -coddles him! When children are well behaved they soon get themselves -loved. And the whole house is at his service, and no expense is spared -The doctor came twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costs -money.” - -The last words fell from La Couteau’s lips with the weight of a club. -Then, without leaving the scared, trembling mother time to recover, the -nurse-agent continued: “Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?” - -Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning to -her shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked for -a slip of paper on which to set down the figures; first the month’s -nursing, thirty francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, with -the medicine, that would make ten francs. - -“Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you,” added La Couteau, “that so much -linen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add three -francs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there were -other little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to act -like a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francs -altogether, will that suit you?” - -In spite of her emotion Madame Menoux felt that she was being robbed, -that the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of -surprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money--that -money which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had -to be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the -necessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the -other, would have touched the hardest heart. - -“But that will make another half-month’s money,” said she. - -At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: “Well, what would you -have? It isn’t my fault. One can’t let your child die, so one must incur -the necessary expenses. And then, if you haven’t confidence in me, say -so; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly -relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I’m -always stupid enough to be too obliging.” - -When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another -difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc -pieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the -table. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes. - -“Well, I can’t give you your five francs change,” she said, “I haven’t -any change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this -lady?” - -She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such -a glance that the other immediately understood her. “I have not a copper -in my pocket,” she replied. - -Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel -resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her. - -“Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to -take so much trouble. And, _mon Dieu_! may all this money bring me -good luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine -handsome man like his father.” - -“Oh! as for that I’ll warrant it,” cried the other, with enthusiasm. -“Those little ailments don’t mean anything--on the contrary. I see -plenty of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, -yours will become an extraordinarily fine child. There won’t be better.” - -When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and -such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer -regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would -come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak. - -As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began -to laugh in her impudent way: “What a lot of fibs you told her! I don’t -believe that her child so much as caught a cold,” she exclaimed. - -La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air: “Say that I’m a liar at -once. The child isn’t well, I assure you.” - -The maid’s gayety only increased at this. “Well now, you are really -comical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I know -what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle.” - -“The child is quite puny,” repeated her friend, more gently. - -“Oh! I can believe that. All the same I should like to see the doctor’s -prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar. But, you know, I don’t care -a button about the matter. As for that little Madame Menoux, it’s here -to-day and gone to-morrow. She has her business, and I have mine. And -you, too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out of -it as you can.” - -But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she could -not give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling did -upset her stomach so. Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottle -half-full of malaga and a box of biscuits from the bottom of a cupboard. -This was her little secret store, stolen from the still-room. Then, as -the other expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, she -made a gesture of insolent contempt. Her mistress! Why, she had her nose -in her basins and perfumery pots, and wasn’t at all likely to call till -she had fixed herself up so as to look pretty. - -“There are only the children to fear,” added Celeste; “that Gaston and -that Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because their -parents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or in -the kitchen from morning till night. And I don’t dare lock this door, -for fear they should come rapping and kicking at it.” - -When, by way of precaution, she had glanced down the passage and they -had both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out their -minds, soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everything -as if quite unconscious how abominable it was. While sipping her wine -Celeste asked for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutal -truth, between two biscuits. It was at the Vimeux’ house that the -servant’s last child, born in La Rouche’s den, had died a fortnight -after arriving at Rougemont, and the Vimeux, who were more or less her -cousins, had sent her their friendly remembrances and the news that they -were about to marry off their daughter. Then, at La Gavette’s, the old -grandfather, who looked after the nurslings while the family was at -work in the fields, had fallen into the fire with a baby in his arms. -Fortunately they had been pulled out of it, and only the little one had -been roasted. La Cauchois, though at heart she wasn’t downcast, now had -some fears that she might be worried, because four little ones had gone -off from her house all in a body, a window being forgetfully left open -at night-time. They were all four little Parisians, it seemed--two -foundlings and two that had come from Madame Bourdieu’s. Since the -beginning of the year as many had died at Rougemont as had arrived -there, and the mayor had declared that far too many were dying, and -that the village would end by getting a bad reputation. One thing was -certain, La Couillard would be the very first to receive a visit from -the gendarmes if she didn’t so arrange matters as to keep at least one -nursling alive every now and then. - -“Ah? that Couillard!” added the nurse-agent. “Just fancy, my dear, I -took her a child, a perfect little angel--the boy of a very pretty young -person who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu’s. She paid four hundred -francs to have him brought up until his first communion, and he lived -just five days! Really now, that wasn’t long enough! La Couillard need -not have been so hasty. It put me in such a temper! I asked her if she -wanted to dishonor me. What will ruin me is my good heart. I don’t know -how to refuse when folks ask me to do them a service. And God in Heaven -knows how fond I am of children! I’ve always lived among them, and in -future, if anybody who’s a friend of mine gives me a child to put out to -nurse, I shall say: ‘We won’t take the little one to La Couillard, for -it would be tempting Providence. But after all, I’m an honest woman, and -I wash my hands of it, for if I do take the cherubs over yonder I -don’t nurse them. And when one’s conscience is at ease one can sleep -quietly.’” - -“Of course,” chimed in Celeste, with an air of conviction. - -While they thus waxed maudlin over their malaga, there arose a horrible -red vision--a vision of that terrible Rougemont, paved with little -Parisians, the filthy, bloody village, the charnel-place of cowardly -murder, whose steeple pointed so peacefully to the skies in the midst of -the far-spreading plain. - -But all at once a rush was heard in the passage, and the servant -hastened to the door to rid herself of Gaston and Lucie, who were -approaching. “Be off! I don’t want you here. Your mamma has told you -that you mustn’t come here.” - -Then she came back into the room quite furious. “That’s true!” said she; -“I can do nothing but they must come to bother me. Why don’t they stay a -little with the nurse?” - -“Oh! by the way,” interrupted La Couteau, “did you hear that Marie -Lebleu’s little one is dead? She must have had a letter about it. Such -a fine child it was! But what can one expect? it’s a nasty wind -passing. And then you know the saying, ‘A nurse’s child is the child of -sacrifice!’” - -“Yes, she told me she had heard of it,” replied Celeste, “but she begged -me not to mention it to madame, as such things always have a bad effect. -The worst is that if her child’s dead madame’s little one isn’t much -better off.” - -At this La Couteau pricked up her ears. “Ah! so things are not -satisfactory?” - -“No, indeed. It isn’t on account of her milk; that’s good enough, and -she has plenty of it. Only you never saw such a creature--such a temper! -always brutal and insolent, banging the doors and talking of smashing -everything at the slightest word. And besides, she drinks like a pig--as -no woman ought to drink.” - -La Couteau’s pale eyes sparkled with gayety, and she briskly nodded her -head as if to say that she knew all this and had been expecting it. In -that part of Normandy, in and around Rougemont, all the women drank more -or less, and the girls even carried little bottles of brandy to school -with them in their baskets. Marie Lebleu, however, was a woman of the -kind that one picks up under the table, and, indeed, it might be said -that since the birth of her last child she had never been quite sober. - -“I know her, my dear,” exclaimed La Couteau; “she is impossible. But -then, that doctor who chose her didn’t ask my opinion. And, besides, it -isn’t a matter that concerns me. I simply bring her to Paris and take -her child back to the country. I know nothing about anything else. Let -the gentlefolks get out of their trouble by themselves.” - -This sentiment tickled Celeste, who burst out laughing. “You haven’t an -idea,” said she, “of the infernal life that Marie leads here! She fights -people, she threw a water-bottle at the coachman, she broke a big vase -in madame’s apartments, she makes them all tremble with constant dread -that something awful may happen. And, then, if you knew what tricks she -plays to get something to drink! For it was found out that she drank, -and all the liqueurs were put under lock and key. So you don’t know -what she devised? Well, last week she drained a whole bottle of Eau de -Melisse, and was ill, quite ill, from it. Another time she was caught -sipping some Eau de Cologne from one of the bottles in madame’s -dressing-room. I now really believe that she treats herself to some of -the spirits of wine that are given her for the warmer!--it’s enough to -make one die of laughing. I’m always splitting my sides over it, in my -little corner.” - -Then she laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and La Couteau, on -her side highly amused, began to wriggle with a savage delight. All at -once, however, she calmed down and exclaimed, “But, I say, they will -turn her out of doors?” - -“Oh! that won’t be long. They would have done so already if they had -dared.” - -But at this moment the ringing of a bell was heard, and an oath escaped -Celeste. “Good! there’s madame ringing for me now! One can never be at -peace for a moment.” - -La Couteau, however, was already standing up, quite serious, intent on -business and ready to depart. - -“Come, little one, don’t be foolish, you must do your work. For my part -I have an idea. I’ll run to fetch one of the nurses whom I brought this -morning, a girl I can answer for as for myself. In an hour’s time I’ll -be back here with her, and there will be a little present for you if you -help me to get her the situation.” - -She disappeared while the maid, before answering a second ring, -leisurely replaced the malaga and the biscuits at the bottom of the -cupboard. - -At ten o’clock that day Seguin was to take his wife and their friend -Santerre to Mantes, to lunch there, by way of trying an electric -motor-car, which he had just had built at considerable expense. He had -become fond of this new “sport,” less from personal taste, however, than -from his desire to be one of the foremost in taking up a new fashion. -And a quarter of an hour before the time fixed for starting he was -already in his spacious “cabinet,” arrayed in what he deemed an -appropriate costume: a jacket and breeches of greenish ribbed velvet, -yellow shoes, and a little leather hat. And he poked fun at Santerre -when the latter presented himself in town attire, a light gray suit of -delicate effect. - -Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, the -novelist had again become a constant frequenter of the house in the -Avenue d’Antin. He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that he -had begun there and felt confident of victory. Valentine, on her side, -after a period of terror followed by great relief, had set about making -up for lost time, throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortex -of fashionable life. She had recovered her good looks and youthfulness, -and had never before experienced such a desire to divert herself, -leaving her children more and more to the care of servants, and going -about, hither and thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since her -husband did the same in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, which -broke out every now and again in the most imbecile fashion without the -slightest cause. It was the collapse of all family life, with the threat -of a great disaster in the future; and Santerre lived there in the midst -of it, helping on the work of destruction. - -He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance -gowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her -head. But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that -she would be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree, -and given her last orders to the nurse. - -“Well, make haste,” cried her husband. “You are quite unbearable, you -are never ready.” - -It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in -order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business -matters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he -was willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to -stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right -of purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and -at fixed dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this -proposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult--distant shouts, wild -hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors. - -“Why! what is it? what is it?” he muttered, turning towards the shaking -walls. - -The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with -fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled -in her arms. - -“There, there, my pet,” gasped the mother, “don’t cry, she shan’t hurt -you any more. There, it’s nothing, darling; be quiet, do.” - -Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at -once became quiet again. She was a very pretty child, but still so puny, -although nearly four months old, that there seemed to be nothing but her -beautiful big eyes in her pale little face. - -“Well, what is the matter?” asked Seguin, in astonishment. - -“The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across -the cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. If -I had been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at ten -o’clock in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticed -that she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able to -keep her, since her milk is so good. But do you know what she had -drunk? Why, the methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle had -remained beside her.” - -“But what did she say to you?” - -“She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in a -drunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escape -with the little one, while she began barricading herself in the room, -where she is now smashing the furniture! There! just listen!” - -Indeed, a distant uproar of destruction reached them. They looked one at -the other, and deep silence fell, full of embarrassment and alarm. - -“And then?” Seguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice. - -“Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can’t leave -Andree in her charge to be killed by her. I have brought the child here, -and I certainly shall not take her back. I will even own that I won’t -run the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girl -out of doors, after paying her wages.” - -“I! I!” cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the -anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: “I’ve had enough, you -know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect -hell upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but -fighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended -that the nurse whom I took the trouble to choose wasn’t healthy. Well, -then a second nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the -child. And now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile -creature who will prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it’s too -exasperating, I won’t have it.” - -Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. “What won’t you -have? There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have -a nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have -told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable -than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But -I won’t nurse--I can’t. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it’s -simple enough, and we’ll do so at once and risk it.” - -Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight -of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he -perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, -who had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, -full of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they -remained there, and saw and heard everything. - -“The carriage is waiting,” resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to -render calm. “Let us make haste, let us go.” - -Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. “Come, be reasonable,” said -she. “How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust -her?” - -“The carriage is waiting for us,” he repeated, quivering; “let us go at -once.” - -And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her -shoulders, he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which -impelled him to the greatest violence, even when people were present, -and made him openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd -jealousy which had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing -child, he would have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of -everything, and indeed it was she who was now the obstacle to that -excursion he had planned, that pleasure trip which he had promised -himself, and which now seemed to him of such supreme importance. And -‘twas so much the better if friends were there to hear him. So in the -vilest language he began to upbraid his wife, not only reproaching her -for the birth of that child, but even denying that the child was his. -“You will only be content when you have driven me from the house!” he -finished in a fury. “You won’t come? Well then, I’ll go by myself!” - -And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to -Santerre, who had remained silent, and without even remembering -that Mathieu still stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in -consternation at hearing all these things, had not dared to withdraw -lest by doing so he should seem to be passing judgment on the scene. -Standing there motionless, he turned his head aside, looked at little -Andree who was still crying, and at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with -fright, pressed one against the other behind the armchair in which their -sister was wailing. - -Valentine had sunk upon a chair, stifling with sobs, her limbs -trembling. “The wretch! Ah, how he treats me! To accuse me thus, when -he knows how false it is! Ah! never more; no, never more! I would rather -kill myself; yes, kill myself!” - -Then Santerre, who had hitherto stood on one side, gently drew near -to her and ventured to take her hand with a gesture of affectionate -compassion, while saying in an undertone: “Come, calm yourself. You know -very well that you are not alone, that you are not forsaken. There are -some things which cannot touch you. Calm yourself, cease weeping, I beg -you. You distress me dreadfully.” - -He made himself the more gentle since the husband had been the more -brutal; and he leant over her yet the more closely, and again lowered -his voice till it became but a murmur. Only a few words could be heard: -“It is wrong of you to worry yourself like this. Forget all that folly. -I told you before that he doesn’t know how to behave towards a woman.” - -Twice was that last remark repeated with a sort of mocking pity; and she -smiled vaguely amid her drying tears, in her turn murmuring: “You are -kind, you are. Thank you. And you are quite right.... Ah! if I could -only be a little happy!” - -Then Mathieu distinctly saw her press Santerre’s hand as if in -acceptance of his consolation. It was the logical, fatal outcome of the -situation--given a wife whom her husband had perverted, a mother who -refused to nurse her babe. And yet a cry from Andree suddenly set -Valentine erect, awaking to the reality of her position. If that poor -creature were so puny, dying for lack of her mother’s milk, the mother -also was in danger from her refusal to nurse her and clasp her to her -breast like a buckler of invincible defence. Life and salvation one -through the other, or disaster for both, such was the law. And doubtless -Valentine became clearly conscious of her peril, for she hastened to -take up the child and cover her with caresses, as if to make of her a -protecting rampart against the supreme madness to which she had felt -prompted. And great was the distress that came over her. Her other -children were there, looking and listening, and Mathieu also was still -waiting. When she perceived him her tears gushed forth again, and she -strove to explain things, and even attempted to defend her husband. - -“Excuse him, there are moments when he quite loses his head. _Mon Dieu_! -What will become of me with this child? Yet I can’t nurse her now, it is -too late. It is frightful to be in such a position without knowing what -to do. Ah! what will become of me, good Lord?” - -Santerre again attempted to console her, but she no longer listened to -him, and he was about to defer all further efforts till another time -when unexpected intervention helped on his designs. - -Celeste, who had entered noiselessly, stood there waiting for her -mistress to allow her to speak. “It is my friend who has come to see -me, madame,” said she; “you know, the person from my village, Sophie -Couteau, and as she happens to have a nurse with her--” - -“There is a nurse here?” - -“Oh! yes, madame, a very fine one, an excellent one.” - -Then, on perceiving her mistress’s radiant surprise, her joy at this -relief, she showed herself zealous: “Madame must not tire herself by -holding the little one. Madame hasn’t the habit. If madame will allow -me, I will bring the nurse to her.” - -Heaving a sigh of happy deliverance, Valentine had allowed the servant -to take the child from her. So Heaven had not abandoned her! However, -she began to discuss the matter, and was not inclined to have the nurse -brought there. She somehow feared that if the other one, who was drunk -in her room, should come out and meet the new arrival, she would set -about beating them all and breaking everything. At last she insisted on -taking Santerre and Mathieu into the linen-room, saying that the -latter must certainly have some knowledge of these matters, although he -declared the contrary. Only Gaston and Lucie were formally forbidden to -follow. - -“You are not wanted,” said their mother, “so stay here and play. But -we others will all go, and as softly as possible, please, so that that -drunken creature may not suspect anything.” - -Once in the linen-room, Valentine ordered all the doors to be carefully -secured. La Couteau was standing there with a sturdy young person of -five-and-twenty, who carried a superb-looking infant in her arms. -She had dark hair, a low forehead, and a broad face, and was very -respectably dressed. And she made a little courtesy like a well-trained -nurse, who has already served with gentlefolks and knows how to behave. -But Valentine’s embarrassment remained extreme; she looked at the nurse -and at the babe like an ignorant woman who, though her elder children -had been brought up in a room adjoining her own, had never troubled or -concerned herself about anything. In her despair, seeing that Santerre -kept to himself, she again appealed to Mathieu, who once more excused -himself. And it was only then that La Couteau, after glancing askance at -the gentleman who, somehow or other, always turned up whenever she had -business to transact, ventured to intervene: - -“Will madame rely on me? If madame will kindly remember, I once before -ventured to offer her my services, and if she had accepted them -she would have saved herself no end of worry. That Marie Lebleu is -impossible, and I certainly could have warned madame of it at the time -when I came to fetch Marie’s child. But since madame’s doctor had chosen -her, it was not for me to speak. Oh! she has good milk, that’s quite -sure; only she also has a good tongue, which is always dry. So if madame -will now place confidence in me--” - -Then she rattled on interminably, expatiating on the respectability of -her calling, and praising the value of the goods she offered. - -“Well, madame, I tell you that you can take La Catiche with your eyes -shut. She’s exactly what you want, there’s no better in Paris. Just look -how she’s built, how sturdy and how healthy she is! And her child, just -look at it! She’s married, she even has a little girl of four at the -village with her husband. She’s a respectable woman, which is more than -can be said for a good many nurses. In a word, madame, I know her and -can answer for her. If you are not pleased with her I myself will give -you your money back.” - -In her haste to get it all over Valentine made a great gesture of -surrender. She even consented to pay one hundred francs a month, since -La Catiche was a married woman. Moreover, La Couteau explained that she -would not have to pay the office charges, which would mean a saving -of forty-five francs, though, perhaps, madame would not forget all -the trouble which she, La Couteau, had taken. On the other hand, there -would, of course, be the expense of taking La Catiche’s child back to -the village, a matter of thirty francs. Valentine liberally promised to -double that sum; and all seemed to be settled, and she felt delivered, -when she suddenly bethought herself of the other nurse, who had -barricaded herself in her room. How could they get her out in order to -install La Catiche in her place? - -“What!” exclaimed La Couteau, “does Marie Lebleu frighten you? She had -better not give me any of her nonsense if she wants me ever to find her -another situation. I’ll speak to her, never fear.” - -Celeste thereupon placed Andree on a blanket, which was lying there, -side by side with the infant of which the new nurse had rid herself a -moment previously, and undertook to conduct La Couteau to Marie Lebleu’s -room. Deathlike silence now reigned there, but the nurse-agent only -had to give her name to secure admittance. She went in, and for a few -moments one only heard her dry curt voice. Then, on coming out, she -tranquillized Valentine, who had gone to listen, trembling. - -“I’ve sobered her, I can tell you,” said she. “Pay her her month’s -wages. She’s packing her box and going off.” - -Then, as they went back into the linen-room, Valentine settled pecuniary -matters and added five francs for this new service. But a final -difficulty arose. La Couteau could not come back to fetch La Catiche’s -child in the evening, and what was she to do with it during the rest -of the day? “Well, no matter,” she said at last, “I’ll take it; I’ll -deposit it at the office, before I go my round. They’ll give it a bottle -there, and it’ll have to grow accustomed to the bottle now, won’t it?” - -“Of course,” the mother quietly replied. - -Then, as La Couteau, on the point of leaving, after all sorts of bows -and thanks, turned round to take the little one, she made a gesture of -hesitation on seeing the two children lying side by side on the blanket. - -“The devil!” she murmured; “I mustn’t make a mistake.” - -This seemed amusing, and enlivened the others. Celeste fairly exploded, -and even La Catiche grinned broadly; while La Couteau caught up the -child with her long claw-like hands and carried it away. Yet another -gone, to be carted away yonder in one of those ever-recurring _razzias_ -which consigned the little babes to massacre! - -Mathieu alone had not laughed. He had suddenly recalled his conversation -with Boutan respecting the demoralizing effects of that nurse trade, the -shameful bargaining, the common crime of two mothers, who each risked -the death of her child--the idle mother who bought another’s services, -the venal mother who sold her milk. He felt cold at heart as he saw one -child carried off still full of life, and the other remain there already -so puny. And what would be fate’s course? Would not one or the other, -perhaps both of them be sacrificed? - -Valentine, however, was already leading both him and Santerre to the -spacious salon again; and she was so delighted, so fully relieved, that -she had recovered all her cavalier carelessness, her passion for noise -and pleasure. And as Mathieu was about to take his leave, he heard the -triumphant Santerre saying to her, while for a moment he retained her -hand in his clasp: “Till to-morrow, then.” And she, who had cast her -buckler of defence aside, made answer: “Yes--yes, to-morrow.” - -A week later La Catiche was the acknowledged queen of the house. Andree -had recovered a little color, and was increasing in weight daily. And -in presence of this result the others bowed low indeed. There was every -disposition to overlook all possible faults on the nurse’s part. She was -the third, and a fourth would mean the child’s death; so that she was -an indispensable, a providential helper, one whose services must be -retained at all costs. Moreover, she seemed to have no defects, for -she was a calm, cunning, peasant woman, one who knew how to rule her -employers and extract from them all that was to be extracted. Her -conquest of the Seguins was effected with extraordinary skill. At first -some unpleasantness seemed likely, because Celeste was, on her own side, -pursuing a similar course; but they were both too intelligent to do -otherwise than come to an understanding. As their departments were -distinct, they agreed that they could prosecute parallel invasions. And -from that moment they even helped one another, divided the empire, and -preyed upon the house in company. - -La Catiche sat upon a throne, served by the other domestics, with her -employers at her feet. The finest dishes were for her; she had her -special wine, her special bread, she had everything most delicate and -most nourishing that could be found. Gluttonous, slothful, and proud, -she strutted about, bending one and all to her fancies. The others gave -way to her in everything to avoid sending her into a temper which might -have spoilt her milk. At her slightest indisposition everybody was -distracted. One night she had an attack of indigestion, and all the -doctors in the neighborhood were rung up to attend on her. Her only -real defect, perhaps, was a slight inclination for pilfering; she -appropriated some linen that was lying about, but madame would not hear -of the matter being mentioned. - -There was also the chapter of the presents which were heaped on her in -order to keep her in good temper. Apart from the regulation present -when the child cut its first tooth, advantage was taken of various other -occasions, and a ring, a brooch, and a pair of earrings were given her. -Naturally she was the most adorned nurse in the Champs-Elysees, with -superb cloaks and the richest of caps, trimmed with long ribbons which -flared in the sunlight. Never did lady lead a life of more sumptuous -idleness. There were also the presents which she extracted for her -husband and her little girl at the village. Parcels were sent them by -express train every week. And on the morning when news came that her -own baby, carried back by La Couteau, had died from the effects of a bad -cold, she was presented with fifty francs as if in payment for the loss -of her child. Little Andree, meanwhile, grew ever stronger, and thus La -Catiche rose higher and higher, with the whole house bending low beneath -her tyrannical sway. - -On the day when Mathieu called to sign the deed which was to insure -him the possession of the little pavilion of Chantebled with some fifty -acres around it, and the privilege of acquiring other parts of the -estate on certain conditions, he found Seguin on the point of starting -for Le Havre, where a friend, a wealthy Englishman, was waiting for him -with his yacht, in order that they might have a month’s trip round the -coast of Spain. - -“Yes,” said Seguin feverishly, alluding to some recent heavy losses at -the gaming table, “I’m leaving Paris for a time--I have no luck here -just now. But I wish you plenty of courage and all success, my dear sir. -You know how much I am interested in the attempt you are about to make.” - -A little later that same day Mathieu was crossing the Champs-Elysees, -eager to join Marianne at Chantebled, moved as he was by the decisive -step he had taken, yet quivering also with faith and hope, when in a -deserted avenue he espied a cab waiting, and recognized Santerre inside -it. Then, as a veiled lady furtively sprang into the vehicle, he turned -round wondering: Was that not Valentine? And as the cab drove off he -felt convinced it was. - -There came other meetings when he reached the main avenue; first Gaston -and Lucie, already tired of play, and dragging about their puny limbs -under the careless supervision of Celeste, who was busy laughing with a -grocer’s man; while farther off La Catiche, superb and royal, decked out -like the idol of venal motherhood, was giving little Andree an outing, -with her long purple ribbons streaming victoriously in the sunshine. - - - - -XI - -ON the day when the first blow with the pick was dealt, Marianne, with -Gervais in her arms, came and sat down close by, full of happy emotion -at this work of faith and hope which Mathieu was so boldly undertaking. -It was a clear, warm day in the middle of June, with a pure, broad -sky that encouraged confidence. And as the children had been given a -holiday, they played about in the surrounding grass, and one could hear -the shrill cries of little Rose while she amused herself with running -after the three boys. - -“Will you deal the first blow?” Mathieu gayly asked his wife. - -But she pointed to her baby. “No, no, I have my work. Deal it yourself, -you are the father.” - -He stood there with two men under his orders, but ready himself -to undertake part of the hard manual toil in order to help on the -realization of his long thought of, ripening scheme. With great prudence -and wisdom he had assured himself a modest livelihood for a year of -effort, by an intelligent scheme of association and advances repayable -out of profits, which would enable him to wait for his first harvest. -And it was his life that he risked on that future crop, should the earth -refuse his worship and his labor. But he was a faithful believer, one -who felt certain of conquering, since love and determination were his. - -“Well then, here goes!” he gallantly cried. “May the earth prove a good -mother to us!” - -Then he dealt the first blow with his pick. - -The work was begun to the left of the old pavilion, in a corner of that -extensive marshy tableland, where little streams coursed on all sides -through the reeds which sprang up everywhere. It was at first simply a -question of draining a few acres by capturing these streams and turning -them into canals, in order to direct them afterwards over the dry sandy -slopes which descended towards the railway line. After an attentive -examination Mathieu had discovered that the work might easily be -executed, and that water-furrows would suffice, such was the disposition -and nature of the ground. This, indeed, was his real discovery, not to -mention the layer of humus which he felt certain would be found amassed -on the plateau, and the wondrous fertility which it would display as -soon as a ploughshare had passed through it. And so with his pick he -now began to open the trench which was to drain the damp soil above, and -fertilize the dry, sterile, thirsty ground below. - -The open air, however, had doubtless given Gervais an appetite, for he -began to cry. He was now a strong little fellow, three months and a half -old, and never neglected mealtime. He was growing like one of the young -trees in the neighboring wood, with hands which did not easily release -what they grasped, with eyes too full of light, now all laughter and now -all tears, and with the ever open beak of a greedy bird, that raised a -tempest whenever his mother kept him waiting. - -“Yes, yes, I know you are there,” said she; “come, don’t deafen us any -longer.” - -Then she gave him the breast and he became quiet, simply purring like a -happy little kitten. The beneficent source had begun to flow once more, -as if it were inexhaustible. The trickling milk murmured unceasingly. -One might have said that it could be heard descending and spreading, -while Mathieu on his side continued opening his trench, assisted by the -two men whose apprenticeship was long since past. - -He rose up at last, wiped his brow, and with his air of quiet certainty -exclaimed: “It’s only a trade to learn. In a few months’ time I shall -be nothing but a peasant. Look at that stagnant pond there, green with -water-plants. The spring which feeds it is yonder in that big tuft of -herbage. And when this trench has been opened to the edge of the slope, -you will see the pond dry up, and the spring gush forth and take its -course, carrying the beneficent water away.” - -“Ah!” said Marianne, “may it fertilize all that stony expanse, for -nothing can be sadder than dead land. How happy it will be to quench its -thirst and live again!” - -Then she broke off to scold Gervais: “Come, young gentleman, don’t pull -so hard,” said she. “Wait till it comes; you know very well that it’s -all for you.” - -Meantime the blows of the pickaxes rang out, the trench rapidly made its -way through the fat, moist soil, and soon the water would flow into -the parched veins of the neighboring sandy tracts to endow them -with fruitfulness. And the light trickling of the mother’s milk also -continued with the faint murmur of an inexhaustible source, flowing from -her breast into the mouth of her babe, like a fountain of eternal life. -It ever and ever flowed, it created flesh, intelligence, and labor, and -strength. And soon its whispering would mingle with the babble of the -delivered spring as it descended along the trenches to the dry hot -lands. And at last there would be but one and the same stream, one -and the same river, gradually overflowing and carrying life to all the -earth, a mighty river of nourishing milk flowing through the world’s -veins, creating without a pause, and producing yet more youth and more -health at each return of springtide. - -Four months later, when Mathieu and his men had finished the autumn -ploughing, there came the sowing on the same spot. Marianne was there -again, and it was such a very mild gray day that she was still able to -sit down, and once more gayly give the breast to little Gervais. He was -already eight months old and had become quite a personage. He grew a -little more every day, always in his mother’s arms, on that warm breast -whence he sucked life. He was like the seed which clings to the seed-pod -so long as it is not ripe. And at that first quiver of November, that -approach of winter through which the germs would slumber in the furrows, -he pressed his chilly little face close to his mother’s warm bosom, -and nursed on in silence as if the river of life were lost, buried deep -beneath the soil. - -“Ah!” said Marianne, laughing, “you are not warm, young gentleman, are -you? It is time for you to take up your winter quarters.” - -Just then Mathieu, with his sower’s bag at his waist, was returning -towards them, scattering the seed with broad rhythmical gestures. He had -heard his wife, and he paused to say to her: “Let him nurse and sleep -till the sun comes back. He will be a man by harvest time.” And, -pointing to the great field which he was sowing with his assistants, he -added: “All this will grow and ripen when our Gervais has begun to walk -and talk--just look, see our conquest!” - -He was proud of it. From ten to fifteen acres of the plateau were now -rid of the stagnant pools, cleared and levelled; and they spread out -in a brown expanse, rich with humus, while the water-furrows which -intersected them carried the streams to the neighboring slopes. Before -cultivating those dry lands one must yet wait until the moisture should -have penetrated and fertilized them. That would be the work of the -future, and thus, by degrees, life would be diffused through the whole -estate. - -“Evening is coming on,” resumed Mathieu, “I must make haste.” - -Then he set off again, throwing the seed with his broad rhythmical -gesture. And while Marianne, gravely smiling, watched him go, it -occurred to little Rose to follow in his track, and take up handfuls of -earth, which she scattered to the wind. The three boys perceived -her, and Blaise and Denis then hastened up, followed by Ambroise, all -gleefully imitating their father’s gesture, and darting hither and -thither around him. And for a moment it was almost as if Mathieu with -the sweep of his arm not only cast the seed of expected corn into the -furrows, but also sowed those dear children, casting them here and there -without cessation, so that a whole nation of little sowers should spring -up and finish populating the world. - -Two months more went by, and January had arrived with a hard frost, -when one day the Froments unexpectedly received a visit from Seguin and -Beauchene, who had come to try their luck at wild-duck shooting, among -such of the ponds on the plateau as had not yet been drained. It was a -Sunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheered -by a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading -countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal -casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April’s resurrection. And, -that day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also was -slumbering in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, but -plump even as larks are in the cold weather, and waiting, he also, -simply for life’s revival, in order to reappear in all the triumph of -his acquired strength. - -The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, -the four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbed -in a playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, the -twins, Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces of -cardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, -a church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch the -scissors, presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself even -to her hair. In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang at -intervals, their father and mother had remained seated side by side in -front of the blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace after -the week’s hard work. - -They lived there very simply, like genuine peasants, without any luxury, -any amusement, save that of being together. Their gay, bright kitchen -was redolent of that easy primitive life, lived so near the earth, which -frees one from fictitious wants, ambition, and the longing for pleasure. -And no fortune, no power could have brought such quiet delight as that -afternoon of happy intimacy, while the last-born slept so soundly and -quietly that one could not even hear him breathe. - -Beauchene and Seguin broke in upon the quiet like unlucky sportsmen, -with their limbs weary and their faces and hands icy cold. Amid the -exclamations of surprise which greeted them, they complained of the -folly that had possessed them to venture out of Paris in such bleak -weather. - -“Just fancy, my dear fellow,” said Beauchene, “we haven’t seen a single -duck! It’s no doubt too cold. And you can’t imagine what a bitter -wind blows on the plateau, amid those ponds and bushes bristling with -icicles. So we gave up the idea of any shooting. You must give us each a -glass of hot wine, and then we’ll get back to Paris.” - -Seguin, who was in even a worse humor, stood before the fire trying to -thaw himself; and while Marianne made haste to warm some wine, he began -to speak of the cleared fields which he had skirted. Under the icy -covering, however, beneath which they stiffly slumbered, hiding the -seed within them, he had guessed nothing of the truth, and already felt -anxious about this business of Mathieu’s, which looked anything but -encouraging. Indeed, he already feared that he would not be paid his -purchase money, and so made bold to speak ironically. - -“I say, my dear fellow, I am afraid you have lost your time,” he began; -“I noticed it all as I went by, and it did not seem promising. But how -can you hope to reap anything from rotten soil in which only reeds have -been growing for centuries?” - -“One must wait,” Mathieu quietly answered. “You must come back and see -it all next June.” - -But Beauchene interrupted them. “There is a train at four o’clock, I -think,” said he; “let us make haste, for it would annoy us tremendously -to miss it, would it not, Seguin?” - -So saying, he gave him a gay, meaning glance. They had doubtless planned -some little spree together, like husbands bent on availing themselves to -the utmost of the convenient pretext of a day’s shooting. Then, having -drunk some wine and feeling warmed and livelier, they began to express -astonishment at their surroundings. - -“It stupefies me, my dear fellow,” declared Beauchene, “that you can -live in this awful solitude in the depth of winter. It is enough to kill -anybody. I am all in favor of work, you know; but, dash it! one must -have some amusement too.” - -“But we do amuse ourselves,” said Mathieu, waving his hand round that -rustic kitchen in which centred all their pleasant family life. - -The two visitors followed his gesture, and gazed in amazement at the -walls covered with utensils, at the rough furniture, and at the table -on which the children were still building their village after offering -their cheeks to be kissed. No doubt they were unable to understand -what pleasure there could possibly be there, for, suppressing a jeering -laugh, they shook their heads. To them it was really an extraordinary -life, a life of most singular taste. - -“Come and see my little Gervais,” said Marianne softly. “He is asleep; -mind, you must not wake him.” - -For politeness’ sake they both bent over the cradle, and expressed -surprise at finding a child but ten months old so big. He was very -good, too. Only, as soon as he should wake, he would no doubt deafen -everybody. And then, too, if a fine child like that sufficed to make -life happy, how many people must be guilty of spoiling their lives! The -visitors came back to the fireside, anxious only to be gone now that -they felt enlivened. - -“So it’s understood,” said Mathieu, “you won’t stay to dinner with us?” - -“Oh, no, indeed!” they exclaimed in one breath. - -Then, to attenuate the discourtesy of such a cry, Beauchene began to -jest, and accepted the invitation for a later date when the warm weather -should have arrived. - -“On my word of honor, we have business in Paris,” he declared. “But -I promise you that when it’s fine we will all come and spend a day -here--yes, with our wives and children. And you will then show us your -work, and we shall see if you have succeeded. So good-by! All my good -wishes, my dear fellow! Au revoir, cousin! Au revoir, children; be -good!” - -Then came more kisses and hand-shakes, and the two men disappeared. And -when the gentle silence had fallen once more Mathieu and Marianne -again found themselves in front of the bright fire, while the children -completed the building of their village with a great consumption of -paste, and Gervais continued sleeping soundly. Had they been dreaming? -Mathieu wondered. What sudden blast from all the shame and suffering of -Paris had blown into their far-away quiet? Outside, the country retained -its icy rigidity. The fire alone sang the song of hope in life’s future -revival. And, all at once, after a few minutes’ reverie the young man -began to speak aloud, as if he had at last just found the answer to all -sorts of grave questions which he had long since put to himself. - -“But those folks don’t love; they are incapable of loving! Money, power, -ambition, pleasure--yes, all those things may be theirs, but not love! -Even the husbands who deceive their wives do not really love their -mistresses. They have never glowed with the supreme desire, the divine -desire which is the world’s very soul, the brazier of eternal life. And -that explains everything. Without desire there is no love, no courage, -and no hope. By love alone can one create. And if love be restricted -in its mission there is but failure. Yes, they lie and deceive, because -they do not love. Then they suffer and lapse into moral and physical -degradation. And at the end lies the collapse of our rotten society, -which breaks up more and more each day before our eyes. That, then, is -the truth I was seeking. It is desire and love that save. Whoever loves -and creates is the revolutionary saviour, the maker of men for the new -world which will shortly dawn.” - -Never before had Mathieu so plainly understood that he and his wife were -different from others. This now struck him with extraordinary force. -Comparisons ensued, and he realized that their simple life, free from -the lust of wealth, their contempt for luxury and worldly vanities, all -their common participation in toil which made them accept and glorify -life and its duties, all that mode of existence of theirs which was -at once their joy and their strength, sprang solely from the source of -eternal energy: the love with which they glowed. If, later on, victory -should remain with them, if they should some day leave behind them work -of value and health and happiness, it would be solely because they had -possessed the power of love and the courage to love freely, harvesting, -in an ever-increasing family, both the means of support and the means -of conquest. And this sudden conviction filled Mathieu with such a glow -that he leant towards his wife, who sat there deeply moved by what he -said, and kissed her ardently upon the lips. It was divine love passing -like a flaming blast. But she, though her own eyes were sparkling, -laughingly scolded him, saying: “Hush, hush, you will wake Gervais.” - -Then they remained there hand in hand, pressing each other’s fingers -amid the silence. Evening was coming on, and at last the children, their -village finished, raised cries of rapture at seeing it standing there -among bits of wood, which figured trees. And then the softened glances -of the parents strayed now through the window towards the crops sleeping -beneath the crystalline rime, and now towards their last-born’s cradle, -where hope was likewise slumbering. - -Again did two long months go by. Gervais had just completed his first -year, and fine weather, setting in early, was hastening the awaking -of the earth. One morning, when Marianne and the children went to join -Mathieu on the plateau, they raised shouts of wonder, so completely had -the sun transformed the expanse in a single week. It was now all green -velvet, a thick endless carpet of sprouting corn, of tender, delicate -emerald hue. Never had such a marvellous crop been seen. And thus, as -the family walked on through the mild, radiant April morning, amid the -country now roused from winter’s sleep, and quivering with fresh -youth, they all waxed merry at the sight of that healthfulness, that -progressing fruitfulness, which promised the fulfilment of all their -hopes. And their rapture yet increased when, all at once, they noticed -that little Gervais also was awaking to life, acquiring decisive -strength. As he struggled in his little carriage and his mother removed -him from it, behold! he took his flight, and, staggering, made four -steps; then hung to his father’s legs with his little fists. A cry of -extraordinary delight burst forth. - -“Why! he walks, he walks!” - -Ah! those first lispings of life, those successive flights of the dear -little ones; the first glance, the first smile, the first step--what joy -do they not bring to parents’ hearts! They are the rapturous _etapes_ -of infancy, for which father and mother watch, which they await -impatiently, which they hail with exclamations of victory, as if each -were a conquest, a fresh triumphal entry into life. The child grows, the -child becomes a man. And there is yet the first tooth, forcing its -way like a needle-point through rosy gums; and there is also the first -stammered word, the “pa-pa,” the “mam-ma,” which one is quite ready -to detect amid the vaguest babble, though it be but the purring of a -kitten, the chirping of a bird. Life does its work, and the father and -the mother are ever wonderstruck with admiration and emotion at the -sight of that efflorescence alike of their flesh and their souls. - -“Wait a moment,” said Marianne, “he will come back to me. Gervais! -Gervais!” - -And after a little hesitation, a false start, the child did indeed -return, taking the four steps afresh, with arms extended and beating the -air as if they were balancing-poles. - -“Gervais! Gervais!” called Mathieu in his turn. And the child went back -to him; and again and again did they want him to repeat the journey, -amid their mirthful cries, so pretty and so funny did they find him. - -Then, seeing that the four other children began playing rather roughly -with him in their enthusiasm, Marianne carried him away. And once more, -on the same spot, on the young grass, did she give him the breast. And -again did the stream of milk trickle forth. - -Close by that spot, skirting the new field, there passed a crossroad, in -rather bad condition, leading to a neighboring village. And on this road -a cart suddenly came into sight, jolting amid the ruts, and driven by -a peasant--who was so absorbed in his contemplation of the land which -Mathieu had cleared, that he would have let his horse climb upon a heap -of stones had not a woman who accompanied him abruptly pulled the reins. -The horse then stopped, and the man in a jeering voice called out: “So -this, then, is your work, Monsieur Froment?” - -Mathieu and Marianne thereupon recognized the Lepailleurs, the people of -the mill. They were well aware that folks laughed at Janville over the -folly of their attempt--that mad idea of growing wheat among the marshes -of the plateau. Lepailleur, in particular, distinguished himself by the -violent raillery he levelled at this Parisian, a gentleman born, with -a good berth, who was so stupid as to make himself a peasant, and fling -what money he had to that rascally earth, which would assuredly swallow -him and his children and his money all together, without yielding even -enough wheat to keep them in bread. And thus the sight of the field had -stupefied him. It was a long while since he had passed that way, and -he had never thought that the seed would sprout so thickly, for he had -repeated a hundred times that nothing would germinate, so rotten was -all the land. Although he almost choked with covert anger at seeing his -predictions thus falsified, he was unwilling to admit his error, and put -on an air of ironical doubt. - -“So you think it will grow, eh? Well, one can’t say that it hasn’t come -up. Only one must see if it can stand and ripen.” And as Mathieu quietly -smiled with hope and confidence, he added, striving to poison his joy: -“Ah! when you know the earth you’ll find what a hussy she is. I’ve seen -plenty of crops coming on magnificently, and then a storm, a gust of -wind, a mere trifle, has reduced them to nothing! But you are young at -the trade as yet; you’ll get your experience in misfortune.” - -His wife, who nodded approval on hearing him talk so finely, then -addressed herself to Marianne: “Oh! my man doesn’t say that to -discourage you, madame. But the land you know, is just like children. -There are some who live and some who die; some who give one pleasure, -and others who kill one with grief. But, all considered, one always -bestows more on them than one gets back, and in the end one finds -oneself duped. You’ll see, you’ll see.” - -Without replying, Marianne, moved by these malicious predictions, -gently raised her trustful eyes to Mathieu. And he, though for a moment -irritated by all the ignorance, envy, and imbecile ambition which he -felt were before him, contented himself with jesting. “That’s it, we’ll -see. When your son Antoine becomes a prefect, and I have twelve peasant -daughters ready, I’ll invite you to their weddings, for it’s your mill -that ought to be rebuilt, you know, and provided with a fine engine, -so as to grind all the corn of my property yonder, left and right, -everywhere!” - -The sweep of his arm embraced such a far expanse of ground that the -miller, who did not like to be derided, almost lost his temper. He -lashed his horse with his whip, and the cart jolted on again through the -ruts. - -“Wheat in the ear is not wheat in the mill,” said he. “Au revoir, and -good luck to you, all the same.” - -“Thanks, au revoir.” - -Then, while the children still ran about, seeking early primroses among -the mosses, Mathieu came and sat down beside Marianne, who, he saw, -was quivering. He said nothing to her, for he knew that she possessed -sufficient strength and confidence to surmount, unaided, such fears for -the future as threats might kindle in her womanly heart. But he simply -set himself there, so near her that he touched her, looking and smiling -at her the while. And she immediately became calm again and likewise -smiled, while little Gervais, whom the words of the malicious could not -as yet disturb, nursed more eagerly than ever, with a purr of rapturous -satisfaction. The milk was ever trickling, bringing flesh to little -limbs which grew stronger day by day, spreading through the earth, -filling the whole world, nourishing the life which increased hour by -hour. And was not this the answer which faith and hope returned to all -threats of death?--the certainty of life’s victory, with fine children -ever growing in the sunlight, and fine crops ever rising from the soil -at each returning spring! To-morrow, yet once again, on the glorious day -of harvest, the corn will have ripened, the children will be men! - -And it was thus, indeed, three months later, when the Beauchenes and the -Seguins, keeping their promise, came--husbands, wives, and children--to -spend a Sunday afternoon at Chantebled. The Froments had even prevailed -on Morange to be of the party with Reine, in their desire to draw him -for a day, at any rate, from the dolorous prostration in which he lived. -As soon as all these fine folks had alighted from the train it was -decided to go up to the plateau to see the famous fields, for everybody -was curious about them, so extravagant and inexplicable did the idea of -Mathieu’s return to the soil, and transformation into a peasant, seem -to them. He laughed gayly, and at least he succeeded in surprising them -when he waved his hand towards the great expanse under the broad blue -sky, that sea of tall green stalks whose ears were already heavy and -undulated at the faintest breeze. That warm splendid afternoon, the -far-spreading fields looked like the very triumph of fruitfulness, a -growth of germs which the humus amassed through centuries had nourished -with prodigious sap, thus producing this first formidable crop, as if to -glorify the eternal source of life which sleeps in the earth’s -flanks. The milk had streamed, and the corn now grew on all sides with -overflowing energy, creating health and strength, bespeaking man’s -labor and the kindliness, the solidarity of the world. It was like a -beneficent, nourishing ocean, in which all hunger would be appeased, and -in which to-morrow might arise, amid that tide of wheat whose waves were -ever carrying good news to the horizon. - -True, neither Constance nor Valentine was greatly touched by the -sight of the waving wheat, for other ambitions filled their minds: and -Morange, though he stared with his vague dim eyes, did not even seem to -see it. But Beauchene and Seguin marvelled, for they remembered their -visit in the month of January, when the frozen ground had been wrapt -in sleep and mystery. They had then guessed nothing, and now they were -amazed at this miraculous awakening, this conquering fertility, which -had changed a part of the marshy tableland into a field of living -wealth. And Seguin, in particular, did not cease praising and admiring, -certain as he now felt that he would be paid, and already hoping that -Mathieu would soon take a further portion of the estate off his hands. - -Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformed -into a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pending -dinner-time, the conversation fell upon children. Marianne, as it -happened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among the -ladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going from -one to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or his -nose. He was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtless -because his health was so good. His big clear eyes were ever laughing; -he offered his little hands in a friendly way, and was very white, very -pink, and very sturdy--quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen and -a half months old. Constance and Valentine admired him, while Marianne -jested and turned him away each time that he greedily put out his little -hands towards her. - -“No, no, monsieur, it’s over now. You will have nothing but soup in -future.” - -“Weaning is such a terrible business,” then remarked Constance. “Did he -let you sleep last night?” - -“Oh! yes, he had good habits, you know; he never troubled me at night. -But this morning he was stupefied and began to cry. Still, you see, he -is fairly well behaved already. Besides, I never had more trouble than -this with the other ones.” - -Beauchene was standing there, listening, and, as usual, smoking a cigar. -Constance appealed to him: - -“You are lucky. But you, dear, remember--don’t you?--what a life Maurice -led us when his nurse went away. For three whole nights we were unable -to sleep.” - -“But just look how your Maurice is playing!” exclaimed Beauchene. “Yet -you’ll be telling me again that he is ill.” - -“Oh! I no longer say that, my friend; he is quite well now. Besides, I -was never anxious; I know that he is very strong.” - -A great game of hide-and-seek was going on in the garden, along the -paths and even over the flower-beds, among the eight children who were -assembled there. Besides the four of the house--Blaise, Denis, Ambroise, -and Rose--there were Gaston and Lucie, the two elder children of -the Seguins, who had abstained, however, from bringing their other -daughter--little Andree. Then, too, both Reine and Maurice were present. -And the latter now, indeed, seemed to be all right upon his legs, though -his square face with its heavy jaw still remained somewhat pale. His -mother watched him running about, and felt so happy and so vain at the -realization of her dream that she became quite amiable even towards -these poor relatives the Froments, whose retirement into the country -seemed to her like an incomprehensible downfall, which forever thrust -them out of her social sphere. - -“Ah! well,” resumed Beauchene, “I’ve only one boy, but he’s a sturdy -fellow, I warrant it; isn’t he, Mathieu?” - -These words had scarcely passed his lips when he must have regretted -them. His eyelids quivered and a little chill came over him as his -glance met that of his former designer. For in the latter’s clear eyes -he beheld, as it were, a vision of that other son, Norine’s ill-fated -child, who had been cast into the unknown. Then there came a pause, and -amid the shrill cries of the boys and girls playing at hide-and-seek -a number of little shadows flitted through the sunlight: they were the -shadows of the poor doomed babes who scarce saw the light before they -were carried off from homes and hospitals to be abandoned in corners, -and die of cold, and perhaps even of starvation! - -Mathieu had been unable to answer a word. And his emotion increased -when he noticed Morange huddled up on a chair, and gazing with blurred, -tearful eyes at little Gervais, who was laughingly toddling hither and -thither. Had a vision come to him also? Had the phantom of his dead -wife, shrinking from the duties of motherhood and murdered in a hateful -den, risen before him in that sunlit garden, amid all the turbulent -mirth of happy, playful children? - -“What a pretty girl your daughter Reine is!” said Mathieu, in the hope -of drawing the accountant from his haunting remorse. “Just look at her -running about!--so girlish still, as if she were not almost old enough -to be married.” - -Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter. And a smile -returned to his eyes, still moist with tears. Day by day his adoration -increased. As Reine grew up he found her more and more like her mother, -and all his thoughts became centred in her. His one yearning was that -she might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich. That would be a sign -that he was forgiven--that would be the only joy for which he could -yet hope. And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at the -thought that a husband would some day take her from him, and that he -would remain alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his dead -wife. - -“Married?” he murmured; “oh! not yet. She is only fourteen.” - -At this the others expressed surprise: they would have taken her to be -quite eighteen, so womanly was her precocious beauty already. - -“As a matter of fact,” resumed her father, feeling flattered, “she has -already been asked in marriage. You know that the Baroness de Lowicz -is kind enough to take her out now and then. Well, she told me that an -arch-millionnaire had fallen in love with Reine--but he’ll have to wait! -I shall still be able to keep her to myself for another five or six -years at least!” - -He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction, -without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine’s -name; for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companion -for a young girl. - -Then Marianne, anxious at seeing the conversation drop, began, -questioning Valentine, while Gervais at last slyly crept to her knees. - -“Why did you not bring your little Andree?” she inquired. “I should have -been so pleased to kiss her. And she would have been able to play -with this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment’s -peace.” - -But Seguin did not give his wife time to reply. “Ah! no, indeed!” he -exclaimed; “in that case I should not have come. It is quite enough to -have to drag the two others about. That fearful child has not ceased -deafening us ever since her nurse went away.” - -Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved. She -had been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, -after terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged it -by her departure into anarchy. Ah! that Catiche, she might compliment -herself on all the money she had cost! Sent away almost by force, like -a queen who is bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded with -presents for herself and her husband, and her little girl at the -village! And now it had been of little use to take a dry-nurse in her -place, for Andree did not cease shrieking from morning till night. They -had discovered, too, that La Catiche had not only carried off with her -a large quantity of linen, but had left the other servants quite spoilt, -disorganized, so that a general clearance seemed necessary. - -“Oh!” resumed Marianne, as if to smooth things, “when the children are -well one can overlook other worries.” - -“Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?” cried Seguin, giving way to -one of his brutal fits. “That Catiche certainly set her right at first, -but I don’t know what happened afterwards, for now she is simply skin -and bones.” Then, as his wife wished to protest, he lost his temper. -“Do you mean to say that I don’t speak the truth? Why, look at our two -others yonder: they have papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that you -don’t look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre has -of them!” - -For him Santerre’s opinion remained authoritative. However, Valentine -contented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others, -feeling slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid the -romping of their companions, soon lost breath and lagged behind, sulky -and distrustful. - -“But, my dear friend,” said Constance to Valentine, “didn’t our good -Doctor Boutan tell you that all the trouble came from your not nursing -your children yourself? At all events, that was the compliment that he -paid me.” - -At the mention of Boutan a friendly shout arose. Oh! Boutan, Boutan! he -was like all other specialists. Seguin sneered; Beauchene jested about -the legislature decreeing compulsory nursing by mothers; and only -Mathieu and Marianne remained silent. - -“Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you,” said -Constance, turning towards the latter. “Your children are superb, and -nobody says the contrary.” - -Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free to -make fun of her if they pleased. But at this moment she perceived that -Gervais, profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his “paradise -lost.” And thereupon she set him on the ground: “Ah, no, no, monsieur!” - she exclaimed. “I have told you that it is all over. Can’t you see that -people would laugh at us?” - -Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking at -her with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to -him, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her so -beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with -the triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something -divine had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed -from her bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of -life, glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail -o’er. For there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, -responsible for incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, in -that glory, amid her vigorous children, like the good goddess of -Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt that he adored her. Divine passion swept -by--the glow which makes the fields palpitate, which rolls on through -the waters, and floats in the wind, begetting millions and millions of -existences. And ‘twas delightful the ecstasy into which they both sank, -forgetfulness of all else, of all those others who were there. They saw -them no longer; they felt but one desire, to say that they loved each -other, and that the season had come when love blossoms afresh. His lips -protruded, she offered hers, and then they kissed. - -“Oh! don’t disturb yourselves!” cried Beauchene merrily. “Why, what is -the matter with you?” - -“Would you like us to move away?” added Seguin. - -But while Valentine laughed wildly, and Constance put on a prudish air, -Morange, in whose voice tears were again rising, spoke these words, -fraught with supreme regret: “Ah! you are right!” - -Astonished at what they had done, without intention of doing it, Mathieu -and Marianne remained for a moment speechless, looking at one another in -consternation. And then they burst into a hearty laugh, gayly excusing -themselves. To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies all -health, all will, and all power. - - - - -XII - -FOUR years went by. And during those four years Mathieu and Marianne had -two more children, a daughter at the end of the first year and a son -at the expiration of the third. And each time that the family thus -increased, the estate at Chantebled was increased also--on the first -occasion by fifty more acres of rich soil reclaimed among the marshes -of the plateau, and the second time by an extensive expanse of wood -and moorland which the springs were beginning to fertilize. It was -the resistless conquest of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the -sunlight, it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation -amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at each -succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the -veins of the world. - -On the day when Mathieu called on Seguin to purchase the wood and -moorland, he lunched with Dr. Boutan, whom he found in an execrable -humor. The doctor had just heard that three of his former patients had -lately passed through the hands of his colleague Gaude, the notorious -surgeon to whose clinic at the Marbeuf Hospital society Paris flocked as -to a theatre. One of these patients was none other than Euphrasie, old -Moineaud’s eldest daughter, now married to Auguste Benard, a mason, -and already the mother of three children. She had doubtless resumed her -usual avocations too soon after the birth of her last child, as often -happens in working-class families where the mother is unable to remain -idle. At all events, she had for some time been ailing, and had finally -been removed to the hospital. Mathieu had for a while employed her young -sister Cecile, now seventeen, as a servant in the house at Chantebled, -but she was of poor health and had returned to Paris, where, curiously -enough, she also entered Doctor Gaude’s clinic. And Boutan waxed -indignant at the methods which Gaude employed. The two sisters, the -married woman and the girl, had been discharged as cured, and so far, -this might seem to be the case; but time, in Boutan’s opinion, would -bring round some terrible revenges. - -One curious point of the affair was that Beauchene’s dissolute sister, -Seraphine, having heard of these so-called cures, which the newspapers -had widely extolled, had actually sought out the Benards and the -Moineauds to interview Euphrasie and Cecile on the subject. And in the -result she likewise had placed herself in Gaude’s hands. She certainly -was of little account, and, whatever might become of her, the world -would be none the poorer by her death. But Boutan pointed out that -during the fifteen years that Gaude’s theories and practices had -prevailed in France, no fewer than half a million women had been treated -accordingly, and, in the vast majority of cases, without any such -treatment being really necessary. Moreover, Boutan spoke feelingly of -the after results of such treatment--comparative health for a few brief -years, followed in some cases by a total loss of muscular energy, and in -others by insanity of a most violent form; so that the padded cells of -the madhouses were filling year by year with the unhappy women who had -passed through the hands of Gaude and his colleagues. From a social -point of view also the effects were disastrous. They ran counter to all -Boutan’s own theories, and blasted all his hopes of living to see France -again holding a foremost place among the nations of the earth. - -“Ah!” said he to Mathieu, “if people were only like you and your good -wife!” - -During those four years at Chantebled the Froments had been ever -founding, creating, increasing, and multiplying, again and again proving -victorious in the eternal battle which life wages against death, thanks -to that continual increase both of offspring and of fertile land which -was like their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desire -passed like a gust of flame--desire divine and fruitful, since they -possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energy -did the rest--that will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of -the labor that is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates -the earth. But during the first two years they had to struggle -incessantly. There were two disastrous winters with snow and ice, and -March brought hail-storms and hurricanes which left the crops lying low. -Even as Lepailleur had threateningly predicted with a laugh of impotent -envy, it seemed as if the earth meant to prove a bad mother, ungrateful -to them for their toil, indifferent to their losses. During those two -years they only extricated themselves from trouble thanks to the second -fifty acres that they purchased from Seguin, to the west of the plateau, -a fresh expanse of rich soil which they reclaimed amid the marshes, and -which, in spite of frost and hail, yielded a prodigious first harvest. -As the estate gradually expanded, it also grew stronger, better able to -bear ill-luck. - -But Mathieu and Marianne also had great family worries. Their five elder -children gave them much anxiety, much fatigue. As with the soil, here -again there was a daily battle, endless cares and endless fears. Little -Gervais was stricken with fever and narrowly escaped death. Rose, too, -one day filled them with the direst alarm, for she fell from a tree in -their presence, but fortunately with no worse injury than a sprain. And, -on the other hand, they were happy in the three others, Blaise, Denis, -and Ambroise, who proved as healthy as young oak-trees. And when -Marianne gave birth to her sixth child, on whom they bestowed the gay -name of Claire, Mathieu celebrated the new pledge of their affection by -further acquisitions. - -Then, during the two ensuing years, their battles and sadness and joy -all resulted in victory once more. Marianne gave birth, and Mathieu -conquered new lands. There was ever much labor, much life expended, -and much life realized and harvested. This time it was a question of -enlarging the estate on the side of the moorlands, the sandy, gravelly -slopes where nothing had grown for centuries. The captured sources of -the tableland, directed towards those uncultivated tracts, gradually -fertilized them, covered them with increasing vegetation. There were -partial failures at first, and defeat even seemed possible, so great was -the patient determination which the creative effort demanded. But here, -too, the crops at last overflowed, while the intelligent felling of a -part of the purchased woods resulted in a large profit, and gave Mathieu -an idea of cultivating some of the spacious clearings hitherto overgrown -with brambles. - -And while the estate spread the children grew. It had been necessary to -send the three elder ones--Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise--to a school -in Paris, whither they gallantly repaired each day by the first train, -returning only in the evening. But the three others, little Gervais and -the girls Rose and Claire, were still allowed all freedom in the midst -of Nature. Marianne, however, gave birth to a seventh child, amid -circumstances which caused Mathieu keen anxiety. For a moment, indeed, -he feared that he might lose her. But her healthful temperament -triumphed over all, and the child--a boy, named Gregoire--soon drank -life and strength from her breast, as from the very source of existence. -When Mathieu saw his wife smiling again with that dear little one in her -arms, he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every -sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, -yet an additional force born into the world, another field ready for -to-morrow’s harvest. - -And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - * * * * * * - -Then two more years rolled on. And during those two years Mathieu and -Marianne had yet another child, a girl. And again, at the same time as -the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased also--on -one side by five-and-seventy acres of woodland stretching over -the plateau as far as the fields of Mareuil, and on the other by -five-and-seventy acres of sloping moorland, extending to the village of -Monval, alongside the railway line. But the principal change was that, -as the old hunting-box, the little dilapidated pavilion, no longer -offered sufficient accommodation, a whole farmstead had to be -erected--stone buildings, and barns, and sheds, and stables, and -cowhouses--for farm hands and crops and animals, whose number increased -at each enlargement of the estate. - -It was the resistless conquest of life; it was fruitfulness spreading -in the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of -creation amid obstacles and suffering, ever making good all losses, and -at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy -in the veins of the world. - -But during those two years, while Chantebled grew, while labor and worry -and victory alternated, Mathieu suddenly found himself mixed up in a -terribly tragedy. He was obliged to come to Paris at times--more often -indeed than he cared--now through his business relations with Seguin, -now to sell, now to buy, now to order one thing or another. He often -purchased implements and appliances at the Beauchene works, and had thus -kept up intercourse with Morange, who once more seemed a changed man. -Time had largely healed the wound left by his wife’s death, particularly -as she seemed to live again in Reine, to whom he was more attached than -ever. Reine was no longer a child; she had become a woman. Still her -father hoped to keep her with him some years yet, while working with all -diligence, saving and saving every penny that he could spare, in order -to increase her dowry. - -But the inevitable was on the march, for the girl had become the -constant companion of Seraphine. The latter, however depraved she -might be, had certainly in the first instance entertained no idea of -corrupting the child whom she patronized. She had at first taken -her solely to such places of amusement as were fit for her years and -understanding. But little by little the descent had come. Reine, too, -as she grew into a woman, amid the hours of idleness when she was -left alone by her father--who, perforce, had to spend his days at the -Beauchene works--developed an ardent temperament and a thirst for every -frivolous pleasure. And by degrees the once simply petted child became a -participator in Seraphine’s own reckless and dissolute life. - -When the end came, and Reine found herself in dire trouble because of -a high State functionary, a married man, a friend of Seraphine’s--both -women quite lost their heads. Such a blow might kill Morange. Everything -must be hidden from him; but how? Thereupon Seraphine devised a plan. -She obtained permission for Reine to accompany her on a visit into -the country; but while the fond father imagined that his daughter was -enjoying herself among society folk at a chateau in the Loiret, she -was really hiding in Paris. It was indeed a repetition of her mother’s -tragic story, with this difference--that Seraphine addressed herself to -no vulgar Madame Rouche, but to an assistant of her own surgeon, Gaude, -a certain Sarraille, who had a dingy den of a clinic in the Passage -Tivoli. - -It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris to -make some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone with -Morange at the latter’s flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathless -and in consternation. Reine, she said, had been taken ill in the -country, and she had brought her back to Paris to her own flat. But it -was not thither; it was to Sarraille’s den that she drove Morange and -Mathieu. And there the frightful scene which had been enacted at La -Rouche’s at the time of Valerie’s death was repeated. Reine, too, was -dead--dead like her mother! And Morange, in a first outburst of fury -threatened both Seraphine and Sarraille with the scaffold. For half an -hour there was no mastering him, but all at once he broke down. To lose -his daughter as he had lost his wife, it was too appalling; the blow -was too great; he had strength left only to weep. Sarraille, moreover, -defended himself; he swore that he had known nothing of the truth, that -the deceased had simply come to him for legitimate treatment, and that -both she and the Baroness had deceived him. Then Seraphine on her side -took hold of Morange’s hands, protesting her devotion, her frightful -grief, her fear, too, lest the reputation of the poor dear girl should -be dragged through the mire, if he (the father) did not keep the -terrible secret. She accepted her share of responsibility and blame, -admitted that she had been very culpable, and spoke of eternal remorse. -But might the terrible truth be buried in the dead girl’s grave, might -there be none but pure flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who lay -therein be regretted by all who had known her, as one snatched away in -all innocence of youth and beauty! - -And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while with -sobs, and scarce repeating that word “Murderers!” which had sprung from -his lips so impulsively a little while before. He thought, too, of -the scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting the -crime, his daughter’s memory covered with mire, and--No! no! he could -have none of that. Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly. - -Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration. -It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every -one of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold -and scarce able to beat. And he sank into a sort of second childhood, -clasping his hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseeching -compassion, like one whose sufferings are too hard to bear. - -And when Mathieu sought to console him he muttered: “Oh, it is all over. -They have both gone, one after the other, and I alone am guilty. The -first time it was I who lied to Reine, telling her that her mother was -travelling; and then she in her turn lied to me the other day with that -story of an invitation to a chateau in the country. Ah! if eight years -ago I had only opposed my poor Valerie’s madness, my poor Reine would -still be alive to-day.... Yes, it is all my fault; I alone killed them -by my weakness. I am their murderer.” - -Shivering, deathly cold, he went on amid his sobs: “And, wretched fool -that I have been, I have killed them through loving them too much. They -were so beautiful, and it was so excusable for them to be rich and gay -and happy. One after the other they took my heart from me, and I lived -only in them and by them and for them. When one had left me, the other -became my all in all, and for her, my daughter, I again indulged in the -dream of ambition which had originated with her mother. And yet I killed -them both, and my mad desire to rise and conquer fortune led me to that -twofold crime. Ah! when I think that even this morning I still dared -to esteem myself happy at having but that one child, that daughter to -cherish! What foolish blasphemy against love and life! She is dead now, -dead like her mother, and I am alone, with nobody to love and nobody -to love me--neither wife nor daughter, neither desire nor will, but -alone--ah! all alone, forever!” - -It was the cry of supreme abandonment that he raised, while sinking to -the floor strengthless, with a great void within him; and all he could -do was to press Mathieu’s hands and stammer: “Leave me--tell me nothing. -You alone were right. I refused the offers of life, and life has now -taken everything from me.” - -Mathieu, in tears himself, kissed him and lingered yet a few moments -longer in that tragic den, feeling more moved than he had ever felt -before. And when he went off he left the unhappy Morange in the charge -of Seraphine, who now treated him like a little ailing child whose -will-power was entirely gone. - -And at Chantebled, as time went on, Mathieu and Marianne founded, -created, increased, and multiplied. During the two years which elapsed, -they again proved victorious in the eternal battle which life wages -against death, thanks to that continual increase both of offspring and -of fertile land which was like their very existence, their joy, and -their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame--desire divine -and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, and -health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that quiet -bravery in the presence of the labor that is necessary, the labor that -has made and that regulates the world. They were, however, still in the -hard, trying, earlier stage of their work of conquest, and they often -wept with grief and anxiety. Many were their cares, too, in transforming -the old pavilion into a farm. The outlay was considerable, and at -times it seemed as if the crops would never pay the building accounts. -Moreover, as the enterprise grew in magnitude, and there came more and -more cattle, more and more horses, a larger staff of both men and -girls became necessary, to say nothing of additional implements and -appliances, and the increase of supervision which left the Froments -little rest. Mathieu controlled the agricultural part of the enterprise, -ever seeking improved methods for drawing from the earth all the life -that slumbered within it. And Marianne watched over the farmyard, the -dairy, the poultry, and showed herself a first-class accountant, -keeping the books, and receiving and paying money. And thus, in spite of -recurring worries, strokes of bad luck and inevitable mistakes, fortune -smiled on them athwart all worries and losses, so brave and sensible did -they prove in their incessant daily struggle. - -Apart, too, from the new buildings, the estate was increased by -five-and-seventy acres of woodland, and five-and-seventy acres of -sandy sloping soil. Mathieu’s battle with those sandy slopes became yet -keener, more and more heroic as his field of action expanded; but he -ended by conquering, by fertilizing them yet more each season, thanks to -the fructifying springs which he directed through them upon every side. -And in the same way he cut broad roads through the new woods which -he purchased on the plateau, in order to increase the means of -communication and carry into effect his idea of using the clearings as -pasture for his cattle, pending the time when he might largely devote -himself to stock-raising. In this wise, then, the battle went on, -and spread incessantly in all directions; and the chances of decisive -victory likewise increased, compensation for possible loss on one side -being found on another where the harvest proved prodigious. - -And, like the estate, the children also grew. Blaise and Denis, the -twins, now already fourteen years of age, reaped prize after prize at -school, putting their younger brother, Ambroise, slightly to shame, for -his quick and ingenious mind was often busy with other matters than his -lessons. Gervais, the girls Rose and Claire, as well as the last-born -boy, little Gregoire, were yet too young to be trusted alone in Paris, -and so they continued growing in the open air of the country, without -any great mishap befalling them. And at the end of those two years -Marianne gave birth to her eighth child, this time a girl, named Louise; -and when Mathieu saw her smiling with the dear little babe in her arms, -he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow -and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet -an additional force born into the world, another field ready for -to-morrow’s harvest. - -And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - * * * * * * - -Then two more years rolled on, and during those two years Mathieu and -Marianne had yet another child, another daughter, whom they called -Madeleine. And once again the estate of Chantebled was increased; this -time by all the marshland whose ponds and whose springs remained to be -drained and captured on the west of the plateau. The whole of this part -of the property was now acquired by the Froments--two hundred acres of -land where, hitherto, only water plants had grown, but which now was -given over to cultivation, and yielded abundant crops. And the new -springs, turned into canals on every side, again carried beneficent -life to the sandy slopes, and fertilized them. It was life’s resistless -conquest; it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was labor -ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and -suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting -more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - -This time it was Seguin himself who asked Mathieu to purchase a fresh -part of the estate, pressing him even to take all that was left of it, -woods and moorland--extending over some five hundred acres. Nowadays -Seguin was often in need of money, and in order to do business he -offered Mathieu lower terms and all sorts of advantages; but the other -prudently declined the proposals, keeping steadfastly to his original -intentions, which were that he would proceed with his work of creation -step by step, in accordance with his exact means and requirements. -Moreover, a certain difficulty arose with regard to the purchase of the -remaining moors, for enclosed by this land, eastward, near the railway -line, were a few acres belonging to Lepailleur, the miller, who had -never done anything with them. And so Mathieu preferred to select what -remained of the marshy plateau, adding, however, that he would enter -into negotiations respecting the moorland later on, when the miller -should have consented to sell his enclosure. He knew that, ever since -his property had been increasing, Lepailleur had regarded him with the -greatest jealousy and hatred, and he did not think it advisable to -apply to him personally, certain as he felt that he would fail in his -endeavor. Seguin, however, pretended that if he took up the matter -he would know how to bring the miller to reason, and even secure the -enclosure for next to nothing. And indeed, thinking that he might yet -induce Mathieu to purchase all the remaining property, he determined to -see Lepailleur and negotiate with him before even signing the deed which -was to convey to Mathieu the selected marshland on the plateau. - -But the outcome proved as Mathieu had foreseen. Lepailleur asked such -a monstrous price for his few acres enclosed within the estate that -nothing could be done. When he was approached on the subject by Seguin, -he made little secret of the rage he felt at Mathieu’s triumph. He had -told the young man that he would never succeed in reaping an ear -of wheat from that uncultivated expanse, given over to brambles for -centuries past; and yet now it was covered with abundant crops! And this -had increased the miller’s rancor against the soil; he hated it yet more -than ever for its harshness to him, a peasant’s son, and its kindliness -towards that bourgeois, who seemed to have fallen from heaven expressly -to revolutionize the region. Thus, in answer to Seguin, he declared with -a sneer that since sorcerers had sprung up who were able to make wheat -sprout from stones, his patch of ground was now worth its weight in -gold. Several years previously, no doubt, he had offered Seguin the -enclosure for a trifle; but times had changed, and he now crowed loudly -over the other’s folly in not entertaining his previous offer. - -On the other hand, there seemed little likelihood of his turning the -enclosure to account himself, for he was more disgusted than ever with -the tilling of the soil. His disposition had been further embittered by -the birth of a daughter, whom he would willingly have dispensed with, -anxious as he was with respect to his son Antonin, now a lad of twelve, -who proved so sharp and quick at school that he was regarded by the -folks of Janville as a little prodigy. Mathieu had mortally offended -the father and mother by suggesting that Antonin should be sent to -an agricultural college--a very sensible suggestion, but one which -exasperated them, determined as they were to make him a gentleman. - -As Lepailleur would not part with his enclosure on any reasonable terms, -Seguin had to content himself for the time with selling Mathieu the -selected marshland on the plateau. A deed of conveyance having been -prepared, they exchanged signatures. And then, on Seguin’s hands, -there still remained nearly two hundred and fifty acres of woods in -the direction of Lillebonne, together with the moorlands stretching to -Vieux-Bourg, in which Lepailleur’s few acres were enclosed. - -It was on the occasion of the visits which he paid Seguin in reference -to these matters that Mathieu became acquainted with the terrible -break-up of the other’s home. The very rooms of the house in the Avenue -d’Antin, particularly the once sumptuous “cabinet,” spoke of neglect -and abandonment. The desire to cut a figure in society, and to carry the -“fad” of the moment to extremes, ever possessed Seguin; and thus he -had for a while renounced his pretended artistic tastes for certain new -forms of sport--the motor-car craze, and so forth. But his only real -passion was horseflesh, and to this he at last returned. A racing stable -which he set up quickly helped on his ruin. Women and gaming had been -responsible for the loss of part of his large fortune, and now horses -were devouring the remainder. It was said, too, that he gambled at the -bourse, in the hope of recouping himself for his losses on the turf, and -by way, too, of affecting an air of power and influence, for he allowed -it to be supposed that he obtained information direct from members of -the Government. And as his losses increased and downfall threatened him, -all that remained of the _bel esprit_ and moralist, once so prone -to discuss literature and social philosophy with Santerre, was an -embittered, impotent individual--one who had proclaimed himself a -pessimist for fashion’s sake, and was now caught in his own trap; having -so spoilt his existence that he was now but an artisan of corruption and -death. - -All was disaster in his home. Celeste the maid had long since been -dismissed, and the children were now in the charge of a certain German -governess called Nora, who virtually ruled the house. Her position with -respect to Seguin was evident to one and all; but then, what of Seguin’s -wife and Santerre? The worst was, that this horrible life, which seemed -to be accepted on either side, was known to the children, or, at all -events, to the elder daughter Lucie, yet scarcely in her teens. There -had been terrible scenes with this child, who evinced a mystical -disposition, and was ever talking of becoming a nun when she grew up. -Gaston, her brother, resembled his father; he was brutal in his ways, -narrow-minded, supremely egotistical. Very different was the little girl -Andree, whom La Catiche had suckled. She had become a pretty child--so -affectionate, docile, and gay, that she scarcely complained even of her -brother’s teasing, almost bullying ways. “What a pity,” thought Mathieu, -“that so lovable a child should have to grow up amid such surroundings!” - -And then his thoughts turned to his own home--to Chantebled. The debts -contracted at the outset of his enterprise had at last been paid, and he -alone was now the master there, resolved to have no other partners than -his wife and children. It was for each of his children that he conquered -a fresh expanse of land. That estate would remain their home, their -source of nourishment, the tie linking them together, even if they -became dispersed through the world in a variety of social positions. And -thus how decisive was that growth of the property, the acquisition -of that last lot of marshland which allowed the whole plateau to be -cultivated! There might now come yet another child, for there would be -food for him; wheat would grow to provide him with daily bread. And when -the work was finished, when the last springs were captured, and the -land had been drained and cleared, how prodigious was the scene at -springtide!--with the whole expanse, as far as eye could see, one mass -of greenery, full of the promise of harvest. Therein was compensation -for every tear, every worry and anxiety of the earlier days of labor. - -Meantime Mathieu, amid his creative work, received Marianne’s gay and -courageous assistance. And she was not merely a skilful helpmate, taking -a share in the general management, keeping the accounts, and watching -over the home. She remained both a loving and well-loved spouse, and a -mother who nursed, reared, and educated her little ones in order to -give them some of her own sense and heart. As Boutan remarked, it is -not enough for a woman to have a child; she should also possess healthy -moral gifts in order that she may bring it up in creditable fashion. -Marianne, for her part, made it her pride to obtain everything from her -children by dint of gentleness and grace. She was listened to, obeyed, -and worshipped by them, because she was so beautiful, so kind, and -so greatly beloved. Her task was scarcely easy, since she had eight -children already; but in all things she proceeded in a very orderly -fashion, utilizing the elder to watch over the younger ones, giving each -a little share of loving authority, and extricating herself from every -embarrassment by setting truth and justice above one and all. Blaise -and Denis, the twins, who were now sixteen, and Ambroise, who was nearly -fourteen, did in a measure escape her authority, being largely in their -father’s hands. But around her she had the five others--from Rose, who -was eleven, to Louise, who was two years old; between them, at intervals -of a couple of years, coming Gervais, Claire, and Gregoire. And each -time that one flew away, as it were, feeling his wings strong enough for -flight, there appeared another to nestle beside her. And it was again a -daughter, Madeleine, who came at the expiration of those two years. And -when Mathieu saw his wife erect and smiling again, with the dear little -girl at her breast, he embraced her passionately and triumphed once -again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet more -wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the world, another -field ready for to-morrow’s harvest. - -And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - - - -XIII - -TWO more years went by, and during those two years Mathieu and Marianne -had yet another daughter; and this time, as the family increased, -Chantebled also was increased by all the woodland extending eastward -of the plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. All the -northern part of the property was thus acquired: more than five hundred -acres of woods, intersected by clearings which roads soon connected -together. And those clearings, transformed into pasture-land, watered -by the neighboring springs, enabled Mathieu to treble his live-stock and -attempt cattle-raising on a large scale. It was the resistless conquest -of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was labor -ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and -suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting -more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - -Since the Froments had become conquerors, busily founding a little -kingdom and building up a substantial fortune in land, the Beauchenes -no longer derided them respecting what they had once deemed their -extravagant idea in establishing themselves in the country. Astonished -and anticipating now the fullest success, they treated them as -well-to-do relatives, and occasionally visited them, delighted with the -aspect of that big, bustling farm, so full of life and prosperity. It -was in the course of these visits that Constance renewed her intercourse -with her former schoolfellow, Madame Angelin, the Froments’ neighbor. A -great change had come over the Angelins; they had ended by purchasing a -little house at the end of the village, where they invariably spent the -summer, but their buoyant happiness seemed to have departed. They had -long desired to remain unburdened by children, and now they eagerly -longed to have a child, and none came, though Claire, the wife, was as -yet but six-and-thirty. Her husband, the once gay, handsome musketeer, -was already turning gray and losing his eyesight--to such a degree, -indeed, that he could scarcely see well enough to continue his -profession as a fan-painter. - -When Madame Angelin went to Paris she often called on Constance, to -whom, before long, she confided all her worries. She had been in a -doctor’s hands for three years, but all to no avail, and now during -the last six months she had been consulting a person in the Rue de -Miromesnil, a certain Madame Bourdieu, said she. - -Constance at first made light of her friend’s statements, and in part -declined to believe her. But when she found herself alone she felt -disquieted by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated the -matter as mere idle tittle-tattle, if she had not already regretted that -she herself had no second child. On the day when the unhappy Morange had -lost his only daughter, and had remained stricken down, utterly alone in -life, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish. Since that supreme -loss the wretched accountant had been living on in a state of imbecile -stupefaction, simply discharging his duties in a mechanical sort of way -from force of habit. Scarcely speaking, but showing great gentleness -of manner, he lived as one who was stranded, fated to remain forever -at Beauchene’s works, where his salary had now risen to eight thousand -francs a year. It was not known what he did with this amount, which was -considerable for a man who led such a narrow regular life, free from -expenses and fancies outside his home--that flat which was much too big -for him, but which he had, nevertheless, obstinately retained, shutting -himself up therein, and leading a most misanthropic life in fierce -solitude. - -It was his grievous prostration which had at one moment quite upset -and affected Constance, so that she had even sobbed with the desolate -man--she whose tears flowed so seldom! No doubt a thought that she might -have had other children than Maurice came back to her in certain bitter -hours of unconscious self-examination, when from the depths of her -being, in which feelings of motherliness awakened, there rose vague -fear, sudden dread, such as she had never known before. - -Yet Maurice, her son, after a delicate youth which had necessitated -great care, was now a handsome fellow of nineteen, still somewhat pale, -but vigorous in appearance. He had completed his studies in a fairly -satisfactory manner, and was already helping his father in the -management of the works. And his adoring mother had never set higher -hopes upon his head. She already pictured him as the master of that -great establishment, whose prosperity he would yet increase, thereby -rising to royal wealth and power. - -Constance’s worship for that only son, to-morrow’s hero; increased the -more since his father day by day declined in her estimation, till she -regarded him in fact with naught but contempt and disgust. It was a -logical downfall, which she could not stop, and the successive phases of -which she herself fatally precipitated. At the outset she had overlooked -his infidelity; then from a spirit of duty and to save him from -irreparable folly she had sought to retain him near her; and finally, -failing in her endeavor, she had begun to feel loathing and disgust. He -was now two-and-forty, he drank too much, he ate too much, he smoked too -much. He was growing corpulent and scant of breath, with hanging lips -and heavy eyelids; he no longer took care of his person as formerly, but -went about slipshod, and indulged in the coarsest pleasantries. But it -was more particularly away from his home that he sank into degradation, -indulging in the low debauchery which had ever attracted him. Every now -and again he disappeared from the house and slept elsewhere; then he -concocted such ridiculous falsehoods that he could not be believed, -or else did not take the trouble to lie at all. Constance, who felt -powerless to influence him, ended by allowing him complete freedom. - -The worst was, that the dissolute life he led grievously affected the -business. He who had been such a great and energetic worker had lost -both mental and bodily vigor; he could no longer plan remunerative -strokes of business; he no longer had the strength to undertake -important contracts. He lingered in bed in the morning, and remained for -three or four days without once going round the works, letting disorder -and waste accumulate there, so that his once triumphal stock-takings -now year by year showed a falling-off. And what an end it was for that -egotist, that enjoyer, so gayly and noisily active, who had always -professed that money--capital increased tenfold by the labor of -others--was the only desirable source of power, and whom excess of money -and excess of enjoyment now cast with appropriate irony to slow ruin, -the final paralysis of the impotent. - -But a supreme blow was to fall on Constance and fill her with horror of -her husband. Some anonymous letters, the low, treacherous revenge of -a dismissed servant, apprised her of Beauchene’s former intrigue with -Norine, that work-girl who had given birth to a boy, spirited away -none knew whither. Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence, -Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt. Whither had -that child been sent? Was he still alive? What ignominious existence -was he leading? She was vaguely jealous of the boy. The thought that her -husband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now that -all her motherly nature was aroused. But she devoted herself yet more -ardently to her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, and -for his sake even sacrificed her just rancor. She indeed came to the -conclusion that he must not suffer from his father’s indignity, and -so it was for him that, with extraordinary strength of will, she -ever preserved a proud demeanor, feigning that she was ignorant of -everything, never addressing a reproach to her husband, but remaining, -in the presence of others, the same respectful wife as formerly. -And even when they were alone together she kept silence and avoided -explanations and quarrels. Never even thinking of the possibility of -revenge, she seemed, in the presence of her husband’s profligacy, -to attach herself more firmly to her home, clinging to her son, and -protected by him from thought of evil as much as by her own sternness -of heart and principles. And thus sorely wounded, full of repugnance -but hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of that son who would -purify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith in his strength, -and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once, without -reasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a chill, -affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which she -no longer remembered. - -That little quiver came back while she listened to all that Madame -Angelin confided to her. And at last she became quite interested in her -friend’s case, and offered to accompany her some day when she might -be calling on Madame Bourdieu. In the end they arranged to meet one -Thursday afternoon for the purpose of going together to the Rue de -Miromesnil. - -As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o’clock, Mathieu, who had -come to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchene’s works, was -quietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile Moineaud, who -was carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string. She was -now nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, since -passing through the hands of Dr. Gaude. Mathieu had taken a great liking -to her during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled; -and later, knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he had -regarded her with deep compassion. He had busied himself to find her -easy work, and a friend of his had given her some cardboard boxes to -paste together, the only employment that did not tire her thin weak -hands. So childish had she remained that one would have taken her for a -young girl suddenly arrested in her growth. Yet her slender fingers were -skilful, and she contrived to earn some two francs a day in making the -little boxes. And as she suffered greatly at her parents’ home, tortured -by her brutal surroundings there, and robbed of her earnings week by -week, her dream was to secure a home of her own, to find a little money -that would enable her to install herself in a room where she might -live in peace and quietness. It had occurred to Mathieu to give her -a pleasant surprise some day by supplying her with the small sum she -needed. - -“Where are you running so fast?” he gayly asked her. - -The meeting seemed to take her aback, and she answered in an evasive, -embarrassed way: “I am going to the Rue de Miromesnil for a call I have -to make.” - -Noticing his kindly air, however, she soon told him the truth. Her -sister, that poor creature Norine, had just given birth to another -child, her third, at Madame Bourdieu’s establishment. A gentleman who -had been protecting her had cast her adrift, and she had been obliged -to sell her few sticks of furniture in order to get together a couple of -hundred francs, and thus secure admittance to Madame Bourdieu’s house, -for the mere idea of having to go to a hospital terrified her. Whenever -she might be able to get about again, however, she would find herself -in the streets, with the task of beginning life anew at one-and-thirty -years of age. - -“She never behaved unkindly to me,” resumed Cecile. “I pity her with all -my heart, and I have been to see her. I am taking her a little chocolate -now. Ah! if you only saw her little boy! he is a perfect love!” - -The poor girl’s eyes shone, and her thin, pale face became radiant with -a smile. The instinct of maternity remained keen within her, though she -could never be a mother. - -“What a pity it is,” she continued, “that Norine is so obstinately -determined on getting rid of the baby, just as she got rid of the -others. This little fellow, it’s true, cries so much that she has had to -give him the breast. But it’s only for the time being; she says that she -can’t see him starve while he remains near her. But it quite upsets -me to think that one can get rid of one’s children; I had an idea of -arranging things very differently. You know that I want to leave my -parents, don’t you? Well, I thought of renting a room and of taking my -sister and her little boy with me. I would show Norine how to cut out -and paste up those little boxes, and we might live, all three, happily -together.” - -“And won’t she consent?” asked Mathieu. - -“Oh! she told me that I was mad; and there’s some truth in that, for -I have no money even to rent a room. Ah! if you only knew how it -distresses me.” - -Mathieu concealed his emotion, and resumed in his quiet way: “Well, -there are rooms to be rented. And you would find a friend to help you. -Only I am much afraid that you will never persuade your sister to keep -her child, for I fancy that I know her ideas on that subject. A miracle -would be needed to change them.” - -Quick-witted as she was, Cecile darted a glance at him. The friend he -spoke of was himself. Good heavens would her dream come true? She ended -by bravely saying: “Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you really -ought to do me a last favor. It would be to come with me and see Norine -at once. You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps. But let -us walk slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy.” - -Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her. They turned the corner of -the Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbed -the stairs of Madame Bourdieu’s establishment. Ten years ago! Was it -possible? He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in that -house. And it all seemed to date from yesterday, for the building -had not changed; indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the very -grease-spots on the doors on the various landings. - -Following Cecile to Norine’s room, he found Norine up and dressed, but -seated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe. - -“What! is it you, monsieur?” she exclaimed, as soon as she recognized -her visitor. “It is very kind of Cecile to have brought you. Ah! _mon -Dieu_ what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you! We are -none of us any the younger.” - -He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged. She was -one of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year. Still, -if her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remained -pleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever. - -Cecile wished to bring matters to the point at once. “Here is your -chocolate,” she began. “I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he is -so kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help me -in carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and work -with me. So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevail -on you to keep that poor little fellow of yours. You see, I don’t want -to take you unawares; I warn you in advance.” - -Norine started with emotion, and began to protest. “What is all this -again?” said she. “No, no, I don’t want to be worried. I’m too unhappy -as it is.” - -But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if she -reverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lower -and lower. She herself had no illusions on that point; she spoke -bitterly enough of her experiences. Her youth had flown, her good-looks -were departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough. But then what -could she do? When one had fallen into the mire one had to stay there. - -“Ah! yes, ah! yes,” said she; “I’ve had enough of that infernal life -which some folks think so amusing. But it’s like a stone round my neck; -I can’t get rid of it. I shall have to keep to it till I’m picked up in -some corner and carried off to die at a hospital.” - -She spoke these words with the fierce energy of one who all at once -clearly perceives the fate which she cannot escape. Then she glanced at -her infant, who was still nursing. “He had better go his way and I’ll go -mine,” she added. “Then we shan’t inconvenience one another.” - -This time her voice softened, and an expression of infinite tenderness -passed over her desolate face. And Mathieu, in astonishment, divining -the new emotion that possessed her, though she did not express it, made -haste to rejoin: “To let him go his way would be the shortest way to -kill him, now that you have begun to give him the breast.” - -“Is it my fault?” she angrily exclaimed. “I didn’t want to give it to -him; you know what my ideas were. And I flew into a passion and almost -fought Madame Bourdieu when she put him in my arms. But then how could -I hold out? He cried so dreadfully with hunger, poor little mite, and -seemed to suffer so much, that I was weak enough to let him nurse just -a little. I didn’t intend to repeat it, but the next day he cried again, -and so I had to continue, worse luck for me! There was no pity shown -me; I’ve been made a hundred times more unhappy than I should have been, -for, of course, I shall soon have to get rid of him as I got rid of the -others.” - -Tears appeared in her eyes. It was the oft-recurring story of the -girl-mother who is prevailed upon to nurse her child for a few days, in -the hope that she will grow attached to the babe and be unable to part -from it. The chief object in view is to save the child, because its -best nurse is its natural nurse, the mother. And Norine, instinctively -divining the trap set for her, had struggled to escape it, and repeated, -sensibly enough, that one ought not to begin such a task when one meant -to throw it up in a few days’ time. As soon as she yielded she was -certain to be caught; her egotism was bound to be vanquished by the wave -of pity, love, and hope that would sweep through her heart. The poor, -pale, puny infant had weighed but little the first time he took the -breast. But every morning afterwards he had been weighed afresh, and on -the wall at the foot of the bed had been hung the diagram indicating the -daily difference of weight. At first Norine had taken little interest in -the matter, but as the line gradually ascended, plainly indicating how -much the child was profiting, she gave it more and more attention. All -at once, as the result of an indisposition, the line had dipped down; -and since then she had always feverishly awaited the weighing, eager to -see if the line would once more ascend. Then, a continuous rise having -set in, she laughed with delight. That little line, which ever ascended, -told her that her child was saved, and that all the weight and strength -he acquired was derived from her--from her milk, her blood, her flesh. -She was completing the appointed work; and motherliness, at last -awakened within her, was blossoming in a florescence of love. - -“If you want to kill him,” continued Mathieu, “you need only take him -from your breast. See how eagerly the poor little fellow is nursing!” - -This was indeed true. And Norine burst into big sobs: “_Mon Dieu_! you -are beginning to torture me again. Do you think that I shall take any -pleasure in getting rid of him now? You force me to say things which -make me weep at night when I think of them. I shall feel as if my very -vitals were being torn out when this child is taken from me! There, are -you both pleased that you have made me say it? But what good does it do -to put me in such a state, since nobody can remedy things, and he must -needs go to the foundlings, while I return to the gutter, to wait for -the broom that’s to sweep me away?” - -But Cecile, who likewise was weeping, kissed and kissed the child, and -again reverted to her dream, explaining how happy they would be, all -three of them, in a nice room, which she pictured full of endless joys, -like some Paradise. It was by no means difficult to cut out and paste up -the little boxes. As soon as Norine should know the work, she, who was -strong, might perhaps earn three francs a day at it. And five francs a -day between them, would not that mean fortune, the rearing of the child, -and all evil things forgotten, at an end? Norine, more weary than ever, -gave way at last, and ceased refusing. - -“You daze me,” she said. “I don’t know. Do as you like--but certainly it -will be great happiness to keep this dear little fellow with me.” - -Cecile, enraptured, clapped her hands; while Mathieu, who was greatly -moved, gave utterance to these deeply significant words: “You have saved -him, and now he saves you.” - -Then Norine at last smiled. She felt happy now; a great weight had been -lifted from her heart. And carrying her child in her arms she insisted -on accompanying her sister and their friend to the first floor. - -During the last half-hour Constance and Madame Angelin had been deep in -consultation with Madame Bourdieu. The former had not given her name, -but had simply played the part of an obliging friend accompanying -another on an occasion of some delicacy. Madame Bourdieu, with the keen -scent characteristic of her profession, divined a possible customer in -that inquisitive lady who put such strange questions to her. However, -a rather painful scene took place, for realizing that she could not -forever deceive Madame Angelin with false hopes, Madame Bourdieu decided -to tell the truth--her case was hopeless. Constance, however, at last -made a sign to entreat her to continue deceiving her friend, if only for -charity’s sake. The other, therefore, while conducting her visitors to -the landing, spoke a few hopeful words to Madame Angelin: “After all, -dear madame,” said she, “one must never despair. I did wrong to speak as -I did just now. I may yet be mistaken. Come back to see me again.” - -At this moment Mathieu and Cecile were still on the landing in -conversation with Norine, whose infant had fallen asleep in her arms. -Constance and Madame Angelin were so surprised at finding the farmer -of Chantebled in the company of the two young women that they pretended -they did not see him. All at once, however, Constance, with the help of -memory, recognized Norine, the more readily perhaps as she was now -aware that Mathieu had, ten years previously, acted as her husband’s -intermediary. And a feeling of revolt and the wildest fancies instantly -arose within her. What was Mathieu doing in that house? whose child was -it that the young woman carried in her arms? At that moment the other -child seemed to peer forth from the past; she saw it in swaddling -clothes, like the infant there; indeed, she almost confounded one with -the other, and imagined that it was indeed her husband’s illegitimate -son that was sleeping in his mother’s arms before her. Then all the -satisfaction she had derived from what she had heard Madame Bourdieu -say departed, and she went off furious and ashamed, as if soiled and -threatened by all the vague abominations which she had for some time -felt around her, without knowing, however, whence came the little chill -which made her shudder as with dread. - -As for Mathieu, he saw that neither Norine nor Cecile had recognized -Madame Beauchene under her veil, and so he quietly continued explaining -to the former that he would take steps to secure for her from the -Assistance Publique--the official organization for the relief of -the poor--a cradle and a supply of baby linen, as well as immediate -pecuniary succor, since she undertook to keep and nurse her child. -Afterwards he would obtain for her an allowance of thirty francs a month -for at least one year. This would greatly help the sisters, particularly -in the earlier stages of their life together in the room which they had -settled to rent. When Mathieu added that he would take upon himself the -preliminary outlay of a little furniture and so forth, Norine insisted -upon kissing him. - -“Oh! it is with a good heart,” said she. “It does one good to meet a man -like you. And come, kiss my poor little fellow, too; it will bring him -good luck.” - -On reaching the Rue La Boetie it occurred to Mathieu, who was bound -for the Beauchene works, to take a cab and let Cecile alight near her -parents’ home, since it was in the neighborhood of the factory. But she -explained to him that she wished, first of all, to call upon her sister -Euphrasie in the Rue Caroline. This street was in the same direction, -and so Mathieu made her get into the cab, telling her that he would set -her down at her sister’s door. - -She was so amazed, so happy at seeing her dream at last on the point of -realization, that as she sat in the cab by the side of Mathieu she did -not know how to thank him. Her eyes were quite moist, all smiles and -tears. - -“You must not think me a bad daughter, monsieur,” said she, “because I’m -so pleased to leave home. Papa still works as much as he is able, though -he does not get much reward for it at the factory. And mamma does all -she can at home, though she hasn’t much strength left her nowadays. -Since Victor came back from the army, he has married and has children -of his own, and I’m even afraid that he’ll have more than he can provide -for, as, while he was in the army, he seems to have lost all taste for -work. But the sharpest of the family is that lazy-bones Irma, my younger -sister, who’s so pretty and so delicate-looking, perhaps because she’s -always ill. As you may remember, mamma used to fear that Irma might turn -out badly like Norine. Well, not at all! Indeed, she’s the only one of -us who is likely to do well, for she’s going to marry a clerk in the -post-office. And so the only ones left at home are myself and Alfred. -Oh! he is a perfect bandit! That is the plain truth. He committed a -theft the other day, and one had no end of trouble to get him out of the -hands of the police commissary. But all the same, mamma has a weakness -for him, and lets him take all my earnings. Yes, indeed, I’ve had quite -enough of him, especially as he is always terrifying me out of my wits, -threatening to beat and even kill me, though he well knows that ever -since my illness the slightest noise throws me into a faint. And as, all -considered, neither papa nor mamma needs me, it’s quite excusable, isn’t -it, that I should prefer living quietly alone. It is my right, is it -not, monsieur?” - -She went on to speak of her sister Euphrasie, who had fallen into a most -wretched condition, said she, ever since passing through Dr. Gaude’s -hands. Her home had virtually been broken up, she had become decrepit, a -mere bundle of rags, unable even to handle a broom. It made one tremble -to see her. Then, after a pause, just as the cab was reaching the Rue -Caroline, the girl continued: “Will you come up to see her? You might -say a few kind words to her. It would please me, for I’m going on a -rather unpleasant errand. I thought that she would have strength -enough to make some little boxes like me, and thus earn a few pence for -herself; but she has kept the work I gave her more than a month now, and -if she really cannot do it I must take it back.” - -Mathieu consented, and in the room upstairs he beheld one of the most -frightful, poignant spectacles that he had ever witnessed. In the centre -of that one room where the family slept and ate, Euphrasie sat on a -straw-bottomed chair; and although she was barely thirty years of age, -one might have taken her for a little old woman of fifty; so thin and so -withered did she look that she resembled one of those fruits, suddenly -deprived of sap, that dry up on the tree. Her teeth had fallen, and -of her hair she only retained a few white locks. But the more -characteristic mark of this mature senility was a wonderful loss of -muscular strength, an almost complete disappearance of will, energy, -and power of action, so that she now spent whole days, idle, stupefied, -without courage even to raise a finger. - -When Cecile told her that her visitor was M. Froment, the former chief -designer at the Beauchene works, she did not even seem to recognize him; -she no longer took interest in anything. And when her sister spoke -of the object of her visit, asking for the work with which she had -entrusted her, she answered with a gesture of utter weariness: “Oh! what -can you expect! It takes me too long to stick all those little bits of -cardboard together. I can’t do it; it throws me into a perspiration.” - -Then a stout woman, who was cutting some bread and butter for the three -children, intervened with an air of quiet authority: “You ought to take -those materials away, Mademoiselle Cecile. She’s incapable of doing -anything with them. They will end by getting dirty, and then your people -won’t take them back.” - -This stout woman was a certain Madame Joseph, a widow of forty and a -charwoman by calling, whom Benard, the husband, had at first engaged to -come two hours every morning to attend to the housework, his wife not -having strength enough to put on a child’s shoes or to set a pot on -the fire. At first Euphrasie had offered furious resistance to this -intrusion of a stranger, but, her physical decline progressing, she had -been obliged to yield. And then things had gone from bad to worse, till -Madame Joseph became supreme in the household. Between times there had -been terrible scenes over it all; but the wretched Euphrasie, stammering -and shivering, had at last resigned herself to the position, like some -little old woman sunk into second childhood and already cut off from the -world. That Benard and Madame Joseph were not bad-hearted in reality -was shown by the fact that although Euphrasie was now but an useless -encumbrance, they kept her with them, instead of flinging her into the -streets as others would have done. - -“Why, there you are again in the middle of the room!” suddenly exclaimed -the fat woman, who each time that she went hither and thither found -it necessary to avoid the other’s chair. “How funny it is that you can -never put yourself in a corner! Auguste will be coming in for his four -o’clock snack in a moment, and he won’t be at all pleased if he doesn’t -find his cheese and his glass of wine on the table.” - -Without replying, Euphrasie nervously staggered to her feet, and with -the greatest trouble dragged her chair towards the table. Then she sat -down again limp and very weary. - -Just as Madame Joseph was bringing the cheese, Benard, whose workshop -was near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovial -fellow, and began to jest with his sister-in-law while showing great -politeness towards Mathieu, whom he thanked for taking interest in his -unhappy wife’s condition. “_Mon Dieu_, monsieur,” said he, “it isn’t her -fault; it is all due to those rascally doctors at the hospital. For a -year or so one might have thought her cured, but you see what has now -become of her. Ah! it ought not to be allowed! You are no doubt aware -that they treated Cecile just the same. And there was another, too, -a baroness, whom you must know. She called here the other day to see -Euphrasie, and, upon my word, I didn’t recognize her. She used to be -such a fine woman, and now she looks a hundred years old. Yes, yes, I -say that the doctors ought to be sent to prison.” - -He was about to sit down to table when he stumbled against Euphrasie’s -chair. She sat watching him with an anxious, semi-stupefied expression. -“There you are, in my way as usual!” said he; “one is always tumbling up -against you. Come, make a little room, do.” - -He did not seem to be a very terrible customer, but at the sound of -his voice she began to tremble, full of childish fear, as if she were -threatened with a thrashing. And this time she found strength enough to -drag her chair as far as a dark closet, the door of which was open. She -there sought refuge, ensconcing herself in the gloom, amid which one -could vaguely espy her shrunken, wrinkled face, which suggested that of -some very old great-grandmother, who was taking years and years to die. - -Mathieu’s heart contracted as he observed that senile terror, -that shivering obedience on the part of a woman whose harsh, dry, -aggressively quarrelsome disposition he so well remembered. Industrious, -self-willed, full of life as she had once been, she was now but a limp -human rag. And yet her case was recorded in medical annals as one of the -renowned Gaude’s great miracles of cure. Ah! how truly had Boutan spoken -in saying that people ought to wait to see the real results of those -victorious operations which were sapping the vitality of France. - -Cecile, however, with eager affection, kissed the three children, who -somehow continued to grow up in that wrecked household. Tears came -to her eyes, and directly Madame Joseph had given her back the -work-materials entrusted to Euphrasie she hurried Mathieu away. And, as -they reached the street, she said: “Thank you, Monsieur Froment; I can -go home on foot now--. How frightful, eh? Ah! as I told you, we shall -be in Paradise, Norine and I, in the quiet room which you have so kindly -promised to rent for us.” - -On reaching Beauchene’s establishment Mathieu immediately repaired to -the workshops, but he could obtain no precise information respecting his -threshing-machine, though he had ordered it several months previously. -He was told that the master’s son, Monsieur Maurice, had gone out on -business, and that nobody could give him an answer, particularly as the -master himself had not put in an appearance at the works that week. He -learnt, however, that Beauchene had returned from a journey that very -day, and must be indoors with his wife. Accordingly, he resolved to call -at the house, less on account of the threshing-machine than to decide -a matter of great interest to him, that of the entry of one of his twin -sons, Blaise, into the establishment. - -This big fellow had lately left college, and although he had only -completed his nineteenth year, he was on the point of marrying a -portionless young girl, Charlotte Desvignes, for whom he had conceived -a romantic attachment ever since childhood. His parents, seeing in this -match a renewal of their own former loving improvidence, had felt moved, -and unwilling to drive the lad to despair. But, if he was to marry, -some employment must first be found for him. Fortunately this could -be managed. While Denis, the other of the twins, entered a technical -school, Beauchene, by way of showing his esteem for the increasing -fortune of his good cousins, as he now called the Froments, cordially -offered to give Blaise a situation at his establishment. - -On being ushered into Constance’s little yellow salon, Mathieu found her -taking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her from -the Rue de Miromesnil. Beauchene’s unexpected arrival on the scene had -disagreeably interrupted their private converse. He had returned from -one of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under the -pretext of making a short business journey, and, still slightly -intoxicated, with feverish, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he was -wearying the two women with his impudent, noisy falsehoods. - -“Ah! my dear fellow!” he exclaimed on seeing Mathieu, “I was just -telling the ladies of my return from Amiens--. What wonderful duck pates -they have there!” - -Then, on Mathieu speaking to him of Blaise, he launched out into -protestations of friendship. It was understood, the young fellow need -only present himself at the works, and in the first instance he should -be put with Morange, in order that he might learn something of the -business mechanism of the establishment. Thus talking, Beauchene puffed -and coughed and spat, exhaling meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, -and musk, which he always brought back from his “sprees,” while his wife -smiled affectionately before the others as was her wont, but directed at -him glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turned -her head. - -As Beauchene continued talking too much, owning for instance that he did -not know how far the thresher might be from completion, Mathieu -noticed Constance listening anxiously. The idea of Blaise entering the -establishment had already rendered her grave, and now her husband’s -apparent ignorance of important business matters distressed her. -Besides, the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she remembered -the girl’s child, and almost feared some fresh understanding between -Beauchene and Mathieu. All at once, however, she gave a cry of great -relief: “Ah! here is Maurice.” - -Her son was entering the room--her son, the one and only god on whom she -now set her affection and pride, the crown-prince who to-morrow would -become king, who would save the kingdom from perdition, and who -would exalt her on his right hand in a blaze of glory. She deemed him -handsome, tall, strong, and as invincible in his nineteenth year as -all the knights of the old legends. When he explained that he had just -profitably compromised a worrying transaction in which his father had -rashly embarked, she pictured him repairing disasters and achieving -victories. And she triumphed more than ever on hearing him promise that -the threshing-machine should be ready before the end of that same week. - -“You must take a cup of tea, my dear,” she exclaimed. “It would do you -good; you worry your mind too much.” - -Maurice accepted the offer, and gayly replied: “Oh! do you know, an -omnibus almost crushed me just now in the Rue de Rivoli!” - -At this his mother turned livid, and the cup which she held escaped from -her hand. Ah! God, was her happiness at the mercy of an accident? Then -once again the fearful threat sped by, that icy gust which came she knew -not whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones. - -“Why, you stupid,” said Beauchene, laughing, “it was he who crushed the -omnibus, since here he is, telling you the tale. Ah! my poor Maurice, -your mother is really ridiculous. I know how strong you are, and I’m -quite at ease about you.” - -That day Madame Angelin returned to Janville with Mathieu. They found -themselves alone in the railway carriage, and all at once, without any -apparent cause, tears started from the young woman’s eyes. At this she -apologized, and murmured as if in a dream: “To have a child, to rear -him, and then lose him--ah! certainly one’s grief must then be poignant. -Yet one has had him with one; he has grown up, and one has known for -years all the joy of having him at one’s side. But when one never has a -child--never, never--ah! come rather suffering and mourning than such a -void as that!” - -And meantime, at Chantebled, Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, -increased, and multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal -battle which life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase -both of offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very -existence, their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of -flame, desire divine and fruitful, since they possessed the power of -love, of kindliness, and health. And their energy did the rest--that -will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that -is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates the world. Yet -even during those two years it was not without constant struggling that -they achieved victory. True, victory was becoming more and more -certain as the estate expanded. The petty worries of earlier days had -disappeared, and the chief question was now one of ruling sensibly and -equitably. All the land had been purchased northward on the plateau, -from the farm of Mareuil to the farm of Lillebonne; there was not a -copse that did not belong to the Froments, and thus beside the surging -sea of corn there rose a royal park of centenarian trees. Apart from -the question of felling portions of the wood for timber, Mathieu was not -disposed to retain the remainder for mere beauty’s sake; and accordingly -avenues were devised connecting the broad clearings, and cattle were -then turned into this part of the property. The ark of life, increased -by hundreds of animals, expanded, burst through the great trees. There -was a fresh growth of fruitfulness: more and more cattle-sheds had to be -built, sheepcotes had to be created, and manure came in loads and loads -to endow the land with wondrous fertility. And now yet other children -might come, for floods of milk poured forth, and there were herds and -flocks to clothe and nourish them. Beside the ripening crops the woods -waved their greenery, quivering with the eternal seeds that germinated -in their shade, under the dazzling sun. And only one more stretch of -land, the sandy slopes on the east, remained to be conquered in order -that the kingdom might be complete. Assuredly this compensated one for -all former tears, for all the bitter anxiety of the first years of toil. - -Then, while Mathieu completed his conquest, there came to Marianne -during those two years the joy of marrying one of her children even -while she was again _enceinte_, for, like our good mother the earth, she -also remained fruitful. ‘Twas a delightful fete, full of infinite -hope, that wedding of Blaise and Charlotte; he a strong young fellow -of nineteen, she an adorable girl of eighteen summers, each loving -the other with a love of nosegay freshness that had budded, even in -childhood’s hour, along the flowery paths of Chantebled. The eight other -children were all there: first the big brothers, Denis, Ambroise, and -Gervais, who were now finishing their studies; next Rose, the eldest -girl, now fourteen, who promised to become a woman of healthy beauty -and happy gayety of disposition; then Claire, who was still a child, and -Gregoire, who was only just going to college; without counting the very -little ones, Louise and Madeleine. - -Folks came out of curiosity from the surrounding villages to see the -gay troop conduct their big brother to the municipal offices. It was -a marvellous cortege, flowery like springtide, full of felicity, which -moved every heart. Often, moreover, on ordinary holidays, when for the -sake of an outing the family repaired in a band to some village market, -there was such a gallop in traps, on horseback, and on bicycles, while -the girls’ hair streamed in the wind and loud laughter rang out from one -and all, that people would stop to watch the charming cavalcade. “Here -are the troops passing!” folks would jestingly exclaim, implying that -nothing could resist those Froments, that the whole countryside -was theirs by right of conquest, since every two years their number -increased. And this time, at the expiration of those last two years it -was again to a daughter, Marguerite, that Marianne gave birth. For a -while she remained in a feverish condition, and there were fears, too, -that she might be unable to nurse her infant as she had done all the -others. Thus, when Mathieu saw her erect once more and smiling, with her -dear little Marguerite at her breast, he embraced her passionately, -and triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another -child, yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the -world, another field ready for to-morrow’s harvest! - -And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - - - -XIV - -TWO more years went by, and during those two years yet another child, -this time a boy, was born to Mathieu and Marianne. And on this occasion, -at the same time as the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was -increased also by all the heatherland extending to the east as far as -the village of Vieux-Bourg. And this time the last lot was purchased, -the conquest of the estate was complete. The 1250 acres of uncultivated -soil which Seguin’s father, the old army contractor, had formerly -purchased in view of erecting a palatial residence there were now, -thanks to unremitting effort, becoming fruitful from end to end. The -enclosure belonging to the Lepailleurs, who stubbornly refused to sell -it, alone set a strip of dry, stony, desolate land amid the broad green -plain. And it was all life’s resistless conquest; it was fruitfulness -spreading in the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its -work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, -and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more -joy in the veins of the world. - -Blaise, now the father of a little girl some ten months old, had been -residing at the Beauchene works since the previous winter. He occupied -the little pavilion where his mother had long previously given birth to -his brother Gervais. His wife Charlotte had conquered the Beauchenes by -her fair grace, her charming, bouquet-like freshness, to such a point, -indeed, that even Constance had desired to have her near her. The -truth was that Madame Desvignes had made adorable creatures of her -two daughters, Charlotte and Marthe. At the death of her husband, a -stockbroker’s confidential clerk, who had died, leaving her at thirty -years of age in very indifferent circumstances, she had gathered her -scanty means together and withdrawn to Janville, her native place, where -she had entirely devoted herself to her daughters’ education. Knowing -that they would be almost portionless, she had brought them up extremely -well, in the hope that this might help to find them husbands, and it so -chanced that she proved successful. - -Affectionate intercourse sprang up between her and the Froments; the -children played together; and it was, indeed, from those first games -that came the love-romance which was to end in the marriage of Blaise -and Charlotte. By the time the latter reached her eighteenth birthday -and married, Marthe her sister, then fourteen years old, had become the -inseparable companion of Rose Froment, who was of the same age and as -pretty as herself, though dark instead of fair. Charlotte, who had -a more delicate, and perhaps a weaker, nature than her gay, sensible -sister, had become passionately fond of drawing and painting, which -she had learnt at first simply by way of accomplishment. She had ended, -however, by painting miniatures very prettily, and, as her mother -remarked, her proficiency might prove a resource to her in the event of -misfortune. Certainly there was some of the bourgeois respect and esteem -for a good education in the fairly cordial greeting which Constance -extended to Charlotte, who had painted a miniature portrait of her, a -good though a flattering likeness. - -On the other hand, Blaise, who was endowed with the creative fire of the -Froments, ever striving, ever hard at work, became a valuable assistant -to Maurice as soon as a brief stay in Morange’s office had made him -familiar with the business of the firm. Indeed it was Maurice who, -finding that his father seconded him less and less, had insisted on -Blaise and Charlotte installing themselves in the little pavilion, in -order that the former’s services might at all times be available. And -Constance, ever on her knees before her son, could in this matter -only obey respectfully. She evinced boundless faith in the vastness of -Maurice’s intellect. His studies had proved fairly satisfactory; if he -was somewhat slow and heavy, and had frequently been delayed by youthful -illnesses, he had, nevertheless, diligently plodded on. As he was -far from talkative, his mother gave out that he was a reflective, -concentrated genius, who would astonish the world by actions, not by -speech. Before he was even fifteen she said of him, in her adoring way: -“Oh! he has a great mind.” And, naturally enough, she only acknowledged -Blaise to be a necessary lieutenant, a humble assistant, one whose hand -would execute the sapient young master’s orders. The latter, to her -thinking, was now so strong and so handsome, and he was so quickly -reviving the business compromised by the father’s slow collapse, that -surely he must be on the high-road to prodigious wealth, to that final -great triumph, indeed, of which she had been dreaming so proudly, so -egotistically, for so many years. - -But all at once the thunderbolt fell. It was not without some hesitation -that Blaise had agreed to make the little pavilion his home, for he knew -that there was an idea of reducing him to the status of a mere piece -of machinery. But at the birth of his little girl he bravely decided -to accept the proposal, and to engage in the battle of life even as his -father had engaged in it, mindful of the fact that he also might in time -have a large family. But it so happened that one morning, when he went -up to the house to ask Maurice for some instructions, he heard from -Constance herself that the young man had spent a very bad night, and -that she had therefore prevailed on him to remain in bed. She did not -evince any great anxiety on the subject; the indisposition could only -be due to a little fatigue. Indeed, for a week past the two cousins had -been tiring themselves out over the delivery of a very important order, -which had set the entire works in motion. Besides, on the previous day -Maurice, bareheaded and in perspiration, had imprudently lingered in a -draught in one of the sheds while a machine was being tested. - -That evening he was seized with intense fever, and Boutan was hastily -summoned. On the morrow, alarmed, though he scarcely dared to say it, -by the lightning-like progress of the illness, the doctor insisted on a -consultation, and two of his colleagues being summoned, they soon agreed -together. The malady was an extremely infectious form of galloping -consumption, the more violent since it had found in the patient a field -where there was little to resist its onslaught. Beauchene was away from -home, travelling as usual. Constance, for her part, in spite of the -grave mien of the doctors, who could not bring themselves to tell her -the brutal truth, remained, in spite of growing anxiety, full of a -stubborn hope that her son, the hero, the demi-god necessary for her own -life, could not be seriously ill and likely to die. But only three -days elapsed, and during the very night that Beauchene returned home, -summoned by a telegram, the young fellow expired in her arms. - -In reality his death was simply the final decomposition of impoverished, -tainted, bourgeois blood, the sudden disappearance of a poor, mediocre -being who, despite a facade of seeming health, had been ailing since -childhood. But what an overwhelming blow it was both for the mother and -for the father, all whose dreams and calculations it swept away! The -only son, the one and only heir, the prince of industry, whom they had -desired with such obstinate, scheming egotism, had passed away like a -shadow; their arms clasped but a void, and the frightful reality arose -before them; a moment had sufficed, and they were childless. - -Blaise was with the parents at the bedside at the moment when Maurice -expired. It was then about two in the morning, and as soon as possible -he telegraphed the news of the death to Chantebled. Nine o’clock was -striking when Marianne, very pale, quite upset, came into the yard to -call Mathieu. - -“Maurice is dead!... _Mon Dieu_! an only son; poor people!” - -They stood there thunderstruck, chilled and trembling. They had simply -heard that the young man was poorly; they had not imagined him to be -seriously ill. - -“Let me go to dress,” said Mathieu; “I shall take the quarter-past ten -o’clock train. I must go to kiss them.” - -Although Marianne was expecting her eleventh child before long, she -decided to accompany her husband. It would have pained her to be -unable to give this proof of affection to her cousins, who, all things -considered, had treated Blaise and his young wife very kindly. Moreover, -she was really grieved by the terrible catastrophe. So she and her -husband, after distributing the day’s work among the servants, set -out for Janville station, which they reached just in time to catch the -quarter-past ten o’clock train. It was already rolling on again when -they recognized the Lepailleurs and their son Antonin in the very -compartment where they were seated. - -Seeing the Froments thus together in full dress, the miller imagined -that they were going to a wedding, and when he learnt that they had -a visit of condolence to make, he exclaimed: “Oh! so it’s just -the contrary. But no matter, it’s an outing, a little diversion -nevertheless.” - -Since Mathieu’s victory, since the whole of the estate of Chantebled had -been conquered and fertilized, Lepailleur had shown some respect for his -bourgeois rival. Nevertheless, although he could not deny the results -hitherto obtained, he did not altogether surrender, but continued -sneering, as if he expected that some rending of heaven or earth would -take place to prove him in the right. He would not confess that he had -made a mistake; he repeated that he knew the truth, and that folks would -some day see plainly enough that a peasant’s calling was the very worst -calling there could be, since the dirty land had gone bankrupt and would -yield nothing more. Besides, he held his revenge--that enclosure which -he left barren, uncultivated, by way of protest against the adjoining -estate which it intersected. The thought of this made him ironical. - -“Well,” he resumed in his ridiculously vain, scoffing way, “we are going -to Paris too. Yes, we are going to install this young gentleman there.” - -He pointed as he spoke to his son Antonin, now a tall, carroty fellow -of eighteen, with an elongated head. A few light-colored bristles were -already sprouting on his chin and cheeks, and he wore town attire, with -a silk hat and gloves, and a bright blue necktie. After astonishing -Janville by his success at school, he had displayed so much repugnance -to manual work that his father had decided to make “a Parisian” of him. - -“So it is decided; you have quite made up your mind?” asked Mathieu in a -friendly way. - -“Why, yes; why should I force him to toil and moil without the least -hope of ever enriching himself? Neither my father nor I ever managed -to put a copper by with that wretched old mill of ours. Why, the -mill-stones wear away with rot more than with grinding corn. And the -wretched fields, too, yield far more pebbles than crowns. And so, as -he’s now a scholar, he may as well try his fortune in Paris. There’s -nothing like city life to sharpen a man’s wits.” - -Madame Lepailleur, who never took her eyes from her son, but remained in -admiration before him as formerly before her husband, now exclaimed -with an air of rapture: “Yes, yes, he has a place as a clerk with Maitre -Rousselet, the attorney. We have rented a little room for him; I have -seen about the furniture and the linen, and to-day’s the great day; he -will sleep there to-night, after we have dined, all three, at a good -restaurant. Ah! yes, I’m very pleased; he’s making a start now.” - -“And he will perhaps end by being a minister of state,” said Mathieu, -with a smile; “who knows? Everything is possible nowadays.” - -It all typified the exodus from the country districts towards the towns, -the feverish impatience to make a fortune, which was becoming general. -Even the parents nowadays celebrated their child’s departure, and -accompanied the adventurer on his way, anxious and proud to climb the -social ladder with him. And that which brought a smile to the lips of -the farmer of Chantebled, the bourgeois who had become a peasant, was -the thought of the double change: the miller’s son going to Paris, -whereas he had gone to the earth, the mother of all strength and -regeneration. - -Antonin, however, had also begun to laugh with the air of an artful -idler who was more particularly attracted by the free dissipation of -Paris life. “Oh! minister?” said he, “I haven’t much taste for that. I -would much sooner win a million at once so as to rest afterwards.” - -Delighted with this display of wit, the Lepailleurs burst into noisy -merriment. Oh! their boy would do great things, that was quite certain! - -Marianne, her heart oppressed by thought of the mourning which awaited -her, had hitherto kept silent. She now asked, however, why little -Therese did not form one of the party. Lepailleur dryly replied that he -did not choose to embarrass himself with a child but six years old, -who did not know how to behave. Her arrival had upset everything in the -house; things would have been much better if she had never been born. -Then, as Marianne began to protest, saying that she had seldom seen a -more intelligent and prettier little girl, Madame Lepailleur answered -more gently: “Oh! she’s sharp; that’s true enough; but one can’t send -girls to Paris. She’ll have to be put somewhere, and it will mean a lot -of trouble, a lot of money. However, we mustn’t talk about all that this -morning, since we want to enjoy ourselves.” - -At last the train reached Paris, and the Lepailleurs, leaving the -Northern terminus, were caught and carried off by the impetuously -streaming crowd. - -When Mathieu and Marianne alighted from their cab on the Quai d’Orsay, -in front of the Beauchenes’ residence, they recognized the Seguins’ -brougham drawn up beside the foot pavement. And within it they perceived -the two girls, Lucie and Andree, waiting mute and motionless in their -light-colored dresses. Then, as they approached the door, they saw -Valentine come out, in a very great hurry as usual. On recognizing them, -however, she assumed an expression of deep pity, and spoke the words -required by the situation: - -“What a frightful misfortune, is it not? an only son!” - -Then she burst out into a flood of words: “You have hastened here, I -see, as I did; it is only natural. I heard of the catastrophe only by -chance less than an hour ago. And you see my luck! My daughters were -dressed, and I myself was dressing to take them to a wedding--a cousin -of our friend Santerre is marrying a diplomatist. And, in addition, I am -engaged for the whole afternoon. Well, although the wedding is fixed for -a quarter-past eleven, I did not hesitate, but drove here before going -to the church. And naturally I went upstairs alone. My daughters have -been waiting in the carriage. We shall no doubt be a little late for -the wedding. But no matter! You will see the poor parents in their empty -house, near the body, which, I must say, they have laid out very nicely -on the bed. Oh! it is heartrending.” - -Mathieu was looking at her, surprised to see that she did not age. The -fiery flame of her wild life seemed to scorch and preserve her. He knew -that her home was now completely wrecked. Seguin openly lived with Nora, -the governess, for whom he had furnished a little house. It was there -even that he had given Mathieu an appointment to sign the final transfer -of the Chantebled property. And since Gaston had entered the military -college of St. Cyr, Valentine had only her two daughters with her in the -spacious, luxurious mansion of the Avenue d’Antin, which ruin was slowly -destroying. - -“I think,” resumed Madame Seguin, “that I shall tell Gaston to obtain -permission to attend the funeral. For I am not sure whether his father -is in Paris. It’s just the same with our friend Santerre; he’s starting -on a tour to-morrow. Ah! not only do the dead leave us, but it is -astonishing what a number of the living go off and disappear! Life is -very sad, is it not, dear madame?” - -As she spoke a little quiver passed over her face; the dread of the -coming rupture, which she had felt approaching for several months -past, amid all the skilful preparations of Santerre, who had been long -maturing some secret plan, which she did not as yet divine. However, she -made a devout ecstatic gesture, and added: “Well, we are in the hands of -God.” - -Marianne, who was still smiling at the ever-motionless girls in the -closed brougham, changed the subject. “How tall they have grown, how -pretty they have become! Your Andree looks adorable. How old is your -Lucie now? She will soon be of an age to marry.” - -“Oh! don’t let her hear you,” retorted Valentine; “you would make her -burst into tears! She is seventeen, but for sense she isn’t twelve. -Would you believe it, she began sobbing this morning and refusing to go -to the wedding, under the pretence that it would make her ill? She is -always talking of convents; we shall have to come to a decision about -her. Andree, though she is only thirteen, is already much more womanly. -But she is a little stupid, just like a sheep. Her gentleness quite -upsets me at times; it jars on my nerves.” - -Then Valentine, on the point of getting into her carriage, turned to -shake hands with Marianne, and thought of inquiring after her health. -“Really,” said she, “I lose my head at times. I was quite forgetting. -And the baby you’re expecting will be your eleventh child, will it now? -How terrible! Still it succeeds with you. And, ah! those poor people -whom you are going to see, their house will be quite empty now.” - -When the brougham had rolled away it occurred to Mathieu and Marianne -that before seeing the Beauchenes it might be advisable for them to call -at the little pavilion, where their son or their daughter-in-law might -be able to give them some useful information. But neither Blaise nor -Charlotte was there. They found only a servant who was watching over -the little girl, Berthe. This servant declared that she had not seen -Monsieur Blaise since the previous day, for he had remained at the -Beauchenes’ near the body. And as for Madame, she also had gone there -early that morning, and had left instructions that Berthe was to be -brought to her at noon, in order that she might not have to come back -to give her the breast. Then, as Marianne in surprise began to put some -questions, the girl explained matters: “Madame took a box of drawing -materials with her. I fancy that she is painting a portrait of the poor -young man who is dead.” - -As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they felt -oppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned in that great city of -labor, usually so full of noise and bustle. Death had suddenly passed -by, and all the ardent life had at once ceased, the machinery had become -cold and mute, the workshops silent and deserted. There was not a sound, -not a soul, not a puff of that vapor which was like the very breath of -the place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress of the -Froments increased when they passed from the works into the house, amid -absolute solitude; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber, the -staircase quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, as -in some uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servant -in the antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds of -embroidered muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in a -circle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, at -first seemed to them to be empty. But at last they detected a shadowy -form moving slowly to and fro in the middle of the room. It was Morange, -bareheaded and frock-coated; he had hastened thither at the first news -with the same air as if he had been repairing to his office. He seemed -to be at home; it was he who received the visitors in a scared way, -overcome as he was by this sudden demise, which recalled to him his -daughter’s abominable death. His heart-wound had reopened; he was livid, -all in disorder, with his long gray beard streaming down, while he -stepped hither and thither without a pause, making all the surrounding -grief his own. - -As soon as he recognized the Froments he also spoke the words which came -from every tongue: “What a frightful misfortune, an only son!” - -Then he pressed their hands, and whispered and explained that Madame -Beauchene, feeling quite exhausted, had withdrawn for a few moments, and -that Beauchene and Blaise were making necessary arrangements downstairs. -And then, resuming his maniacal perambulations, he pointed towards an -adjoining room, the folding doors of which were wide open. - -“He is there, on the bed where he died. There are flowers; it looks very -nice. You may go in.” - -This room was Maurice’s bedchamber. The large curtains had been closely -drawn, and tapers were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on the -deceased’s face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closed -as if in sleep. Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, and -with the roses scattered over the sheet the bed was like a couch of -springtide. The odor of the flowers, mingling with that of the burning -wax, seemed rather oppressive amid the deep and tragic stillness. Not -a breath stirred the tall, erect flames of the tapers, burning in the -semi-obscurity, amid which the bed alone showed forth. - -When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived their -daughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door. Lighted by a -little lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, making -a drawing of Maurice’s head as it rested among the roses. Hard and -anguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she had -nevertheless yielded to the mother’s ardent entreaties. And for three -hours past, pale, looking wondrously beautiful, her face showing all -the flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine golden -hair, she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best. -When Mathieu and Marianne approached her she would not speak, but simply -nodded. Still a little color came to her cheeks, and her eyes smiled. -And when the others, after lingering there for a moment in sorrowful -contemplation, had quietly returned to the drawing-room, she resumed her -work alone, in the presence of the dead, among the roses and the tapers. - -Morange was still walking the drawing-room like a lost, wandering -phantom. Mathieu remained standing there, while Marianne sat down near -the folding doors. Not another word was exchanged; the spell of waiting -continued amid the oppressive silence of the dim, closed room. When -some ten minutes had elapsed, two other visitors arrived, a lady and a -gentleman, whom the Froments could not at first recognize. Morange bowed -and received them in his dazed way. Then, as the lady did not release -her hold of the gentleman’s hand, but led him along, as if he were -blind, between the articles of furniture, so that he might not knock -against them, Marianne and Mathieu realized that the new comers were the -Angelins. - -Since the previous winter they had sold their little house at Janville -to fix themselves in Paris, for a last misfortune had befallen them--the -failure of a great banking house had carried away almost the whole of -their modest fortune. The wife had fortunately secured a post as one of -the delegates of the Poor Relief Board, an inspectorship with various -duties, such as watching over the mothers and children assisted by the -board, and reporting thereon. And she was wont to say, with a sad smile, -that this work of looking after the little ones was something of a -consolation for her, since it was now certain that she would never have -a child of her own. As for her husband, whose eyesight was failing more -and more, he had been obliged to relinquish painting altogether, and -he dragged out his days in morose desolation, his life wrecked, -annihilated. - -With short steps, as if she were leading a child, Madame Angelin brought -him to an armchair near Marianne and seated him in it. He had retained -the lofty mien of a musketeer, but his features had been ravaged by -anxiety, and his hair was white, though he was only forty-four years of -age. And what memories arose at the sight of that sorrowful lady leading -that infirm, aged man, for those who had known the young couple, -all tenderness and good looks, rambling along the secluded paths of -Janville, amid the careless delights of their love. - -As soon as Madame Angelin had clasped Marianne’s hands with her own -trembling fingers, she also uttered in low, stammering accents, those -despairing words: “Ah! what a frightful misfortune, an only son!” - -Her eyes filled with tears, and she would not sit down before going -for a moment to see the body in the adjoining room. When she came back, -sobbing in her handkerchief, she sank into an armchair between Marianne -and her husband. He remained there motionless, staring fixedly with his -dim eyes. And silence fell again throughout the lifeless house, whither -the rumble of the works, now deserted, fireless and frozen, ascended no -longer. - -But Beauchene, followed by Blaise, at last made his appearance. The -heavy blow he had received seemed to have made him ten years older. -It was as if the heavens had suddenly fallen upon him. Never amid his -conquering egotism, his pride of strength and his pleasures, had he -imagined such a downfall to be possible. Never had he been willing to -admit that Maurice might be ill--such an idea was like casting a -doubt upon his own strength; he thought himself beyond the reach of -thunderbolts; misfortune would never dare to fall on him. And at the -first overwhelming moment he had found himself weak as a woman, weary -and limp, his strength undermined by his dissolute life, the slow -disorganization of his faculties. He had sobbed like a child before his -dead son, all his vanity crushed, all his calculations destroyed. The -thunderbolt had sped by, and nothing remained. In a minute his life had -been swept away; the world was now all black and void. And he remained -livid, in consternation at it all, his bloated face swollen with grief, -his heavy eyelids red with tears. - -When he perceived the Froments, weakness again came upon him, and he -staggered towards them with open arms, once more stifling with sobs. - -“Ah! my dear friends, what a terrible blow! And I wasn’t here! When I -got here he had lost consciousness; he did not recognize me--. Is it -possible? A lad who was in such good health! I cannot believe it. It -seems to me that I must be dreaming, and that he will get up presently -and come down with me into the workshops!” - -They kissed him, they pitied him, struck down like this upon his return -from some carouse or other, still intoxicated, perhaps, and tumbling -into the midst of such an awful disaster, his prostration increased by -the stupor following upon debauchery. His beard, moist with his tears, -still stank of tobacco and musk. - -Although he scarcely knew the Angelins, he pressed them also in his -arms. “Ah! my poor friends, what a terrible blow! What a terrible blow!” - -Then Blaise in his turn came to kiss his parents. In spite of his grief, -and the horrible night he had spent, his face retained its youthful -freshness. Yet tears coursed down his cheeks, for, working with Maurice -day by day, he had conceived real friendship for him. - -The silence fell again. Morange, as if unconscious of what went on -around him, as if he were quite alone there, continued walking softly -hither and thither like a somnambulist. Beauchene, with haggard mien, -went off, and then came back carrying some little address-books. He -turned about for another moment, and finally sat down at a writing-table -which had been brought out of Maurice’s room. Little accustomed as he -was to grief, he instinctively sought to divert his mind, and began -searching in the little address-books for the purpose of drawing up a -list of the persons who must be invited to the funeral. But his eyes -became blurred, and with a gesture he summoned Blaise, who, after going -into the bedchamber to glance at his wife’s sketch, was now returning -to the drawing-room. Thereupon the young man, standing erect beside the -writing-table, began to dictate the names in a low voice; and then, amid -the deep silence sounded a low and monotonous murmur. - -The minutes slowly went by. The visitors were still waiting for -Constance. At last a little door of the death-chamber slowly opened, and -she entered that chamber noiselessly, without anybody knowing that she -was there. She looked like a spectre emerging out of the darkness into -the pale light of the tapers. She had not yet wept; her face was -livid, contracted, hardened by cold rage. Her little figure, instead of -bending, seemed to have grown taller beneath the injustice of destiny, -as if borne up by furious rebellion. Yet her loss did not surprise her. -She had immediately felt that she had expected it, although but a minute -before the death she had stubbornly refused to believe it possible. But -the thought of it had remained latent within her for long months, and -frightful evidence thereof now burst forth. She suddenly heard the -whispers of the unknown once more, and understood them; she knew -the meaning of those shivers which had chilled her, those vague, -terror-fraught regrets at having no other child! And that which had been -threatening her had come; irreparable destiny had willed it that her -only son, the salvation of the imperilled home, the prince of to-morrow, -who was to share his empire with her, should be swept away like a -withered leaf. It was utter downfall; she sank into an abyss. And she -remained tearless; fury dried her tears within her. Yet, good mother -that she had always been, she suffered all the torment of motherliness -exasperated, poisoned by the loss of her child. - -She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profile -of her dead son resting among the flowers. And still she did not weep. -She slowly gazed over the bed, filled her eyes with the dolorous scene, -then carried them again to the paper, as if to see what would be left -her of that adored son--those few pencil strokes--when the earth should -have taken him forever. Charlotte, divining that somebody was behind -her, started and raised her head. She did not speak; she had felt -frightened. But both women exchanged a glance. And what a heart pang -came to Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of the -void, the nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other’s face, -all love and health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whence -promise of the future radiated through the fine gold of wavy hair. - -But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment: words which were -being whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber, -reached her distinctly. She did not move, but remained erect behind -Charlotte, who had resumed her work. And eagerly lending ear, she -listened, not showing herself as yet, although she had already seen -Marianne and Madame Angelin seated near the doorway, almost among the -folds of the hangings. - -“Ah!” Madame Angelin was saying, “the poor mother had a presentiment of -it, as it were. I saw that she felt very anxious when I told her my own -sad story. There is no hope for me; and now death has passed by, and no -hope remains for her.” - -Silence ensued once more; then, prompted by some connecting train of -thought, she went on: “And your next child will be your eleventh, will -it not? Eleven is not a number; you will surely end by having twelve!” - -As Constance heard those words she shuddered in another fit of that fury -which dried up her tears. By glancing sideways she could see that mother -of ten children, who was now expecting yet an eleventh child. She found -her still young, still fresh, overflowing with joy and health and hope. -And she was there, like the goddess of fruitfulness, nigh to the funeral -bier at that hour of the supreme rending, when she, Constance, was bowed -down by the irretrievable loss of her only child. - -But Marianne was answering Madame Angelin: “Oh I don’t think that at all -likely. Why, I’m becoming an old woman. You forget that I am already a -grandmother. Here, look at that!” - -So saying, she waved her hand towards the servant of her -daughter-in-law, Charlotte, who, in accordance with the instructions -she had received, was now bringing the little Berthe in order that -her mother might give her the breast. The servant had remained at -the drawing-room door, hesitating, disliking to intrude on all that -mourning; but the child good-humoredly waved her fat little fists, -and laughed lightly. And Charlotte, hearing her, immediately rose and -tripped across the salon to take the little one into a neighboring room. - -“What a pretty child!” murmured Madame Angelin. “Those little ones are -like nosegays; they bring brightness and freshness wherever they come.” - -Constance for her part had been dazzled. All at once, amid the -semi-obscurity, starred by the flames of the tapers, amid the deathly -atmosphere, which the odor of the roses rendered the more oppressive, -that laughing child had set a semblance of budding springtime, the -fresh, bright atmosphere of a long promise of life. And it typified -the victory of fruitfulness; it was the child’s child, it was Marianne -reviving in her son’s daughter. A grandmother already, and she was -only forty-one years old! Marianne had smiled at that thought. But the -hatchet-stroke rang out yet more frightfully in Constance’s heart. In -her case the tree was cut down to its very root, the sole scion had been -lopped off, and none would ever sprout again. - -For yet another moment she remained alone amid that nothingness, in that -room where lay her son’s remains. Then she made up her mind and passed -into the drawing-room, with the air of a frozen spectre. They all rose, -kissed her, and shivered as their lips touched her cold cheeks, which -her blood was unable to warm. Profound compassion wrung them, so -frightful was her calmness. And they sought kind words to say to her, -but she curtly stopped them. - -“It is all over,” said she; “there is nothing to be said. Everything is -ended, quite ended.” - -Madame Angelin sobbed, Angelin himself wiped his poor fixed, blurred -eyes. Marianne and Mathieu shed tears while retaining Constance’s hands -in theirs. And she, rigid and still unable to weep, refused consolation, -repeating in monotonous accents: “It is finished; nothing can give him -back to me. Is it not so? And thus there remains nothing; all is ended, -quite ended.” - -She needed to be brave, for visitors would soon be arriving in a stream. -But a last stab in the heart was reserved for her. Beauchene, who -since her arrival had begun to cry again, could no longer see to write. -Moreover, his hand trembled, and he had to leave the writing-table and -fling himself into an armchair, saying to Blaise: “There sit down there, -and continue to write for me.” - -Then Constance saw Blaise seat himself at her son’s writing-table, in -his place, dip his pen in the inkstand and begin to write with the very -same gesture that she had so often seen Maurice make. That Blaise, -that son of the Froments! What! her dear boy was not yet buried, and -a Froment already replaced him, even as vivacious, fast-growing plants -overrun neighboring barren fields. That stream of life flowing around -her, intent on universal conquest, seemed yet more threatening; -grandmothers still bore children, daughters suckled already, sons laid -hands upon vacant kingdoms. And she remained alone; she had but her -unworthy, broken-down, worn-out husband beside her; while Morange, the -maniac, incessantly walking to and fro, was like the symbolical spectre -of human distress, one whose heart and strength and reason had been -carried away in the frightful death of his only daughter. And not a -sound came from the cold and empty works; the works themselves were -dead. - -The funeral ceremony two days later was an imposing one. The five -hundred workmen of the establishment followed the hearse, notabilities -of all sorts made up an immense cortege. It was much noticed that an old -workman, father Moineaud, the oldest hand of the works, was one of the -pall-bearers. Indeed, people thought it touching, although the worthy -old man dragged his legs somewhat, and looked quite out of his element -in a frock coat, stiffened as he was by thirty years’ hard toil. In the -cemetery, near the grave, Mathieu felt surprised on being approached by -an old lady who alighted from one of the mourning-coaches. - -“I see, my friend,” said she, “that you do not recognize me.” - -He made a gesture of apology. It was Seraphine, still tall and slim, but -so fleshless, so withered that one might have thought she was a hundred -years old. Cecile had warned Mathieu of it, yet if he had not seen her -himself he would never have believed that her proud insolent beauty, -which had seemed to defy time and excesses, could have faded so swiftly. -What frightful, withering blast could have swept over her? - -“Ah! my friend,” she continued, “I am more dead than the poor fellow -whom they are about to lower into that grave. Come and have a chat with -me some day. You are the only person to whom I can tell everything.” - -The coffin was lowered, the ropes gave out a creaking sound, and there -came a little thud--the last. Beauchene, supported by a relative, looked -on with dim, vacant eyes. Constance, who had had the bitter courage to -come, and had now wept all the tears in her body, almost fainted. She -was carried away, driven back to her home, which would now forever be -empty, like one of those stricken fields that remain barren, fated to -perpetual sterility. Mother earth had taken back her all. - -And at Chantebled Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, increased, and -multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal battle which -life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase, both of -offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, -their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame, desire -divine and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, -and health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that -quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that is requisite, the labor -that has made and that regulates the world. - -Still, during those two years it was not without constant battling that -victory remained to them. At last it was complete. Piece by piece Seguin -had sold the entire estate, of which Mathieu was now king, thanks to his -prudent system of conquest, that of increasing his empire by degrees -as he gradually felt himself stronger. The fortune which the idler had -disdained and dissipated had passed into the hands of the toiler, the -creator. There were 1250 acres, spreading from horizon to horizon; -there were woods intersected by broad meadows, where flocks and herds -pastured; there was fat land overflowing with harvests, in the place -of marshes that had been drained; there was other land, each year of -increasing fertility, in the place of the moors which the captured -springs now irrigated. The Lepailleurs’ uncultivated enclosure alone -remained, as if to bear witness to the prodigy, the great human effort -which had quickened that desert of sand and mud, whose crops would -henceforth nourish so many happy people. Mathieu devoured no other -man’s share; he had brought his share into being, increasing the common -wealth, subjugating yet another small portion of this vast world, which -is still so scantily peopled and so badly utilized for human happiness. -The farm, the homestead, had sprung up and grown in the centre of the -estate like a prosperous township, with inhabitants, servants, and live -stock, a perfect focus of ardent triumphal life. And what sovereign -power was that of the happy fruitfulness which had never wearied of -creating, which had yielded all these beings and things that had been -increasing and multiplying for twelve years past, that invading town -which was but a family’s expansion, those trees, those plants, those -grain crops, those fruits whose nourishing stream ever rose under the -dazzling sun! All pain and all tears were forgotten in that joy of -creation, the accomplishment of due labor, the conquest of the future -conducting to the infinite of Action. - -Then, while Mathieu completed his work of conquest, Marianne during -those two years had the happiness of seeing a daughter born to her son -Blaise, even while she herself was expecting another child. The branches -of the huge tree had begun to fork, pending the time when they would -ramify endlessly, like the branches of some great royal oak spreading -afar over the soil. There would be her children’s children, her -grandchildren’s children, the whole posterity increasing from generation -to generation. And yet how carefully and lovingly she still assembled -around her her own first brood, from Blaise and Denis the twins, now -one-and-twenty, to the last born, the wee creature who sucked in life -from her bosom with greedy lips. There were some of all ages in the -brood--a big fellow, who was already a father; others who went to -school; others who still had to be dressed in the morning; there were -boys, Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, and another; there were girls, Rose, -nearly old enough to marry; Claire, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, -the last of whom could scarcely toddle. And it was a sight to see them -roam over the estate like a troop of colts, following one another at -varied pace, according to their growth. She knew that she could not keep -them all tied to her apron-strings; it would be sufficient happiness if -the farm kept two or three beside her; she resigned herself to seeing -the younger ones go off some day to conquer other lands. Such was the -law of expansion; the earth was the heritage of the most numerous race. -Since they had number on their side, they would have strength also; the -world would belong to them. The parents themselves had felt stronger, -more united at the advent of each fresh child. If in spite of terrible -cares they had always conquered, it was because their love, their toil, -the ceaseless travail of their heart and will, gave them the victory. -Fruitfulness is the great conqueress; from her come the pacific heroes -who subjugate the world by peopling it. And this time especially, when -at the lapse of those two years Marianne gave birth to a boy, Nicolas, -her eleventh child, Mathieu embraced her passionately, triumphing over -every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child; yet more wealth and -power; yet an additional force born into the world; another field ready -for to-morrow’s harvest. - -And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - - - -XV - -AMID the deep mourning life slowly resumed its course at the Beauchene -works. One effect of the terrible blow which had fallen on Beauchene was -that for some weeks he remained quietly at home. Indeed, he seemed to -have profited by the terrible lesson, for he no longer coined lies, no -longer invented pressing business journeys as a pretext for dissipation. -He even set to work once more, and busied himself about the factory, -coming down every morning as in his younger days. And in Blaise he found -an active and devoted lieutenant, on whom he each day cast more and more -of the heavier work. Intimates were most struck, however, by the manner -in which Beauchene and his wife drew together again. Constance was most -attentive to her husband; Beauchene no longer left her, and they seemed -to agree well together, leading a very retired life in their quiet -house, where only relatives were now received. - -Constance, on the morrow of Maurice’s sudden death, was like one who -has just lost a limb. It seemed to her that she was no longer whole; she -felt ashamed of being, as it were, disfigured. Mingled, too, with her -loving sorrow for Maurice there was humiliation at the thought that she -was no longer a mother, that she no longer had any heir-apparent to her -kingdom beside her. To think that she had been so stubbornly determined -to have but one son, one child, in order that he might become the sole -master of the family fortune, the all-powerful monarch of the future. -Death had stolen him from her, and the establishment now seemed to be -less her own, particularly since that fellow Blaise and his wife and -his child, representing those fruitful and all-invading Froments, were -installed there. She could no longer console herself for having welcomed -and lodged them, and her one passionate, all-absorbing desire was to -have another son, and thereby reconquer her empire. - -This it was which led to her reconciliation with her husband, and for -six months they lived together on the best of terms. Then, however, came -another six months, and it was evident that they no longer agreed so -well together, for Beauchene took himself off at times under the pretext -of seeking fresh air, and Constance remained at home, feverish, her eyes -red with weeping. - -One day Mathieu, who had come to Grenelle to see his daughter-in-law, -Charlotte, was lingering in the garden playing with little Berthe, who -had climbed upon his knees, when he was surprised by the sudden approach -of Constance, who must have seen him from her windows. She invented a -pretext to draw him into the house, and kept him there nearly a quarter -of an hour before she could make up her mind to speak her thoughts. -Then, all at once, she began: “My dear Mathieu, you must forgive me for -mentioning a painful matter, but there are reasons why I should do so. -Nearly fifteen years ago, I know it for a fact, my husband had a child -by a girl who was employed at the works. And I also know that you acted -as his intermediary on that occasion, and made certain arrangements with -respect to that girl and her child--a boy, was it not?” - -She paused for a reply. But Mathieu, stupefied at finding her so well -informed, and at a loss to understand why she spoke to him of that sorry -affair after the lapse of so many years, could only make a gesture by -which he betrayed both his surprise and his anxiety. - -“Oh!” said she, “I do not address any reproach to you; I am convinced -that your motives were quite friendly, even affectionate, and that you -wished to hush up a scandal which might have been very unpleasant for -me. Moreover, I do not desire to indulge in recriminations after so long -a time. My desire is simply for information. For a long time I did not -care to investigate the statements whereby I was informed of the affair. -But the recollection of it comes back to me and haunts me persistently, -and it is natural that I should apply to you. I have never spoken a word -on the subject to my husband, and indeed it is best for our tranquillity -that I should not attempt to extort a detailed confession from him. One -circumstance which has induced me to speak to you is that on an occasion -when I accompanied Madame Angelin to a house in the Rue de Miromesnil, -I perceived you there with that girl, who had another child in her arms. -So you have not lost sight of her, and you must know what she is doing, -and whether her first child is alive, and in that case where he is, and -how he is situated.” - -Mathieu still refrained from replying, for Constance’s increasing -feverishness put him on his guard, and impelled him to seek the motive -of such a strange application on the part of one who was as a rule so -proud and so discreet. What could be happening? Why did she strive to -provoke confidential revelations which might have far-reaching effects? -Then, as she closely scanned him with her keen eyes, he sought to answer -her with kind, evasive words. - -“You greatly embarrass me. And, besides, I know nothing likely to -interest you. What good would it do yourself or your husband to stir -up all the dead past? Take my advice, forget what people may have told -you--you are so sensible and prudent--” - -But she interrupted him, caught hold of his hands, and held them in her -warm, quivering grasp. Never before had she so behaved, forgetting and -surrendering herself so passionately. “I repeat,” said she, “that nobody -has anything to fear from me--neither my husband, nor that girl, nor -the child. Cannot you understand me? I am simply tormented; I suffer at -knowing nothing. Yes, it seems to me that I shall feel more at ease when -I know the truth. It is for myself that I question you, for my own peace -of mind.... Ah! if I could only tell you, if I could tell you!” - -He began to divine many things; it was unnecessary for her to be more -explicit. He knew that during the past year she and her husband had been -hoping for the advent of a second child, and that none had come. As a -woman, Constance felt no jealousy of Norine, but as a mother she was -jealous of her son. She could not drive the thought of that child from -her mind; it ever and ever returned thither like a mocking insult now -that her hopes of replacing Maurice were fading fast. Day by day did -she dream more and more passionately of the other woman’s son, wondering -where he was, what had become of him, whether he were healthy, and -whether he resembled his father. - -“I assure you, my dear Mathieu,” she resumed, “that you will really -bring me relief by answering me. Is he alive? Tell me simply whether he -is alive. But do not tell me a lie. If he is dead I think that I shall -feel calmer. And yet, good heavens! I certainly wish him no evil.” - -Then Mathieu, who felt deeply touched, told her the simple truth. - -“Since you insist on it, for the benefit of your peace of mind, and -since it is to remain entirely between us and to have no effect on your -home, I see no reason why I should not confide to you what I know. But -that is very little. The child was left at the Foundling Hospital in -my presence. Since then the mother, having never asked for news, has -received none. I need not add that your husband is equally ignorant, -for he always refused to have anything to do with the child. Is the lad -still alive? Where is he? Those are things which I cannot tell you. A -long inquiry would be necessary. If, however, you wish for my opinion, -I think it probable that he is dead, for the mortality among these poor -cast-off children is very great.” - -Constance looked at him fixedly. “You are telling me the real truth? You -are hiding nothing?” she asked. And as he began to protest, she went on: -“Yes, yes, I have confidence in you. And so you believe that he is dead! -Ah! to think of all those children who die, when so many women would be -happy to save one, to have one for themselves. Well, if you haven’t been -able to tell me anything positive, you have at least done your best. -Thank you.” - -During the ensuing months Mathieu often found himself alone with -Constance, but she never reverted to the subject. She seemed to set -her energy on forgetting all about it, though he divined that it still -haunted her. Meantime things went from bad to worse in the Beauchene -household. The husband gradually went back to his former life of -debauchery, in spite of all the efforts of Constance to keep him near -her. She, for her part, clung to her fixed idea, and before long she -consulted Boutan. There was a terrible scene that day between husband -and wife in the doctor’s presence. Constance raked up the story of -Norine and cast it in Beauchene’s teeth, while he upbraided her in a -variety of ways. However, Boutan’s advice, though followed for a time, -proved unavailing, and she at last lost confidence in him. Then she -spent months and months in consulting one and another. She placed -herself in the hands of Madame Bourdieu, she even went to see La Rouche, -she applied to all sorts of charlatans, exasperated to fury at finding -that there was no real succor for her. She might long ago have had a -family had she so chosen. But she had elected otherwise, setting all her -egotism and pride on that only son whom death had snatched away; and now -the motherhood she longed for was denied her. - -For nearly two years did Constance battle, and at last in despair she -was seized with the idea of consulting Dr. Gaude. He told her the brutal -truth; it was useless for her to address herself to charlatans; she -would simply be robbed by them; there was absolutely no hope for her. -And Gaude uttered those decisive words in a light, jesting way, as -though surprised and amused by her profound grief. She almost fainted -on the stairs as she left his flat, and for a moment indeed death seemed -welcome. But by a great effort of will she recovered self-possession, -the courage to face the life of loneliness that now lay before her. -Moreover, another idea vaguely dawned upon her, and the first time she -found herself alone with Mathieu she again spoke to him of Norine’s boy. - -“Forgive me,” said she, “for reverting to a painful subject, but I am -suffering too much now that I know there is no hope for me. I am haunted -by the thought of that illegitimate child of my husband’s. Will you do -me a great service? Make the inquiry you once spoke to me about, try to -find out if he is alive or dead. I feel that when I know the facts peace -may perhaps return to me.” - -Mathieu was almost on the point of answering her that, even if this -child were found again, it could hardly cure her of her grief at having -no child of her own. He had divined her agony at seeing Blaise take -Maurice’s place at the works now that Beauchene had resumed his -dissolute life, and daily intrusted the young man with more and more -authority. Blaise’s home was prospering too; Charlotte had now given -birth to a second child, a boy, and thus fruitfulness was invading the -place and usurpation becoming more and more likely, since Constance -could never more have an heir to bar the road of conquest. Without -penetrating her singular feelings, Mathieu fancied that she perhaps -wished to sound him to ascertain if he were not behind Blaise, urging -on the work of spoliation. She possibly imagined that her request -would make him anxious, and that he would refuse to make the necessary -researches. At this idea he decided to do as she desired, if only to -show her that he was above all the base calculations of ambition. - -“I am at your disposal, cousin,” said he. “It is enough for me that this -inquiry may give you a little relief. But if the lad is alive, am I to -bring him to you?” - -“Oh! no, no, I do not ask that!” And then, gesticulating almost wildly, -she stammered: “I don’t know what I want, but I suffer so dreadfully -that I am scarce able to live!” - -In point of fact a tempest raged within her, but she really had no -settled plan. One could hardly say that she really thought of that -boy as a possible heir. In spite of her hatred of all conquerors from -without, was it likely that she would accept him as a conqueror, in -the face of her outraged womanly feelings and her bourgeois horror -of illegitimacy? And yet if he were not her son, he was at least her -husband’s. And perhaps an idea of saving her empire by placing the works -in the hands of that heir was dimly rising within her, above all her -prejudices and her rancor. But however that might be, her feelings for -the time remained confused, and the only clear thing was her desperate -torment at being now and forever childless, a torment which goaded her -on to seek another’s child with the wild idea of making that child in -some slight degree her own. - -Mathieu, however, asked her, “Am I to inform Beauchene of the steps I -take?” - -“Do you as you please,” she answered. “Still, that would be the best.” - -That same evening there came a complete rupture between herself and her -husband. She threw in Beauchene’s face all the contempt and loathing -that she had felt for him for years. Hopeless as she was, she revenged -herself by telling him everything that she had on her heart and -mind. And her slim dark figure, upborne by bitter rage, assumed such -redoubtable proportions in his eyes that he felt frightened by her and -fled. Henceforth they were husband and wife in name only. It was logic -on the march, it was the inevitable disorganization of a household -reaching its climax, it was rebellion against nature’s law and -indulgence in vice leading to the gradual decline of a man of -intelligence, it was a hard worker sinking into the sloth of so-called -pleasure; and then, death having snatched away the only son, the home -broke to pieces--the wife--fated to childlessness, and the husband -driven away by her, rolling through debauchery towards final ruin. - -But Mathieu, keeping his promise to Constance, discreetly began his -researches. And before he even consulted Beauchene it occurred to him to -apply at the Foundling Hospital. If, as he anticipated, the child were -dead, the affair would go no further. Fortunately enough he remembered -all the particulars: the two names, Alexandre-Honore, given to the -child, the exact date of the deposit at the hospital, indeed all the -little incidents of the day when he had driven thither with La Couteau. -And when he was received by the director of the establishment, and had -explained to him the real motives of his inquiries, at the same time -giving his name, he was surprised by the promptness and precision of -the answer: Alexandre-Honore, put out to nurse with the woman Loiseau -at Rougemont, had first kept cows, and had then tried the calling of a -locksmith; but for three months past he had been in apprenticeship with -a wheelwright, a certain Montoir, residing at Saint-Pierre, a hamlet in -the vicinity of Rougemont. Thus the lad lived; he was fifteen years old, -and that was all. Mathieu could obtain no further information respecting -either his physical health or his morality. - -When Mathieu found himself in the street again, slightly dazed, he -remembered that La Couteau had told him that the child would be sent -to Rougemont. He had always pictured it dying there, carried off by the -hurricane which killed so many babes, and lying in the silent village -cemetery paved with little Parisians. To find the boy alive, saved -from the massacre, came like a surprise of destiny, and brought vague -anguish, a fear of some terrible catastrophe to Mathieu’s heart. At the -same time, since the boy was living, and he now knew where to seek him, -he felt that he must warn Beauchene. The matter was becoming serious, -and it seemed to him that he ought not to carry the inquiry any further -without the father’s authorization. - -That same day, then, before returning to Chantebled, he repaired to -the factory, where he was lucky enough to find Beauchene, whom Blaise’s -absence on business had detained there by force. Thus he was in a very -bad humor, puffing and yawning and half asleep. It was nearly three -o’clock, and he declared that he could never digest his lunch properly -unless he went out afterwards. The truth was that since his rupture with -his wife he had been devoting his afternoons to paying attentions to a -girl serving at a beer-house. - -“Ah! my good fellow,” he muttered as he stretched himself. “My blood is -evidently thickening. I must bestir myself, or else I shall be in a bad -way.” - -However, he woke up when Mathieu had explained the motive of his visit. -At first he could scarcely understand it, for the affair seemed to him -so extraordinary, so idiotic. - -“Eh? What do you say? It was my wife who spoke to you about that child? -It is she who has taken it into her head to collect information and -start a search?” - -His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violent -that he could scarcely stutter. When he heard, however, of the mission -with which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded: “She -is mad! I tell you that she is raving mad! Were such fancies ever seen? -Every morning she invents something fresh to distract me!” - -Without heeding this interruption, Mathieu quietly finished his -narrative: “And so I have just come back from the Foundling Hospital, -where I learnt that the boy is alive. I have his address--and now what -am I to do?” - -This was the final blow. Beauchene clenched his fists and raised his -arms in exasperation. “Ah! well, here’s a nice state of things! But why -on earth does she want to trouble me about that boy? He isn’t hers! Why -can’t she leave us alone, the boy and me? It’s my affair. And I ask you -if it is at all proper for my wife to send you running about after him? -Besides, I hope that you are not going to bring him to her. What on -earth could we do with that little peasant, who may have every vice? -Just picture him coming between us. I tell you that she is mad, mad, -mad!” - -He had begun to walk angrily to and fro. All at once he stopped: “My -dear fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead.” - -But he turned pale and recoiled. Constance stood on the threshold -and had heard him. For some time past she had been in the habit of -stealthily prowling around the offices, like one on the watch for -something. For a moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which both -men displayed, she remained silent. Then, without even addressing her -husband, she asked: “He is alive, is he not?” - -Mathieu could but tell her the truth. He answered with a nod. Then -Beauchene, in despair, made a final effort: “Come, be reasonable, -my dear. As I was saying only just now, we don’t even know what this -youngster’s character is. You surely don’t want to upset our life for -the mere pleasure of doing so?” - -Standing there, lean and frigid, she gave him a harsh glance; then, -turning her back on him, she demanded the child’s name, and the names of -the wheelwright and the locality. “Good, you say Alexandre-Honore, with -Montoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados. -Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavor -to procure me some precise information about this boy’s habits and -disposition. Be prudent, too; don’t give anybody’s name. And thanks for -what you have done already; thanks for all you are doing for me.” - -Thereupon she took herself off without giving any further explanation, -without even telling her husband of the vague plans she was forming. -Beneath her crushing contempt he had grown calm again. Why should he -spoil his life of egotistical pleasure by resisting that mad creature? -All that he need do was to put on his hat and betake himself to his -usual diversions. And so he ended by shrugging his shoulders. - -“After all, let her pick him up if she chooses, it won’t be my doing. -Act as she asks you, my dear fellow; continue your researches and try to -content her. Perhaps she will then leave me in peace. But I’ve had quite -enough of it for to-day; good-by, I’m going out.” - -With the view of obtaining some information of Rougemont, Mathieu at -first thought of applying to La Couteau, if he could find her again; for -which purpose it occurred to him that he might call on Madame Bourdieu -in the Rue de Miromesnil. But another and more certain means suggested -itself. He had been led to renew his intercourse with the Seguins, of -whom he had for a time lost sight; and, much to his surprise, he had -found Valentine’s former maid, Celeste, in the Avenue d’Antin once more. -Through this woman, he thought, he might reach La Couteau direct. - -The renewal of the intercourse between the Froments and the Seguins was -due to a very happy chance. Mathieu’s son Ambroise, on leaving college, -had entered the employment of an uncle of Seguin’s, Thomas du Hordel, -one of the wealthiest commission merchants in Paris; and this old man, -who, despite his years, remained very sturdy, and still directed his -business with all the fire of youth, had conceived a growing fondness -for Ambroise, who had great mental endowments and a real genius for -commerce. Du Hordel’s own children had consisted of two daughters, one -of whom had died young, while the other had married a madman, who had -lodged a bullet in his head and had left her childless and crazy like -himself. This partially explained the deep grandfatherly interest which -Du Hordel took in young Ambroise, who was the handsomest of all the -Froments, with a clear complexion, large black eyes, brown hair that -curled naturally, and manners of much refinement and elegance. But -the old man was further captivated by the young fellow’s spirit of -enterprise, the four modern languages which he spoke so readily, and -the evident mastery which he would some day show in the management of -a business which extended over the five parts of the world. In his -childhood, among his brothers and sisters, Ambroise had always been the -boldest, most captivating and self-assertive. The others might be better -than he, but he reigned over them like a handsome, ambitious, greedy -boy, a future man of gayety and conquest. And this indeed he proved to -be; by the charm of his victorious intellect he conquered old Du Hordel -in a few months, even as later on he was destined to vanquish everybody -and everything much as he pleased. His strength lay in his power of -pleasing and his power of action, a blending of grace with the most -assiduous industry. - -About this time Seguin and his uncle, who had never set foot in the -house of the Avenue d’Antin since insanity had reigned there, drew -together again. Their apparent reconciliation was the outcome of a drama -shrouded in secrecy. Seguin, hard up and in debt, cast off by Nora, -who divined his approaching ruin, and preyed upon by other voracious -creatures, had ended by committing, on the turf, one of those indelicate -actions which honest people call thefts. Du Hordel, on being apprised of -the matter, had hastened forward and had paid what was due in order -to avoid a frightful scandal. And he was so upset by the extraordinary -muddle in which he found his nephew’s home, once all prosperity, that -remorse came upon him as if he were in some degree responsible for what -had happened, since he had egotistically kept away from his relatives -for his own peace’s sake. But he was more particularly won over by his -grandniece Andree, now a delicious young girl well-nigh eighteen years -of age, and therefore marriageable. She alone sufficed to attract him -to the house, and he was greatly distressed by the dangerous state of -abandonment in which he found her. - -Her father continued dragging out his worthless life away from home. Her -mother, Valentine, had just emerged from a frightful crisis, her final -rupture with Santerre, who had made up his mind to marry a very wealthy -old lady, which, after all, was the logical destiny of such a crafty -exploiter of women, one who behind his affectation of cultured pessimism -had the vilest and greediest of natures. Valentine, distracted by this -rupture, had now thrown herself into religion, and, like her husband, -disappeared from the house for whole days. She was said to be an -active helpmate of old Count de Navarede, the president of a society of -Catholic propaganda. Gaston, her son, having left Saint-Cyr three months -previously, was now at the Cavalry School of Saumur, so fired with -passion for a military career that he already spoke of remaining a -bachelor, since a soldier’s sword should be his only love, his only -spouse. Then Lucie, now nineteen years old, and full of mystical -exaltation, had already entered an Ursuline convent for her novitiate. -And in the big empty home, whence father, mother, brother and sister -fled, there remained but the gentle and adorable Andree, exposed to all -the blasts of insanity which even now swept through the household, -and so distressed by loneliness, that her uncle, Du Hordel, full of -compassionate affection, conceived the idea of giving her a husband in -the person of young Ambroise, the future conqueror. - -This plan was helped on by the renewed presence of Celeste the maid. -Eight years had elapsed since Valentine had been obliged to dismiss this -woman for immorality; and during those eight years Celeste, weary of -service, had tried a number of equivocal callings of which she did not -speak. She had ended by turning up at Rougemont, her native place, in -bad health and such a state of wretchedness, that for the sake of a -living she went out as a charwoman there. Then she gradually recovered -her health, and accumulated a little stock of clothes, thanks to the -protection of the village priest, whom she won over by an affectation -of extreme piety. It was at Rougemont, no doubt, that she planned her -return to the Seguins, of whose vicissitudes she was informed by La -Couteau, the latter having kept up her intercourse with Madame Menoux, -the little haberdasher of the neighborhood. - -Valentine, shortly after her rupture with Santerre, one day of furious -despair, when she had again dismissed all her servants, was surprised by -the arrival of Celeste, who showed herself so repentant, so devoted, and -so serious-minded, that her former mistress felt touched. She made her -weep on reminding her of her faults, and asking her to swear before God -that she would never repeat them; for Celeste now went to confession and -partook of the holy communion, and carried with her a certificate from -the Cure of Rougemont vouching for her deep piety and high morality. -This certificate acted decisively on Valentine, who, unwilling to remain -at home, and weary of the troubles of housekeeping, understood what -precious help she might derive from this woman. On her side Celeste -certainly relied upon power being surrendered to her. Two months later, -by favoring Lucie’s excessive partiality to religious practices, she had -helped her into a convent. Gaston showed himself only when he secured a -few days’ leave. And so Andree alone remained at home, impeding by her -presence the great general pillage that Celeste dreamt of. The maid -therefore became a most active worker on behalf of her young mistress’s -marriage. - -Andree, it should be said, was comprised in Ambroise’s universal -conquest. She had met him at her uncle Du Hordel’s house for a year -before it occurred to the latter to marry them. She was a very gentle -girl, a little golden-haired sheep, as her mother sometimes said. And -that handsome, smiling young man, who evinced so much kindness towards -her, became the subject of her thoughts and hopes whenever she suffered -from loneliness and abandonment. Thus, when her uncle prudently -questioned her, she flung herself into his arms, weeping big tears -of gratitude and confession. Valentine, on being approached, at first -manifested some surprise. What, a son of the Froments! Those Froments -had already taken Chantebled from them, and did they now want to -take one of their daughters? Then, amid the collapse of fortune and -household, she could find no reasonable objection to urge. She had never -been attached to Andree. She accused La Catiche, the nurse, of having -made the child her own. That gentle, docile, emotional little sheep was -not a Seguin, she often remarked. Then, while feigning to defend the -girl, Celeste embittered her mother against her, and inspired her with -a desire to see the marriage promptly concluded, in order that she might -free herself from her last cares and live as she wished. Thus, after a -long chat with Mathieu, who promised his consent, it remained only for -Du Hordel to assure himself of Seguin’s approval before an application -in due form was made. It was difficult, however, to find Seguin in a -suitable frame of mind. So weeks were lost, and it became necessary to -pacify Ambroise, who was very much in love, and was doubtless warned by -his all-invading genius that this loving and simple girl would bring him -a kingdom in her apron. - -One day when Mathieu was passing along the Avenue d’Antin, it occurred -to him to call at the house to ascertain if Seguin had re-appeared -there, for he had suddenly taken himself off without warning, and had -gone, so it was believed, to Italy. Then, as Mathieu found himself alone -with Celeste, the opportunity seemed to him an excellent one to discover -La Couteau’s whereabouts. He asked for news of her, saying that a friend -of his was in need of a good nurse. - -“Well, monsieur, you are in luck’s way,” the maid replied; “La Couteau -is to bring a child home to our neighbor, Madame Menoux, this very day. -It is nearly four o’clock now, and that is the time when she promised to -come. You know Madame Menoux’s place, do you not? It is the third shop -in the first street on the left.” Then she apologized for being unable -to conduct him thither: “I am alone,” she said; “we still have no news -of the master. On Wednesdays Madame presides at the meeting of her -society, and Mademoiselle Andree has just gone out walking with her -uncle.” - -Mathieu hastily repaired to Madame Menoux’s shop. From a distance he saw -her standing on the threshold; age had made her thinner than ever; at -forty she was as slim as a young girl, with a long and pointed face. -Silent labor consumed her; for twenty years she had been desperately -selling bits of cotton and packages of needles without ever making a -fortune, but pleased, nevertheless, at being able to add her modest -gains to her husband’s monthly salary in order to provide him with -sundry little comforts. His rheumatism would no doubt soon compel him to -relinquish his post as a museum attendant, and how would they be able to -manage with his pension of a few hundred francs per annum if she did not -keep up her business? Moreover, they had met with no luck. Their first -child had died, and some years had elapsed before the birth of a second -boy, whom they had greeted with delight, no doubt, though he would prove -a heavy burden to them, especially as they had now decided to take him -back from the country. Thus Mathieu found the worthy woman in a state of -great emotion, waiting for the child on the threshold of her shop, and -watching the corner of the avenue. - -“Oh! it was Celeste who sent you, monsieur! No, La Couteau hasn’t come -yet. I’m quite astonished at it; I expect her every moment. Will you -kindly step inside, monsieur, and sit down?” - -He refused the only chair which blocked up the narrow passage where -scarcely three customers could have stood in a row. Behind a glass -partition one perceived the dim back shop, which served as kitchen and -dining-room and bedchamber, and which received only a little air from a -damp inner yard which suggested a sewer shaft. - -“As you see, monsieur, we have scarcely any room,” continued Madame -Menoux; “but then we pay only eight hundred francs rent, and where else -could we find a shop at that price? And besides, I have been here for -nearly twenty years, and have worked up a little regular custom in the -neighborhood. Oh! I don’t complain of the place myself, I’m not big, -there is always sufficient room for me. And as my husband comes home -only in the evening, and then sits down in his armchair to smoke his -pipe, he isn’t so much inconvenienced. I do all I can for him, and he is -reasonable enough not to ask me to do more. But with a child I fear that -it will be impossible to get on here.” - -The recollection of her first boy, her little Pierre, returned to her, -and her eyes filled with tears. “Ah! monsieur, that was ten years ago, -and I can still see La Couteau bringing him back to me, just as she’ll -be bringing the other by and by. I was told so many tales; there was -such good air at Rougemont, and the children led such healthy lives, and -my boy had such rosy cheeks, that I ended by leaving him there till he -was five years old, regretting that I had no room for him here. And no, -you can’t have an idea of all the presents that the nurse wheedled out -of me, of all the money that I paid! It was ruination! And then, all at -once, I had just time to send for the boy, and he was brought back to me -as thin and pale and weak, as if he had never tasted good bread in his -life. Two months later he died in my arms. His father fell ill over it, -and if we hadn’t been attached to one another, I think we should both -have gone and drowned ourselves.” - -Scarce wiping her eyes she feverishly returned to the threshold, and -again cast a passionate expectant glance towards the avenue. And when -she came back, having seen nothing, she resumed: “So you will understand -our emotion when, two years ago, though I was thirty-seven, I again had -a little boy. We were wild with delight, like a young married couple. -But what a lot of trouble and worry! We had to put the little fellow out -to nurse as we let the other one, since we could not possibly keep him -here. And even after swearing that he should not go to Rougemont we -ended by saying that we at least knew the place, and that he would not -be worse off there than elsewhere. Only we sent him to La Vimeux, for we -wouldn’t hear any more of La Loiseau since she sent Pierre back in such -a fearful state. And this time, as the little fellow is now two years -old, I was determined to have him home again, though I don’t even know -where I shall put him. I’ve been waiting for an hour now, and I can’t -help trembling, for I always fear some catastrophe.” - -She could not remain in the shop, but remained standing by the doorway, -with her neck outstretched and her eyes fixed on the street corner. All -at once a deep cry came from her: “Ah! here they are!” - -Leisurely, and with a sour, harassed air, La Couteau came in and placed -the sleeping child in Madame Menoux’s arms, saying as she did so: “Well, -your George is a tidy weight, I can tell you. You won’t say that I’ve -brought you this one back like a skeleton.” - -Quivering, her legs sinking beneath her for very joy, the mother had -been obliged to sit down, keeping her child on her knees, kissing him, -examining him, all haste to see if he were in good health and likely to -live. He had a fat and rather pale face, and seemed big, though puffy. -When she had unfastened his wraps, her hands trembling the while with -nervousness, she found that he was pot-bellied, with small legs and -arms. - -“He is very big about the body,” she murmured, ceasing to smile, and -turning gloomy with renewed fears. - -“Ah, yes! complain away!” said La Couteau. “The other was too thin; this -one will be too fat. Mothers are never satisfied!” - -At the first glance Mathieu had detected that the child was one of those -who are fed on pap, stuffed for economy’s sake with bread and water, -and fated to all the stomachic complaints of early childhood. And at -the sight of the poor little fellow, Rougemont, the frightful -slaughter-place, with its daily massacre of the innocents, arose in his -memory, such as it had been described to him in years long past. -There was La Loiseau, whose habits were so abominably filthy that her -nurslings rotted as on a manure heap; there was La Vimeux, who never -purchased a drop of milk, but picked up all the village crusts and made -bran porridge for her charges as if they had been pigs; there was La -Gavette too, who, being always in the fields, left her nurslings in -the charge of a paralytic old man, who sometimes let them fall into the -fire; and there was La Cauchois, who, having nobody to watch the babes, -contented herself with tying them in their cradles, leaving them in -the company of fowls which came in bands to peck at their eyes. And the -scythe of death swept by; there was wholesale assassination; doors were -left wide open before rows of cradles, in order to make room for fresh -bundles despatched from Paris. Yet all did not die; here, for instance, -was one brought home again. But even when they came back alive they -carried with them the germs of death, and another hecatomb ensued, -another sacrifice to the monstrous god of social egotism. - -“I’m tired out; I must sit down,” resumed La Couteau, seating herself -on the narrow bench behind the counter. “Ah! what a trade! And to -think that we are always received as if we were heartless criminals and -thieves!” - -She also had become withered, her sunburnt, tanned face suggesting more -than ever the beak of a bird of prey. But her eyes remained very keen, -sharpened as it were by ferocity. She no doubt failed to get rich fast -enough, for she continued wailing, complaining of her calling, of the -increasing avarice of parents, of the demands of the authorities, of the -warfare which was being declared against nurse-agents on all sides. Yes, -it was a lost calling, said she, and really God must have abandoned her -that she should still be compelled to carry it on at forty-five years -of age. “It will end by killing me,” she added; “I shall always get more -kicks than money at it. How unjust it is! Here have I brought you back -a superb child, and yet you look anything but pleased--it’s enough to -disgust one of doing one’s best!” - -In thus complaining her object perhaps was to extract from the -haberdasher as large a present as possible. Madame Menoux was certainly -disturbed by it all. Her boy woke up and began to wail loudly, and it -became necessary to give him a little lukewarm milk. At last, when the -accounts were settled, the nurse-agent, seeing that she would have ten -francs for herself, grew calmer. She was about to take her leave when -Madame Menoux, pointing to Mathieu, exclaimed: “This gentleman wished to -speak to you on business.” - -Although La Couteau had not seen the gentleman for several years past, -she had recognized him perfectly well. Still she had not even turned -towards him, for she knew him to be mixed up in so many matters that his -discretion was a certainty. And so she contented herself with saying: -“If monsieur will kindly explain to me what it is I shall be quite at -his service.” - -“I will accompany you,” replied Mathieu; “we can speak together as we -walk along.” - -“Very good, that will suit me well, for I am rather in a hurry.” - -Once outside, Mathieu resolved that he would try no ruses with her. The -best course was to tell her plainly what he wanted, and then to buy -her silence. At the first words he spoke she understood him. She well -remembered Norine’s child, although in her time she had carried dozens -of children to the Foundling Hospital. The particular circumstances of -that case, however, the conversation which had taken place, her -drive with Mathieu in a cab, had all remained engraved on her memory. -Moreover, she had found that child again, at Rougemont, five days later; -and she even remembered that her friend the hospital-attendant had -left it with La Loiseau. But she had occupied herself no more about it -afterwards; and she believed that it was now dead, like so many others. -When she heard Mathieu speak of the hamlet of Saint-Pierre, of Montoir -the wheelwright, and of Alexandre-Honore, now fifteen, who must be in -apprenticeship there, she evinced great surprise. - -“Oh, you must be mistaken, monsieur,” she said; “I know Montoir at -Saint-Pierre very well. And he certainly has a lad from the Foundling, -of the age you mention, at his place. But that lad came from La -Cauchois; he is a big carroty fellow named Richard, who arrived at our -village some days before the other. I know who his mother was; she -was an English woman called Amy, who stopped more than once at Madame -Bourdieu’s. That ginger-haired lad is certainly not your Norine’s boy. -Alexandre-Honore was dark.” - -“Well, then,” replied Mathieu, “there must be another apprentice at the -wheelwright’s. My information is precise, it was given me officially.” - -After a moment’s perplexity La Couteau made a gesture of ignorance, -and admitted that Mathieu might be right. “It’s possible,” said she; -“perhaps Montoir has two apprentices. He does a good business, and as -I haven’t been to Saint-Pierre for some months now I can say nothing -certain. Well, and what do you desire of me, monsieur?” - -He then gave her very clear instructions. She was to obtain the most -precise information possible about the lad’s health, disposition, and -conduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him, -whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth. Briefly, the -inquiry was to be complete. But, above all things, she was to carry it -on in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boy -himself nor the folks of the district. There must be absolute secrecy. - -“All that is easy,” replied La Couteau, “I understand perfectly, and you -can rely on me. I shall need a little time, however, and the best plan -will be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I next -come to Paris. And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, at -two o’clock, at Broquette’s office in the Rue Roquepine. I am quite at -home there, and the place is like a tomb.” - -Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchene works with his -son Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her and -questioned him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what steps -he had taken. When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau for -the Wednesday of the ensuing week, she said to him in her resolute way: -“Come and fetch me. I wish to question that woman myself. I want to be -quite certain on the matter.” - -In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette’s nurse-office in the -Rue Roquepine had remained the same as formerly, except that Madame -Broquette was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie. -The sudden loss of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed such -a decorative presence and so ably represented the high morality and -respectability of the establishment, had at first seemed a severe one. -But it so happened that Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creature -that she was, gorged with novel-reading, also proved in her way a -distinguished figurehead for the office. She was already thirty and was -still unmarried, feeling indeed nothing but loathing for all the mothers -laden with whining children by whom she was surrounded. Moreover, M. -Broquette, her father, though now more than five-and-seventy, secretly -remained the all-powerful, energetic director of the place, discharging -all needful police duties, drilling new nurses like recruits, remaining -ever on the watch and incessantly perambulating the three floors of his -suspicious, dingy lodging-house. - -La Couteau was waiting for Mathieu in the doorway. On perceiving -Constance, whom she did not know, for she had never previously met her, -she seemed surprised. Who could that lady be? what had she to do with -the affair? However, she promptly extinguished the bright gleam of -curiosity which for a moment lighted up her eyes; and as Herminie, with -distinguished nonchalance, was at that moment exhibiting a party of -nurses to two gentlemen in the office, she took her visitors into the -empty refectory, where the atmosphere was as usual tainted by a horrible -stench of cookery. - -“You must excuse me, monsieur and madame,” she exclaimed, “but there is -no other room free just now. The place is full.” - -Then she carried her keen glances from Mathieu to Constance, preferring -to wait until she was questioned, since another person was now in the -secret. - -“You can speak out,” said Mathieu. “Did you make the inquiries I spoke -to you about?” - -“Certainly, monsieur. They were made, and properly made, I think.” - -“Then tell us the result: I repeat that you can speak freely before this -lady.” - -“Oh! monsieur, it won’t take me long. You were quite right: there were -two apprentices at the wheelwright’s at Saint-Pierre, and one of them -was Alexandre-Honore, the pretty blonde’s child, the same that we took -together over yonder. He had been there, I found, barely two months, -after trying three or four other callings, and that explains my -ignorance of the circumstance. Only he’s a lad who can stay nowhere, and -so three weeks ago he took himself off.” - -Constance could not restrain an exclamation of anxiety: “What! took -himself off?” - -“Yes, madame, I mean that he ran away, and this time it is quite certain -that he has left the district, for he disappeared with three hundred -francs belonging to Montoir, his master.” - -La Couteau’s dry voice rang as if it were an axe dealing a deadly -blow. Although she could not understand the lady’s sudden pallor and -despairing emotion, she certainly seemed to derive cruel enjoyment from -it. - -“Are you quite sure of your information?” resumed Constance, struggling -against the facts. “That is perhaps mere village tittle-tattle.” - -“Tittle-tattle, madame? Oh! when I undertake to do anything I do -it properly. I spoke to the gendarmes. They have scoured the whole -district, and it is certain that Alexandre-Honore left no address behind -him when he went off with those three hundred francs. He is still on the -run. As for that I’ll stake my name on it.” - -This was indeed a hard blow for Constance. That lad, whom she fancied -she had found again, of whom she dreamt incessantly, and on whom she had -based so many unacknowledgable plans of vengeance, escaped her, vanished -once more into the unknown! She was distracted by it as by some -pitiless stroke of fate, some fresh and irreparable defeat. However, she -continued the interrogatory. - -“Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed to -question everybody.” - -“That is precisely what I did, madame. I saw the schoolmaster, and I -spoke to the other persons who had employed the lad. They all told me -that he was a good-for-nothing. The schoolmaster remembered that he had -been a liar and a bully. Now he’s a thief; that makes him perfect. I -can’t say otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plain -truth.” - -La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady’s -suffering increased. And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang at -each fresh accusation, as if her husband’s illegitimate child had become -in some degree her own! She ended indeed by silencing the nurse-agent. - -“Thank you. The boy is no longer at Rougemont, that is all we wished to -know.” - -La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, in -order to give him his money’s worth. - -“I also made the other apprentice talk a bit,” said she; “you know, that -big carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about. He’s another -whom I wouldn’t willingly trust. But it’s certain that he doesn’t know -where his companion has gone. The gendarmes think that Alexandre is in -Paris.” - -Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her a -bank-note for fifty francs--a gift which brought a smile to her face -and rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, “as discreetly -silent as the grave.” Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, -and Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another’s hands in the -kitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her native -dirt, Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to follow -her companion away. Once in the street, instead of entering the cab -which was waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau’s final -words. - -“Did you hear?” she exclaimed. “That wretched lad may be in Paris.” - -“That is probable enough; they all end by stranding here.” - -Constance again hesitated, reflected, and finally made up her mind to -say in a somewhat tremulous voice: “And the mother, my friend; you know -where she lives, don’t you? Did you not tell me that you had concerned -yourself about her?” - -“Yes, I did.” - -“Then listen--and above all, don’t be astonished; pity me, for I am -really suffering. An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems to -me that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother. Perhaps he -is with her, or she may at least know where he lodges. Oh! don’t tell me -that it is impossible. On the contrary, everything is possible.” - -Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmness -now giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he would -make inquiries. Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, but -continued gazing at the pavement. And when she once more raised her -eyes, she spoke to him entreatingly, in an embarrassed, humble manner: -“Do you know what we ought to do? Excuse me, but it is a service I shall -never forget. If I could only know the truth at once it might calm me a -little. Well, let us drive to that woman’s now. Oh! I won’t go up; you -can go alone, while I wait in the cab at the street corner. And perhaps -you will obtain some news.” - -It was an insane idea, and he was at first minded to prove this to her. -Then, on looking at her, she seemed to him so wretched, so painfully -tortured, that without a word, making indeed but a kindly gesture of -compassion, he consented. And the cab carried them away. - -The large room in which Norine and Cecile lived together was at -Grenelle, near the Champ de Mars, in a street at the end of the Rue de -la Federation. They had been there for nearly six years now, and in the -earlier days had experienced much worry and wretchedness. But the child -whom they had to feed and save had on his side saved them also. The -motherly feelings slumbering in Norine’s heart had awakened with -passionate intensity for that poor little one as soon as she had given -him the breast and learnt to watch over him and kiss him. And it was -also wondrous to see how that unfortunate creature Cecile regarded -the child as in some degree her own. He had indeed two mothers, whose -thoughts were for him alone. If Norine, during the first few months, had -often wearied of spending her days in pasting little boxes together, if -even thoughts of flight had at times come to her, she had always been -restrained by the puny arms that were clasped around her neck. And now -she had grown calm, sensible, diligent, and very expert at the light -work which Cecile had taught her. It was a sight to see them both, gay -and closely united in their little home, which was like a convent cell, -spending their days at their little table; while between them was their -child, their one source of life, of hard-working courage and happiness. - -Since they had been living thus they had made but one good friend, -and this was Madame Angelin. As a delegate of the Poor Relief Service, -intrusted with one of the Grenelle districts, Madame Angelin had found -Norine among the pensioners over whom she was appointed to watch. A -feeling of affection for the two mothers, as she called the sisters, had -sprung up within her, and she had succeeded in inducing the authorities -to prolong the child’s allowance of thirty francs a month for a period -of three years. Then she had obtained scholastic assistance for him, not -to mention frequent presents which she brought--clothes, linen, and -even money--for apart from official matters, charitable people often -intrusted her with fairly large sums, which she distributed among the -most meritorious of the poor mothers whom she visited. And even nowadays -she occasionally called on the sisters, well pleased to spend an hour -in that nook of quiet toil, which the laughter and the play of the child -enlivened. She there felt herself to be far away from the world, and -suffered less from her own misfortunes. And Norine kissed her hands, -declaring that without her the little household of the two mothers would -never have managed to exist. - -When Mathieu appeared there, cries of delight arose. He also was a -friend, a saviour--the one who, by first taking and furnishing the -large room, had founded the household. It was a very clean room, almost -coquettish with its white curtains, and rendered very cheerful by its -two large windows, which admitted the golden radiance of the afternoon -sun. Norine and Cecile were working at the table, cutting out cardboard -and pasting it together, while the little one, who had come home from -school, sat between them on a high chair, gravely handling a pair of -scissors and fully persuaded that he was helping them. - -“Oh! is it you? How kind of you to come to see us! Nobody has called -for five days past. Oh! we don’t complain of it. We are so happy alone -together! Since Irma married a clerk she has treated us with disdain. -Euphrasie can no longer come down her stairs. Victor and his wife live -so far away. And as for that rascal Alfred, he only comes up here to see -if he can find something to steal. Mamma called five days ago to tell us -that papa had narrowly escaped being killed at the works on the previous -day. Poor mamma! she is so worn out that before long she won’t be able -to take a step.” - -While the sisters thus rattled on both together, one beginning a -sentence and the other finishing it, Mathieu looked at Norine, -who, thanks to that peaceful and regular life, had regained in her -thirty-sixth year a freshness of complexion that suggested a superb, -mature fruit gilded by the sun. And even the slender Cecile had acquired -strength, the strength which love’s energy can impart even to a childish -form. - -All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: “Oh! he -has hurt himself, the poor little fellow.” And at once she snatched the -scissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood at -the tip of one of his fingers. - -“Oh! good Heavens,” murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, “I -feared that he had slit his hand.” - -For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose by -fulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to him -that it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the young -woman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of work -which she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, only -revealing the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a moment -when, after reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honore, it became -necessary for him to add that the boy was living. - -The mother looked at Mathieu in evident consternation. “He is living, -living! Why do you tell me that? I was so pleased at knowing nothing.” - -“No doubt; but it is best that you should know. I have even been assured -that he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have found -you, and have come to see you.” - -At this she lost all self-possession. “What! Have come to see me! Nobody -has been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don’t -want him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling on -me like that--a lad I don’t know and don’t care for! Oh! no, no; prevent -it, I beg of you; I couldn’t--I couldn’t bear it!” - -With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and had -caught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as if -to shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by his -resurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the younger -lad’s place. - -“No, no!” she cried. “I have but one child; there is only one I love; I -don’t want any other.” - -Cecile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister to -reason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turn -him out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for the -abandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. -It became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that he -regarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exact -truth, he spoke of the elder lad’s disappearance, adding, however, that -he must be ignorant even of his mother’s name. Thus, when he left the -sisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their little -boxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrusted -the scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men. - -Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, was -looking out of the cab window, watching the house-door. - -“Well?” she asked, quivering, as soon as Mathieu was near her. - -“Well, the mother knows nothing and has seen nobody. It was a foregone -conclusion.” - -She sank down as if from some supreme collapse, and her ashen face -became quite distorted. “You are right, it was certain,” said she; -“still one always hopes.” And with a gesture of despair she added: “It -is all ended now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead.” - -Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an address -in order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to have -lost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as she -asked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he replied -that he wished to call on the Seguins. The fear of finding herself alone -again so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave her -the idea of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for some -time past. - -“Get in,” she said to Mathieu; “we will go to the Avenue d’Antin -together.” - -The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they had -not a word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching their -destination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: “You must give my -husband the good news, and tell him that the boy has disappeared. Ah! -what a relief for him!” - -Mathieu, on calling in the Avenue d’Antin, had hoped to find the Seguins -assembled there. Seguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knew -whence, a week previously, when Andree’s hand had been formally asked -of him; and after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evinced -great willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediately -been fixed for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marry -off their daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might take -place at Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. This -being arranged, Ambroise was accepted as fiance, and to his great -delight was able to call at the Seguins’ every day, about five o’clock, -to pay his court according to established usage. It was on account of -this that Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home. - -When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her that -Madame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Seguin, the -man replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at home -with her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs. - -“What! are you left all alone?” exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving the -young couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room on -the first floor, which Seguin had once called his “cabinet.” - -“Why, yes, we are alone in the house,” Andree answered with a charming -laugh. “We are very pleased at it.” - -They looked adorable, thus seated side by side--she so gentle, of such -tender beauty--he with all the fascinating charm that was blended with -his strength. - -“Isn’t Celeste there at any rate?” again inquired Mathieu. - -“No, she has disappeared we don’t know where.” And again they laughed -like free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonely -forest. - -“Well, you cannot be very lively all alone like this.” - -“Oh! we don’t feel at all bored, we have so many things to talk about. -And then we look at one another. And there is never an end to it all.” - -Though her heart bled, Constance could not help admiring them. Ah, to -think of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home all -was blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destined -to increase forever! For this again was a conquest--those two children -left free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuous -mansion which to-morrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, -Constance turned towards Mathieu: “Are you not also marrying your eldest -daughter?” she asked. - -“Yes, Rose,” Mathieu gayly responded. “We shall have a grand fete at -Chantebled next May! You must all of you come there.” - -‘Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life proved -victorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Seguins, and now -their very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beauchene -works themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise. - -“We will go,” she answered, quivering. “And may your good luck -continue--that is what I wish you.” - - - - -XVI - -AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was to -prove, so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, -it had occurred to Mathieu’s daughter Rose to gather the whole family -together one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for the -ceremony. She and her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were to -repair to Janville station in the morning to meet the other affianced -pair, Ambroise and Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to the -farm where they would all lunch together. It would be a kind of wedding -rehearsal, she exclaimed with her hearty laugh; they would be able to -arrange the programme for the great day. And her idea enraptured her -to such a point, she seemed to anticipate so much delight from this -preliminary festival, that Mathieu and Marianne consented to it. - -Rose’s marriage was like the supreme blossoming of years of prosperity, -and brought a finishing touch to the happiness of the home. She was the -prettiest of Mathieu’s daughters, with dark brown hair, round gilded -cheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable of -dispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeed -to be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busy -life. But beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing from -morning till night there was much common sense and energy of affection, -as her choice of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu had -engaged the services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmer -of the neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionate -interest in the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working there -with rare activity and intelligence. He had no means of his own at all. -Rose, who had grown up near him, knew however that he was her father’s -preferred assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expiration -of his military service she, divining that he loved her, forced him -to acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished to -remain near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all her -happiness. Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeply -touched, they signified their approval of a choice in which affection -for themselves had so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawn -yet closer, and increase of joy came to the home. - -So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointed -Sunday Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, -Madame Seguin, to Janville by the ten o’clock train. A couple of hours -previously Rose had already begun a battle with the object of prevailing -upon the whole family to repair to the railway station to meet the -affianced pair. - -“But come, my children, it is unreasonable,” Marianne gently exclaimed. -“It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolas -here, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouring -the roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take all -the others if you like, and your father shall lead the way.” - -Rose, however, still merrily laughing, clung to her plan. “No, no, -mamma, you must come as well; everybody must come; it was promised. -Ambroise and Andree, you see, are like a royal couple from a neighboring -kingdom. My brother Ambroise, having won the hand of a foreign princess, -is going to present her to us. And so, to do them the honors of our own -empire, we, Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the whole -Court. You form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah what -a fine sight it will be when we spread out through the country on our -way home again!” - -Marianne, amused by her daughter’s overflowing gayety, ended by laughing -and giving way. - -“This will be the order of the march,” resumed Rose. “Oh! I’ve planned -everything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go on -our bicycles--that is the most modern style. We will also take my maids -of honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, eleven, -nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very well -behind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, and -will do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort. All the -rest of the Court will have to pack itself into the chariot--I mean -the big family wagon, in which there is room for eight. You, as Queen -Mother, may keep your last little prince, Nicolas, on your knees. -Papa will only have to carry himself proudly, as befits the head of a -dynasty. And my brother Gervais, that young Hercules of seventeen, shall -drive, with Claire, who at fifteen is so remarkable for common sense, -beside him on the box-seat. As for the illustrious twins, those high and -mighty lords, Denis and Blaise, we will call for them at Janville, since -they are waiting for us there, at Madame Desvignes’.” - -Thus did Rose rattle on, exulting over the scheme she had devised. -She danced, sang, clapped her hands, and finally exclaimed: “Ah! for a -pretty cortege this will be fine indeed.” - -She was animated by such joyous haste that she made the party start much -sooner than was necessary, and they reached Janville at half-past nine. -It was true, however, that they had to call for the others there. The -house in which Madame Desvignes had taken refuge after her husband’s -death, and which she had now occupied for some twelve years, living -there in a very quiet retired way on the scanty income she had managed -to save, was the first in the village, on the high road. For a week past -her elder daughter Charlotte, Blaise’s wife, had come to stay there with -her children, Berthe and Christophe, who needed change of air; and -on the previous evening they had been joined by Blaise, who was well -pleased to spend Sunday with them. - -Madame Desvignes’ younger daughter, Marthe, was delighted whenever her -sister thus came to spend a few weeks in the old home, bringing her -little ones with her, and once more occupying the room which had -belonged to her in her girlish days. All the laughter and playfulness of -the past came back again, and the one dream of worthy Madame Desvignes, -amid her pride at being a grandmamma, was of completing her life-work, -hitherto so prudently carried on, by marrying off Marthe in her turn. As -a matter of fact it had seemed likely that there might be three instead -of two weddings at Chantebled that spring. Denis, who, since leaving a -scientific school had embarked in fresh technical studies, often slept -at the farm and nearly every Sunday he saw Marthe, who was of the same -age as Rose and her constant companion. The young girl, a pretty blonde -like her sister Charlotte, but of a less impulsive and more practical -nature, had indeed attracted Denis, and, dowerless though she was, he -had made up his mind to marry her, since he had discovered that she -possessed the sterling qualities that help one on to fortune. But in -their chats together both evinced good sense and serene confidence, -without sign of undue haste. Particularly was this the case with Denis, -who was very methodical in his ways and unwilling to place a woman’s -happiness in question until he could offer her an assured position. -Thus, of their own accord, they had postponed their marriage, quietly -and smilingly resisting the passionate assaults of Rose, whom the idea -of three weddings on the same day had greatly excited. At the same time, -Denis continued visiting Madame Desvignes, who, on her side, equally -prudent and confident, received him much as if he were her son. That -morning he had even quitted the farm at seven o’clock, saying that -he meant to surprise Blaise in bed; and thus he also was to be met at -Janville. - -As it happened, the fete of Janville fell on Sunday, the second in -May. Encompassing the square in front of the railway station were -roundabouts, booths, shooting galleries, and refreshment stalls. Stormy -showers during the night had cleansed the sky, which was of a pure blue, -with a flaming sun, whose heat in fact was excessive for the season. A -good many people were already assembled on the square--all the idlers -of the district, bands of children, and peasants of the surrounding -country, eager to see the sights; and into the midst of this crowd fell -the Froments--first the bicyclists, next the wagon, and then the others -who had been met at the entry of the village. - -“We are producing our little effect!” exclaimed Rose as she sprang from -her wheel. - -This was incontestable. During the earlier years the whole of Janville -had looked harshly on those Froments, those bourgeois who had come -nobody knew whence, and who, with overweening conceit, had talked of -making corn grow in land where there had been nothing but crops of -stones for centuries past. Then the miracle, Mathieu’s extraordinary -victory, had long hurt people’s vanity and thereby increased their -anger. But everything passes away; one cannot regard success with -rancor, and folks who grow rich always end by being in the right. Thus, -nowadays, Janville smiled complacently on that swarming family which had -grown up beside it, forgetting that in former times each fresh birth -at Chantebled had been regarded as quite scandalous by the gossips. -Besides, how could one resist such a happy display of strength and -power, such a merry invasion, when, as on that festive Sunday, the whole -family came up at a gallop, conquering the roads, the streets, and the -squares? What with the father and mother, the eleven children--six boys -and five girls--and two grandchildren already, there were fifteen of -them. The eldest boys, the twins, were now four-and twenty, and still -so much alike that people occasionally mistook one for the other as in -their cradle days, when Marianne had been obliged to open their eyes -to identify them, those of Blaise being gray, and those of Denis black. -Nicolas, the youngest boy, at the other end of the family scale, was as -yet but five years old; a delightful little urchin was he, a precocious -little man whose energy and courage were quite amusing. And between the -twins and that youngster came the eight other children: Ambroise, the -future husband, who was already on the road to every conquest; Rose, so -brimful of life; who likewise was on the eve of marrying; Gervais, with -his square brow and wrestler’s limbs, who would soon be fighting the -good fight of agriculture; Claire, who was silent and hardworking, and -lacked beauty, but possessed a strong heart and a housewife’s sensible -head. Next Gregoire, the undisciplined, self-willed schoolboy, who was -ever beating the hedges in search of adventures; and then the three last -girls: Louise, plump and good natured; Madeleine, delicate and of dreamy -mind; Marguerite, the least pretty but the most loving of the trio. And -when, behind their father and their mother, the eleven came along one -after the other, followed too by Berthe and Christophe, representing -yet another generation, it was a real procession that one saw, as, for -instance, on that fine Sunday on the Grand Place of Janville, already -crowded with holiday-making folks. And the effect was irresistible; -even those who were scarcely pleased with the prodigious success of -Chantebled felt enlivened and amused at seeing the Froments galloping -about and invading the place. So much health and mirth and strength -accompanied them, as if earth with her overflowing gifts of life had -thus profusely created them for to-morrow’s everlasting hopes. - -“Let those who think themselves more numerous come forward!” Rose -resumed gayly. “And then we will count one another.” - -“Come, be quiet!” said her mother, who, after alighting from the wagon, -had set Nicolas on the ground. “You will end by making people hoot us.” - -“Hoot us! Why, they admire us: just look at them! How funny it is, -mamma, that you are not prouder of yourself and of us!” - -“Why, I am so very proud that I fear to humiliate others.” - -They all began to laugh. And Mathieu, standing near Marianne, likewise -felt proud at finding himself, as he put it, among “the sacred -battalion” of his sons and daughters. To that battalion worthy Madame -Desvignes herself belonged, since her daughter Charlotte was adding -soldiers to it and helping it to become an army. Such as it was indeed, -this was only the beginning; later on the battalion would be seen -ever increasing and multiplying, becoming a swarming victorious race, -great-grandchildren following grandchildren, till there were fifty -of them, and a hundred, and two hundred, all tending to increase the -happiness and beauty of the world. And in the mingled amazement and -amusement of Janville gathered around that fruitful family there was -certainly some of the instinctive admiration which is felt for the -strength and the healthfulness which create great nations. - -“Besides, we have only friends now,” remarked Mathieu. “Everybody is -cordial with us!” - -“Oh, everybody!” muttered Rose. “Just look at the Lepailleurs yonder, in -front of that booth.” - -The Lepailleurs were indeed there--the father, the mother, Antonin, and -Therese. In order to avoid the Froments they were pretending to take -great interest in a booth, where a number of crudely-colored china -ornaments were displayed as prizes for the winners at a “lucky-wheel.” - They no longer even exchanged courtesies with the Chantebled folks; for -in their impotent rage at such ceaseless prosperity they had availed -themselves of a petty business dispute to break off all relations. -Lepailleur regarded the creation of Chantebled as a personal insult, -for he had not forgotten his jeers and challenges with respect to those -moorlands, from which, in his opinion, one would never reap anything -but stones. And thus, when he had well examined the china ornaments, it -occurred to him to be insolent, with which object he turned round and -stared at the Froments, who, as the train they were expecting would not -arrive for another quarter of an hour, were gayly promenading through -the fair. - -The miller’s bad temper had for the last two months been increased -by the return of his son Antonin to Janville under very deplorable -circumstances. This young fellow, who had set off one morning to conquer -Paris, sent there by his parents, who had a blind confidence in his fine -handwriting, had remained with Maitre Rousselet the attorney for four -years as a petty clerk, dull-witted and extremely idle. He had not made -the slightest progress in his profession, but had gradually sunk into -debauchery, cafe-life, drunkenness, gambling, and facile amours. To him -the conquest of Paris meant greedy indulgence in the coarsest pleasures -such as he had dreamt of in his village. It consumed all his money, all -the supplies which he extracted from his mother by continual promises -of victory, in which she implicitly believed, so great was her faith -in him. But he ended by grievously suffering in health, turned thin and -yellow, and actually began to lose his hair at three-and-twenty, so that -his mother, full of alarm, brought him home one day, declaring that he -worked too hard, and that she would not allow him to kill himself in -that fashion. It leaked out, however, later on, that Maitre Rousselet -had summarily dismissed him. Even before this was known his return home -did not fail to make his father growl. The miller partially guessed -the truth, and if he did not openly vent his anger, it was solely from -pride, in order that he might not have to confess his mistake with -respect to the brilliant career which he had predicted for Antonin. At -home, when the doors were closed, Lepailleur revenged himself on -his wife, picking the most frightful quarrels with her since he had -discovered her frequent remittances of money to their son. But she held -her own against him, for even as she had formerly admired him, so at -present she admired her boy. She sacrificed, as it were, the father to -the son, now that the latter’s greater learning brought her increased -surprise. And so the household was all disagreement as a result of -that foolish attempt, born of vanity, to make their heir a Monsieur, a -Parisian. Antonin for his part sneered and shrugged his shoulders at -it all, idling away his time pending the day when he might be able to -resume a life of profligacy. - -When the Froments passed by, it was a fine sight to see the Lepailleurs -standing there stiffly and devouring them with their eyes. The father -puckered his lips in an attempt to sneer, and the mother jerked her head -with an air of bravado. The son, standing there with his hands in his -pockets, presented a sorry sight with his bent back, his bald head, and -pale face. All three were seeking to devise something disagreeable when -an opportunity presented itself. - -“Why, where is Therese?” exclaimed La Lepailleur. “She was here just -now: what has become of her? I won’t have her leave me when there are -all these people about!” - -It was quite true, for the last moment Therese had disappeared. She was -now ten years old and very pretty, quite a plump little blonde, with -wild hair and black eyes which shone brightly. But she had a terribly -impulsive and wilful nature, and would run off and disappear for hours -at a time, beating the hedges and scouring the countryside in search of -birds’-nests and flowers and wild fruit. If her mother, however, made -such a display of alarm, darting hither and thither to find her, just -as the Froments passed by, it was because she had become aware of some -scandalous proceedings during the previous week. Therese’s ardent dream -was to possess a bicycle, and she desired one the more since her parents -stubbornly refused to content her, declaring in fact that those machines -might do for bourgeois but were certainly not fit for well-behaved -girls. Well, one afternoon, when she had gone as usual into the fields, -her mother, returning from market, had perceived her on a deserted strip -of road, in company with little Gregoire Froment, another young wanderer -whom she often met in this wise, in spots known only to themselves. The -two made a very suitable pair, and were ever larking and rambling along -the paths, under the leaves, beside the ditches. But the abominable -thing was that, on this occasion, Gregoire, having seated Therese on -his own bicycle, was supporting her at the waist and running alongside, -helping her to direct the machine. Briefly it was a real bicycle lesson -which the little rascal was giving, and which the little hussy took with -all the pleasure in the world. When Therese returned home that evening -she had her ears soundly boxed for her pains. - -“Where can that little gadabout have got to?” La Lepailleur continued -shouting. “One can no sooner take one’s eyes off her than she runs -away.” - -Antonin, however, having peeped behind the booth containing the china -ornaments, lurched back again, still with his hands in his pockets, and -said with his vicious sneer: “Just look there, you’ll see something.” - -And indeed, behind the booth, his mother again found Therese and -Gregoire together. The lad was holding his bicycle with one hand -and explaining some of the mechanism of it, while the girl, full of -admiration and covetousness, looked on with glowing eyes. Indeed she -could not resist her inclination, but laughingly let Gregoire raise her -in order to seat her for a moment on the saddle, when all at once her -mother’s terrible voice burst forth: “You wicked hussy! what are you up -to there again? Just come back at once, or I’ll settle your business for -you.” - -Then Mathieu also, catching sight of the scene, sternly summoned -Gregoire: “Please to place your wheel with the others. You know what I -have already said to you, so don’t begin again.” - -It was war. Lepailleur impudently growled ignoble threats, which -fortunately were lost amid the strains of a barrel organ. And the -two families separated, going off in different directions through the -growing holiday-making crowd. - -“Won’t that train ever come, then?” resumed Rose, who with joyous -impatience was at every moment turning to glance at the clock of the -little railway station on the other side of the square. “We have still -ten minutes to wait: whatever shall we do?” - -As it happened she had stopped in front of a hawker who stood on the -footway with a basketful of crawfish, crawling, pell-mell, at his feet. -They had certainly come from the sources of the Yeuse, three leagues -away. They were not large, but they were very tasty, for Rose herself -had occasionally caught some in the stream. And thus a greedy but also -playful fancy came to her. - -“Oh, mamma!” she cried, “let us buy the whole basketful. It will be -for the feast of welcome, you see; it will be our present to the royal -couple we are awaiting. People won’t say that Our Majesties neglect to -do things properly when they are expecting other Majesties. And I will -cook them when we get back, and you’ll see how well I shall succeed.” - -At this the others began to poke fun at her, but her parents ended by -doing as she asked, big child as she was, who in the fulness of her -happiness hardly knew what amusement to seek. However, as by way of -pastime she obstinately sought to count the crawfish, quite an affair -ensued: some of them pinched her, and she dropped them with a little -shriek; and, amid it all, the basket fell over and then the crawfish -hurriedly crawled away. The boys and girls darted in pursuit of them, -there was quite a hunt, in which even the serious members of the family -at last took part. And what with the laughter and eagerness of one and -all, the big as well as the little, the whole happy brood, the sight -was so droll and gay that the folks of Janville again drew near and -good-naturedly took their share of the amusement. - -All at once, however, arose a distant rumble of wheels and an engine -whistled. - -“Ah, good Heavens! here they are!” cried Rose, quite scared; “quick, -quick, or the reception will be missed.” - -A scramble ensued, the owner of the crawfish was paid, and there was -just time to shut the basket and carry it to the wagon. The whole family -was already running off, invading the little station, and ranging itself -in good order along the arrival platform. - -“No, no, not like that,” Rose repeated. “You don’t observe the right -order of precedence. The queen mother must be with the king her husband, -and then the princes according to their height. Frederic must place -himself on my right. And it’s for me, you know, to make the speech of -welcome.” - -The train stopped. When Ambroise and Andree alighted they were at first -much surprised to find that everybody had come to meet them, drawn up -in a row with solemn mien. When Rose, however began to deliver a pompous -little speech, treating her brother’s betrothed like some foreign -princess, whom she had orders to welcome in the name of the king, her -father, the young couple began to laugh, and even prolonged the joke by -responding in the same style. The railway men looked on and listened, -gaping. It was a fine farce, and the Froments were delighted at showing -themselves so playful on that warm May morning. - -But Marianne suddenly raised an exclamation of surprise: “What! has -not Madame Seguin come with you? She gave me so many promises that she -would.” - -In the rear of Ambroise and Andree Celeste the maid had alone alighted -from the train. And she undertook to explain things: “Madame charged -me,” said she, “to say that she was really most grieved. Yesterday she -still hoped that she would be able to keep her promise. Only in the -evening she received a visit from Monsieur de Navarede, who is presiding -to-day, Sunday, at a meeting of his Society, and of course Madame could -not do otherwise than attend it. So she requested me to accompany the -young people, and everything is satisfactory, for here they are, you -see.” - -As a matter of fact nobody regretted the absence of Valentine, who -always moped when she came into the country. And Mathieu expressed the -general opinion in a few words of polite regret: “Well, you must tell -her how much we shall miss her. And now let us be off.” - -Celeste, however, intervened once more. “Excuse me, monsieur, but I -cannot remain with you. No. Madame particularly told me to go back to -her at once, as she will need me to dress her. And, besides, she is -always bored when she is alone. There is a train for Paris at a quarter -past ten, is there not? I will go back by it. Then I will be here at -eight o’clock this evening to take Mademoiselle home. We settled all -that in looking through a time-table. Till this evening, monsieur.” - -“Till this evening, then, it’s understood.” - -Thereupon, leaving the maid in the deserted little station, all the -others returned to the village square, where the wagon and the bicycles -were waiting. - -“Now we are all assembled,” exclaimed Rose, “and the real fete is about -to begin. Let me organize the procession for our triumphal return to the -castle of our ancestors.” - -“I am very much afraid that your procession will be soaked,” said -Marianne. “Just look at the rain approaching!” - -During the last few moments there had appeared in the hitherto spotless -sky a huge, livid cloud, rising from the west and urged along by a -sudden squall. It presaged a return of the violent stormy showers of the -previous night. - -“Rain! Oh, we don’t care about that,” the girl responded with an air of -superb defiance. “It will never dare to come down before we get home.” - -Then, with a comical semblance of authority, she disposed her people in -the order which she had planned in her mind a week previously. And the -procession set off through the admiring village, amid the smiles of all -the good women hastening to their doorsteps, and then spread out along -the white road between the fertile fields, where bands of startled -larks took wing, carrying their clear song to the heavens. It was really -magnificent. - -At the head of the party were Rose and Frederic, side by side on their -bicycles, opening the nuptial march with majestic amplitude. Behind -them followed the three maids of honor, the younger sisters, Louise, -Madeleine, and Marguerite, the tallest first, the shortest last, and -each on a wheel proportioned to her growth. And with berets* on their -heads, and their hair down their backs, waving in the breeze, they -looked adorable, suggesting a flight of messenger swallows skimming over -the ground and bearing good tidings onward. As for Gregoire the page, -restive and always ready to bolt, he did not behave very well; for he -actually tried to pass the royal couple at the head of the procession, -a proceeding which brought him various severe admonitions until he fell -back, as duty demanded, to his deferential and modest post. On the other -hand, as the three maids of honor began to sing the ballad of -Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming, the royal couple -condescendingly declared that the song was appropriate and of pleasing -effect, whatever might be the requirements of etiquette. Indeed, Rose, -Frederic, and Gregoire also ended by singing the ballad, which rang out -amid the serene, far-spreading countryside like the finest music in the -world. - - * The beret is the Pyreneean tam-o’-shanter. - -Then, at a short distance in the rear, came the chariot, the good -old family wagon, which was now crowded. According to the prearranged -programme it was Gervais who held the ribbons, with Claire beside him. -The two strong horses trotted on in their usual leisurely fashion, in -spite of all the gay whip-cracking of their driver, who also wished -to contribute to the music. Inside there were now seven people for six -places, for if the three children were small, they were at the same time -so restless that they fully took up their share of room. First, face -to face, there were Ambroise and Andree, the betrothed couple who were -being honored by this glorious welcome. Then, also face to face, there -were the high and mighty rulers of the region, Mathieu and Marianne, the -latter of whom kept little Nicolas, the last prince of the line, on her -knees, he braying the while like a little donkey, because he felt so -pleased. Then the last places were occupied by the rulers’ granddaughter -and grandson, Mademoiselle Berthe and Monsieur Christophe, who were as -yet unable to walk long distances. And the chariot rolled on with much -majesty, albeit that for fear of the rain the curtains of stout white -linen had already been half-drawn, thus giving the vehicle, at a -distance, somewhat of the aspect of a miller’s van. - -Further back yet, as a sort of rear-guard, was a group on foot, composed -of Blaise, Denis, Madame Desvignes, and her daughters Charlotte and -Marthe. They had absolutely refused to take a fly, finding it more -pleasant to walk the mile and a half which separated Chantebled from -Janville. If the rain should fall, they would manage to find shelter -somewhere. Besides, Rose had declared that a suite on foot was -absolutely necessary to give the procession its full significance. Those -five last comers would represent the multitude, the great concourse of -people which follows sovereigns and acclaims them. Or else they might -be the necessary guard, the men-at-arms, who watched for the purpose of -foiling a possible attack from some felon neighbor. At the same time it -unfortunately happened that worthy Madame Desvignes could not walk very -fast, so that the rear-guard was soon distanced, to such a degree indeed -that it became merely a little lost group, far away. - -Still this did not disconcert Rose, but rather made her laugh the more. -At the first bend of the road she turned her head, and when she saw -her rear-guard more than three hundred yards away she raised cries of -admiration. “Oh! just look, Frederic! What an interminable procession! -What a deal of room we take up! The cortege is becoming longer and -longer, and the road won’t be long enough for it very soon.” - -Then, as the three maids of honor and the page began to jeer -impertinently, “just try to be respectful,” she said. “Count a little. -There are six of us forming the vanguard. In the chariot there are nine, -and six and nine make fifteen. Add to them the five of the rear-guard, -and we have twenty. Wherever else is such a family seen? Why, the -rabbits who watch us pass are mute with stupor and humiliation.” - -Then came another laugh, and once more they all took up the song of -Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming. - -It was at the bridge over the Yeuse that the first drops of rain, big -drops they were, began to fall. The big livid cloud, urged on by a -terrible wind, was galloping across the sky, filling it with the clamor -of a tempest. And almost immediately afterwards the rain-drops increased -in volume and in number, lashed by so violent a squall that the water -poured down as if by the bucketful, or as if some huge sluice-gate had -suddenly burst asunder overhead. One could no longer see twenty yards -before one. In two minutes the road was running with water like the bed -of a torrent. - -Then there was a _sauve-qui-peut_ among the procession. It was learnt -later on that the people of the rear-guard had luckily been surprised -near a peasant’s cottage, in which they had quietly sought refuge. Then -the folks in the wagon simply drew their curtains, and halted beneath -the shelter of a wayside tree for fear lest the horses should take -fright under such a downpour. They called to the bicyclists ahead of -them to stop also, instead of obstinately remaining in such a deluge. -But their words were lost amid the rush of water. However, the little -girls and the page took a proper course in crouching beside a thick -hedge, though the betrothed couple wildly continued on their way. - -Frederic, the more reasonable of the two, certainly had sense enough to -say: “This isn’t prudent on our part. Let us stop like the others, I beg -you.” - -But from Rose, all excitement, transported by her blissful fever, and -insensible, so it seemed, to the pelting of the rain, he only drew this -answer: “Pooh! what does it matter, now that we are soaking? It is by -stopping that we might do ourselves harm. Let us make haste, all haste. -In three minutes we shall be at home and able to make fine sport of -those laggards when they arrive in another quarter of an hour.” - -They had just crossed the Yeuse bridge, and they swept on side by side, -although the road was far from easy, being a continual ascent for a -thousand yards or so between rows of lofty poplars. - -“I assure you that we are doing wrong,” the young man repeated. “They -will blame me, and they will be right.” - -“Oh! well,” cried she, “I’m amusing myself. This bicycle bath is quite -funny. Leave me, then, if you don’t love me enough to follow me.” - -He followed her, however, pressed close beside her, and sought to -shelter her a little from the slanting rain. And it was a wild, mad race -on the part of that young couple, almost linked together, their elbows -touching as they sped on and on, as if lifted from the ground, carried -off by all that rushing, howling water which poured down so ragefully. -It was as though a thunder-blast bore them along. But at the very moment -when they sprang from their bicycles in the yard of the farm the rain -ceased, and the sky became blue once more. - -Rose was laughing like a lunatic, and looked very flushed, but she was -soaked to such a point that water streamed from her clothes, her hair, -her hands. You might have taken her for some fairy of the springs who -had overturned her urn on herself. - -“Well, the fete is complete,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “All the same, -we are the first home.” - -She then darted upstairs to comb her hair and change her gown. But to -gain just a few minutes, eager as she was to cook the crawfish, she did -not take the trouble to put on dry linen. She wished the pot to be on -the fire with the water, the white wine, the carrots and spices, before -the family arrived. And she came and went, attending to the fire and -filling the whole kitchen with her gay activity, like a good housewife -who was glad to display her accomplishments, while her betrothed, who -had also come downstairs again after changing his clothes, watched her -with a kind of religious admiration. - -At last, when the whole family had arrived, the folks of the brake and -the pedestrians also, there came a rather sharp explanation. Mathieu -and Marianne were angry, so greatly had they been alarmed by that rush -through the storm. - -“There was no sense in it, my girl,” Marianne repeated. “Did you at -least change your linen?” - -“Why yes, why yes!” replied Rose. “Where are the crawfish?” - -Mathieu meantime was lecturing Frederic. “You might have broken your -necks,” said he; “and, besides, it is by no means good to get soaked -with cold water when one is hot. You ought to have stopped her.” - -“Well, she insisted on going on, and whenever she insists on anything, -you know, I haven’t the strength to prevent her.” - -At last Rose, in her pretty way, put an end to the reproaches. “Come, -that’s enough scolding; I did wrong, no doubt. But won’t anybody -compliment me on my _court-bouillon_? Have you ever known crawfish to -smell as nice as that?” - -The lunch was wonderfully gay. As they were twenty, and wished to have -a real rehearsal of the wedding feast, the table had been set in a large -gallery adjoining the ordinary dining-room. This gallery was still -bare, but throughout the meal they talked incessantly of how they would -embellish it with shrubs, garlands of foliage, and clumps of flowers. -During the dessert they even sent for a ladder with the view of -indicating on the walls the main lines of the decorations. - -For a moment or so Rose, previously so talkative, had lapsed into -silence. She had eaten heartily, but all the color had left her face, -which had assumed a waxy pallor under her heavy hair, which was still -damp. And when she wished to ascend the ladder herself to indicate -how some ornament should be placed, her legs suddenly failed her, she -staggered, and then fainted away. - -Everybody was in consternation, but she was promptly placed in a chair, -where for a few minutes longer she remained unconscious. Then, on coming -to her senses, she remained for a moment silent, oppressed as by a -feeling of pain, and apparently failing to understand what had taken -place. Mathieu and Marianne, terribly upset, pressed her with questions, -anxious as they were to know if she felt better. She had evidently -caught cold, and this was the fine result of her foolish ride. - -By degrees the girl recovered her composure, and again smiled. She then -explained that she now felt no pain, but that it had suddenly seemed to -her as if a heavy paving-stone were lying on her chest; then this weight -had melted away, leaving her better able to breathe. And, indeed, she -was soon on her feet once more, and finished giving her views respecting -the decoration of the gallery, in such wise that the others ended by -feeling reassured, and the afternoon passed away joyously in the making -of all sorts of splendid plans. Little was eaten at dinner, for they -had done too much honor to the crawfish at noon. And at nine o’clock, as -soon as Celeste arrived for Andree, the gathering broke up. Ambroise was -returning to Paris that same evening. Blaise and Denis were to take the -seven o’clock train the following morning. And Rose, after accompanying -Madame Desvignes and her daughters to the road, called to them through -the darkness: “Au revoir, come back soon.” She was again full of gayety -at the thought of the general rendezvous which the family had arranged -for the approaching weddings. - -Neither Mathieu nor Marianne went to bed at once, however. Though they -did not even speak of it together, they thought that Rose looked very -strange, as if, indeed, she were intoxicated. She had again staggered -on returning to the house, and though she only complained of some slight -oppression, they prevailed on her to go to bed. After she had retired to -her room, which adjoined their own, Marianne went several times to see -if she were well wrapped up and were sleeping peacefully, while Mathieu -remained anxiously thoughtful beside the lamp. At last the girl fell -asleep, and the parents, leaving the door of communication open, then -exchanged a few words in an undertone, in their desire to tranquillize -each other. It would surely be nothing; a good night’s rest would -suffice to restore Rose to her wonted health. Then in their turn they -went to bed, the whole farm lapsed into silence, surrendering itself to -slumber until the first cockcrow. But all at once, about four o’clock, -shortly before daybreak, a stifled call, “Mamma! mamma!” awoke both -Mathieu and Marianne, and they sprang out of bed, barefooted, shivering, -and groping for the candle. Rose was again stifling, struggling against -another attack of extreme violence. For the second time, however, she -soon regained consciousness and appeared relieved, and thus the parents, -great as was their distress, preferred to summon nobody but to wait till -daylight. Their alarm was caused particularly by the great change -they noticed in their daughter’s appearance; her face was swollen and -distorted, as if some evil power had transformed her in the night. But -she fell asleep again, in a state of great prostration; and they no -longer stirred for fear of disturbing her slumber. They remained there -watching and waiting, listening to the revival of life in the farm -around them as the daylight gradually increased. Time went by; five and -then six o’clock struck. And at about twenty minutes to seven Mathieu, -on looking into the yard, and there catching sight of Denis, who was to -return to Paris by the seven o’clock train, hastened down to tell him -to call upon Boutan and beg the doctor to come at once. Then, as soon as -his son had started, he rejoined Marianne upstairs, still unwilling to -call or warn anybody. But a third attack followed, and this time it was -the thunderbolt. - -Rose had half risen in bed, her arms thrown out, her mouth distended as -she gasped “Mamma! mamma!” - -Then in a sudden fit of revolt, a last flash of life, she sprang from -her bed and stepped towards the window, whose panes were all aglow with -the rising sun. And for a moment she leant there, her legs bare, her -shoulders bare, and her heavy hair falling over her like a royal mantle. -Never had she looked more beautiful, more dazzling, full of strength and -love. - -But she murmured: “Oh! how I suffer! It is all over, I am going to die.” - -Her father darted towards her; her mother sustained her, throwing her -arms around her like invincible armor which would shield her from all -harm. - -“Don’t talk like that, you unhappy girl! It is nothing; it is only -another attack which will pass away. Get into bed again, for mercy’s -sake. Your old friend Boutan is on his way here. You will be up and well -again to-morrow.” - -“No, no, I am going to die; it is all over.” - -She fell back in their arms; they only had time to lay her on her bed. -And the thunderbolt fell: without a word, without a glance, in a few -minutes she died of congestion of the lungs. - -Ah! the imbecile thunderbolt! Ah! the scythe, which with a single stroke -blindly cuts down a whole springtide! It was all so brutally sudden, -so utterly unexpected, that at first the stupefaction of Marianne and -Mathieu was greater than their despair. In response to their cries the -whole farm hastened up, the fearful news filled the place, and then all -sank into the deep silence of death--all work, all life ceasing. And the -other children were there, scared and overcome: little Nicolas, who -did not yet understand things; Gregoire, the page of the previous day; -Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the three maids of honor, and their -elders, Claire and Gervais, who felt the blow more deeply. And there -were yet the others journeying away, Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise, -travelling to Paris at that very moment, in ignorance of the unforeseen, -frightful hatchet-stroke which had fallen on the family. Where would the -terrible tidings reach them? In what cruel distress would they return! -And the doctor who would soon arrive too! But all at once, amid the -terror and confusion, there rang out the cries of Frederic, the poor -dead girl’s affianced lover. He shrieked his despair aloud, he was half -mad, he wished to kill himself, saying that he was the murderer and that -he ought to have prevented Rose from so rashly riding home through -the storm! He had to be led away and watched for fear of some fresh -misfortune. His sudden frenzy had gone to every heart; sobs burst forth -and lamentations arose from the woful parents, from the brothers, the -sisters, from the whole of stricken Chantebled, which death thus visited -for the first time. - -Ah, God! Rose on that bed of mourning, white, cold, and dead! She, the -fairest, the gayest, the most loved! She, before whom all the others -were ever in admiration--she of whom they were so proud, so fond! And -to think that this blow should fall in the midst of hope, bright hope in -long life and sterling happiness, but ten days before her wedding, and -on the morrow of that day of wild gayety, all jests and laughter! -They could again see her, full of life and so adorable with her happy -youthful fancies--that princely reception and that royal procession. -It had seemed as if those two coming weddings, celebrated the same day, -would be like the supreme florescence of the family’s long happiness and -prosperity. Doubtless they had often experienced trouble and had even -wept at times, but they had drawn closer together and consoled -one another on such occasions; none had ever been cut off from the -good-night embraces which healed every sore. And now the best was gone, -death had come to say that absolute joy existed for none, that the most -valiant, the happiest; never reaped the fulness of their hopes. There -was no life without death. And they paid their share of the debt of -human wretchedness, paid it the more dearly since they had made for -themselves a larger sum of life. When everything germinates and grows -around one, when one has determined on unreserved fruitfulness; on -continuous creation and increase, how awful is the recall to the -ever-present dim abyss in which the world is fashioned, on the day when -misfortune falls, digs its first pit, and carries off a loved one! It -is like a sudden snapping, a rending of the hopes which seemed to be -endless, and a feeling of stupefaction comes at the discovery that one -cannot live and love forever! - -Ah! how terrible were the two days that followed: the farm itself -lifeless, without sound save that of the breathing of the cattle, the -whole family gathered together, overcome by the cruel spell of waiting, -ever in tears while the poor corpse remained there under a harvest of -flowers. And there was this cruel aggravation, that on the eve of the -funeral, when the body had been laid in the coffin, it was brought down -into that gallery where they had lunched so merrily while discussing how -magnificently they might decorate it for the two weddings. It was there -that the last funeral watch, the last wake, took place, and there were -no evergreen shrubs, no garlands of foliage, merely four tapers which -burnt there amid a wealth of white roses gathered in the morning, but -already fading. Neither the mother nor the father was willing to go -to bed that night. They remained, side by side, near the child whom -mother-earth was taking back from them. They could see her quite little -again, but sixteen months old, at the time of their first sojourn at -Chantebled in the old tumbledown shooting-box, when she had just been -weaned and they were wont to go and cover her up at nighttime. They saw -her also, later on, in Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbing -up and pulling their bed to pieces with triumphant laughter. And they -saw her yet more clearly, growing and becoming more beautiful even as -Chantebled did, as if, indeed, she herself bloomed with all the health -and beauty of that now fruitful land. Yet she was no more, and whenever -the thought returned to them that they would never see her again, their -hands sought one another, met in a woful clasp, while from their crushed -and mingling hearts it seemed as if all life, all future, were flowing -away to nihility. Now that a breach had been made, would not every other -happiness be carried off in turn? And though the ten other children -were there, from the little one five years old to the twins who were -four-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered in tears around their -sleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion rendering funeral -honors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted them: their -hearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, carrying -away with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare gallery -which the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose upon -that death watch, that last leave-taking. - -Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread out -along the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, that -road over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All the -relations of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had come -to pay a tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, this -time, the cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped with -white and blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The whole -family was present; the mother and the sisters had declared that they -would only quit their loved one when she had been lowered into her last -resting-place. And after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, -the Seguins, and others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcome -by suffering, no longer recognized people amid their tears. They only -remembered on the morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed it -were really Morange--that silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman, -who had wept while pressing their hands. And in like fashion Mathieu -fancied that, in some horrible dream, he had seen Constance’s spare -figure and bony profile drawing near to him in the cemetery after the -coffin had been lowered into the grave, and addressing vague words of -consolation to him, though he fancied that her eyes flashed the while as -if with abominable exultation. - -What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her words -must have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourning -relative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which she -had spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then in -bitter fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebled -might continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, -were now stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhaps -departed forever! Mathieu shuddered; his faith in the future was shaken; -he was haunted by a fear of seeing prosperity and fruitfulness vanish, -now that there was that open breach. - - - - -XVII - -A YEAR later the first child born to Ambroise and Andree, a boy, little -Leonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietly -six weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be the -first outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recovered -from the terrible shock of their eldest daughter’s death. Moreover, it -was arranged that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch at -the parents’ home, and that one and all should afterwards be free to -return to his or her avocations. It was impossible for the whole family -to come, and, indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, only -the twins, Denis and Blaise, and the latter’s wife Charlotte, were -expected, together with the godparents. Beauchene, the godfather, -had selected Madame Seguin as his _commere_, for, since the death of -Maurice, Constance shuddered at the bare thought of touching a child. -At the same time she had promised to be present at the lunch, and thus -there would be ten of them, sufficient to fill the little dining-room of -the modest flat in the Rue de La Boetie, where the young couple resided -pending fortune’s arrival. - -It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had been -unwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, -they ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of that -little grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early in -the winter a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had lost -his little Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attack -of croup. Charlotte, however, was already at that time again _enceinte_, -and thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraught -with emotion. - -The little flat in the Rue de La Boetie seemed very bright and fragrant; -it was perfumed by the fair grace of Andree and illumined by the -victorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm in -arm, had set out so bravely to conquer the world. During the lunch, too, -there was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchene, -who gave the greatest attention to his _commere_ Valentine, jesting -and paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her much -amusement, prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though she -was already forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone -remained grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint -smile, while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face every -time that she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, based -on the invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning. - -At about three o’clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow -Beauchene to take any more Chartreuse. - -“It’s true, he is right, my children,” Beauchene ended by exclaiming -in a docile way. “We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely -necessary that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you -of Denis, for we need his help over a big building affair. That’s how we -are, we others, we don’t shirk duty.” - -Constance had also risen. “The carriage must be waiting,” said she; -“will you take it?” - -“No, no, we will go on foot. A walk will clear our heads.” - -The sky was overcast, and as it grew darker and darker Ambroise, going -to the window, exclaimed: “You will get wet.” - -“Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shall -have time to get to the works.” - -It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with her -in the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilion -adjoining the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and could -quietly return to the Avenue d’Antin, which was close by, as soon as the -sky might clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had just -yielded to Andree’s affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spend -the whole day and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train. -Thus the fete would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured at -the prospect. - -The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, a -mistake which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all the -mirth promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and, -looking at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him “Blaise, my -friend, will you give me my boa? I must have left it in the ante-room.” - -Everybody began to laugh, but she failed to understand the reason. And -it was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis when -he brought her the boa: “I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are very -amiable.” - -Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, so -droll did her quiet assurance seem to them. What was the matter, then? -Why did they all laugh at her in that fashion? She ended by suspecting -that she had made a mistake, and looked more attentively at the twins. - -“Ah, yes, it isn’t Blaise, but Denis! But it can’t be helped. I am -always mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in the -same fashion.” - -Thereupon Marianne, in her obliging way, in order to take any sting -away from the laughter, repeated the well-known family story of how she -herself, when the twins were children and slept together, had been wont -to awake them in order to identify them by the different color of their -eyes. The others, Beauchene and Valentine, then intervened and recalled -circumstances under which they also had mistaken the twins one for the -other, so perfect was their resemblance on certain occasions, in -certain lights. And it was amid all this gay animation that the company -separated after exchanging all sorts of embraces and handshakes. - -Once in the brougham, Constance spoke but seldom to Charlotte, taking -as a pretext a violent headache which the prolonged lunch had increased. -With a weary air and her eyes half closed she began to reflect. After -Rose’s death, and when little Christophe likewise had been carried off, -a revival of hope had come to her, for all at once she had felt quite -young again. But when she consulted Boutan on the matter he dealt her -a final blow by informing her that her hopes were quite illusive. Thus, -for two months now, her rage and despair had been increasing. That very -morning at that christening, and now in that carriage beside that young -woman who was again expecting to become a mother, it was this which -poisoned her mind, filled her with jealousy and spite, and rendered -her capable of any evil deed. The loss of her son, the childlessness -to which she was condemned, all threw her into a state of morbid -perversity, fraught with dreams of some monstrous vengeance which she -dared not even confess to herself. She accused the whole world of being -in league to crush her. Her husband was the most cowardly and idiotic -of traitors, for he betrayed her by letting some fresh part of the works -pass day by day into the hands of that fellow Blaise, whose wife no -sooner lost a child than she had another. She, Constance, was enraged -also at seeing her husband so gay and happy, since she had left him -to his own base courses. He still retained his air of victorious -superiority, declaring that he had remained unchanged, and there -was truth in this; for though, instead of being an active master as -formerly, he now too often showed himself a senile prowler, on the high -road to paralysis, he yet continued to be a practical egotist, one who -drew from life the greatest sum of enjoyment possible. He was following -his destined road, and if he took to Blaise it was simply because he -was delighted to have found an intelligent, hard-working young man who -spared him all the cares and worries that were too heavy for his weary -shoulders, while still earning for him the money which he needed for -his pleasures. Constance knew that something in the way of a partnership -arrangement was about to be concluded. Indeed, her husband must have -already received a large sum to enable him to make good certain losses -and expenses which he had hidden from her. And closing her eyes as the -brougham rolled along, she poisoned her mind by ruminating all these -things, scarce able to refrain from venting her fury by throwing herself -upon that young woman Charlotte, well-loved and fruitful spouse, who sat -beside her. - -Then the thought of Denis occurred to her. Why was he being taken to the -works? Did he also mean to rob her? Yet she knew that he had refused to -join his brother, as in his opinion there was not room for two at the -establishment of the Boulevard de Grenelle. Indeed, Denis’s ambition -was to direct some huge works by himself; he possessed an extensive -knowledge of mechanics, and this it was that rendered him a valuable -adviser whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine had -to be prepared at the Beauchene factory. Constance promptly dismissed -him from her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason to -fear him; he was a mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, would -establish himself at the other end of France. Then once more the thought -of Blaise came back to her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenly -occurred to her that if she made haste home she would be able to see -Morange alone in his office and ascertain many things from him before -the others arrived. It was evident that the accountant must know -something of the partnership scheme, even if it were as yet only in a -preliminary stage. Thereupon she became impassioned, eager to arrive, -certain as she felt of obtaining confidential information from Morange, -whom she deemed to be devoted to her. - -As the carriage rolled over the Jena bridge she opened her eyes and -looked out. “_Mon Dieu_!” said she, “what a time this brougham takes! If -the rain would only fall it would, perhaps, relieve my head a little.” - -She was thinking, however, that a sharp shower would give her more time, -as it would compel the three men, Beauchene, Denis, and Blaise, to seek -shelter in some doorway. And when the carriage reached the works she -hastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion to -the little pavilion. - -“You will excuse me, won’t you, my dear?” said she; “you only have to -turn the street corner.” - -When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, took -hold of Constance’s hand and retained it for a few moments in her own. - -“Of course,” she replied, “and many thanks. You are too kind. When -you see my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he grows -anxious at the slightest thing.” - -Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many -professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission. -Then they parted. “Au revoir, till to-morrow “--“Yes, yes, till -to-morrow, au revoir.” - -Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife -Valerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yet -it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for -he had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired -life, giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. On -the other hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct -painstaking accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it -were to the office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning -for thirty years past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter had -carried off with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, -all that he had momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes--a large -fortune and a luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, -who had relapsed into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothing -beyond his humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner -to which he was accustomed. It was suspected, however, that he led a -mysterious maniacal life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in that -flat of the Boulevard de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refused -to quit. His servant had orders to admit nobody, and she herself -knew nothing. If he gave her free admittance to the dining- and -drawing-rooms, he did not allow her to set foot in his own bedroom, -formerly shared by Valerie, nor in that which Reine had occupied. He -himself alone entered these chambers, which he regarded as sanctuaries, -of which he was the sole priest. Under pretence of sweeping or dusting, -he would shut himself up in one or the other of them for hours at a -time. It was in vain that the servant tried to glance inside, in vain -that she listened at the doors when he spent his holidays at home; she -saw nothing and heard nothing. Nobody could have told what relics those -chapels contained, nor with what religious cult he honored them. Another -cause of surprise was his niggardly, avaricious life, which, as time -went on, had become more and more pronounced, in such wise that his only -expenses were his rental of sixteen hundred francs, the wages he paid -to his servant, and the few pence per day which she with difficulty -extracted from him to defray the cost of food and housekeeping. His -salary had now risen to eight thousand francs a year, and he certainly -did not spend half of it. What became, then, of his big savings, the -money which he refused to devote to enjoyment? In what secret hole, and -for what purpose, what secret passion, did he conceal it? Nobody could -tell. But amid it all he remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, -continued very cleanly in his habits, keeping his beard, which was now -white as snow, very carefully tended. And he came to his office every -morning with a little smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in -this man of regular methodical life revealed the collapse within him, -all the ashes and smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart. - -By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and -Morange. When, after his daughter’s death, she had seen him return to -the works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which -some covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destined -to live five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, -and could never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, -for he, as she repeated to herself, had lost his only child. “Ah, God! -so such a catastrophe was possible.” Then, on being stricken herself, on -experiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping, -incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother -in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none -other. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and -the pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, face -to face, sharing each other’s woe. Later on she had profited by this -intimacy to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at the -factory, of which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularly -since she had suspected the latter of bad management, blunders and -debts, that she endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, even -a spy, who might aid her to secure as much control of the business as -possible. And this was why she was so anxious to return to the factory -that day, and profit by the opportunity to see Morange privately, -persuaded as she was that she would induce him to speak out in the -absence of his superiors. - -She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She found -the accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, and -leaning over the everlasting ledger which was open before him. - -“Why, is the christening finished?” he exclaimed in astonishment. - -Forthwith she explained her presence in such a way as to enable her to -speak of what she had at heart. “Why, yes. That is to say, I came away -because I had such a dreadful headache. The others have remained yonder. -And as we are alone here together it occurred to me that it might do me -good to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I am -not happy, not happy at all.” - -She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had been -restraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quite -upset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself, -Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might have -a fainting fit. But she prevented him. - -“I have only you left me, my friend,” said she. “Everybody else forsakes -me, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks are -bent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything when -I lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know my -torments, you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven’s sake -help me and tell me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able to -defend myself.” - -On hearing her speak of his daughter Morange also had begun to weep. -And now, therefore, she might question him, it was certain that he would -answer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the common -grief which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement was -indeed on the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchene, only it was -not precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchene having drawn large sums -from the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could not -confess--a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored--had been -obliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active lieutenant -who managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to find -somebody willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man had -offered it himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, -who advanced the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in his -son’s name. And now, with the view of putting everything in order, it -had been resolved that the property should be divided into six parts, -and that one of these parts or shares should be attributed to Blaise -as reimbursement for the loan. Thus the young fellow would possess an -interest of one sixth in the establishment, unless indeed Beauchene -should buy him out again within a stipulated period. The danger was -that, instead of freeing himself in this fashion, Beauchene might yield -to the temptation of selling the other parts one by one, now that he was -gliding down a path of folly and extravagance. - -Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. “Is this -signed?” she asked. - -“No, not yet. But the papers are ready and will be signed shortly. -Moreover, it is a reasonable and necessary solution of the difficulty.” - -She was evidently of another opinion. A feeling of revolt possessed her, -and she strove to think of some decisive means of preventing the ruin -and shame which in her opinion threatened her. “My God, what am I to do? -How can I act?” she gasped; and then, in her rage at finding no device, -at being powerless, this cry escaped her: “Ah! that scoundrel Blaise!” - -Worthy Morange was quite moved by it. Still he had not fully understood. -And so, in his quiet way, he endeavored to calm Constance, explaining -that Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances in -question he had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that he -could to stifle scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. -And as Constance had risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, and -anxious that the three men might not find her there on their arrival, -the accountant likewise quitted his chair, and accompanied her along the -gallery which she had to follow in order to return to her house. - -“I give you my word of honor, madame,” said Morange, “that the young man -has made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass through -my hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if I -had entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should have -endeavored to requite your kindness by warning you.” - -She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to get -rid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun to -fall violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds had -overspread the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, though -four o’clock had scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that in -presence of such a deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. So -she hastened her steps, still followed, however, by the accountant. - -“For instance,” he continued, “when it was a question of drawing up the -agreement--” - -But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stopped -her, pulling her back as if in terror. - -“Take care!” he gasped. - -There was a great cavity before them. Here, at the end of the gallery, -before reaching the corridor which communicated with the private house, -there was a steam lift of great power, which was principally used for -lowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a rule -on certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. When -the appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there to -superintend the operations. - -“Take care! take care!” Morange repeated, shuddering with terror. - -The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was no -barrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearful -plunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness had -become so complete in the gallery that they had walked on without -seeing anything before them. Another step would have hurled them to -destruction. It was little short of miraculous that the accountant -should have become anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in that -corner, where he had divined rather than perceived the abyss. - -Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought to -free herself from his wild grasp. - -“But look!” he cried. - -And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. It -descended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a well -of darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vague -outlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern, -a distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth and -horror of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching. - -And now Morange burst into a temper. “It is idiotic!” he exclaimed. “Why -don’t they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a man -expressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post so -long as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth can -the rascal be up to?” - -The accountant again approached the hole, and shouted down it in a fury: -“Bonnard!” - -No reply came: the pit remained bottomless, black and void. - -“Bonnard! Bonnard!” - -And still nothing was heard, not a sound; the damp breath of the -darkness alone ascended as from the deep silence of the tomb. - -Thereupon Morange resorted to action. “I must go down; I must find -Bonnard. Can you picture us falling through that hole to the very -bottom? No, no, this cannot be allowed. Either he must close this trap -or return to his post. What can he be doing? Where can he be?” - -Morange had already betaken himself to a little winding staircase, by -which one reached every floor beside the lift, when in a voice which -gradually grew more indistinct, he again called: “I beg you, madame, -pray wait for me; remain there to warn anybody who might pass.” - -Constance was alone. The dull rattle of the rain on the glass above -her continued, but a little livid light was appearing as a gust of wind -carried off the clouds. And in that pale light Blaise suddenly appeared -at the end of the gallery. He had just returned to the factory with -Denis and Beauchene, and had left his companions together for a moment, -in order to go to the workshops to procure some information they -required. Preoccupied, absorbed once more in his work, he came along -with an easy step, his head somewhat bent. And when Constance saw him -thus appear, all that she felt in her heart was the smart of rancor, a -renewal of her anger at what she had learnt of that agreement which was -to be signed on the morrow and which would despoil her. That enemy who -was in her home and worked against her, a revolt of her whole being -urged her to exterminate him, and thrust him out like some usurper, all -craft and falsehood. - -He drew nearer. She was in the dense shadow near the wall, so that he -could not see her. But on her side, as he softly approached steeped in -a grayish light, she could see him with singular distinctness. Never -before had she so plainly divined the power of his lofty brow, the -intelligence of his eyes, the firm will of his mouth. And all at once -she was struck with fulgural certainty; he was coming towards the cavity -without seeing it and he would assuredly plunge into the depths unless -she should stop him as he passed. But a little while before, she, like -himself, had come from yonder, and would have fallen unless a friendly -hand had restrained her; and the frightful shudder of that moment yet -palpitated in her veins; she could still and ever see the damp black pit -with the little lantern far below. The whole horror of it flashed before -her eyes--the ground failing one, the sudden drop with a great shriek, -and the smash a moment afterwards. - -Blaise drew yet nearer. But certainly such a thing was impossible; she -would prevent it, since a little motion of her hand would suffice. -Would she not always have time to stretch out her arms when he was there -before her? And yet from the recesses of her being a very clear and -frigid voice seemed to ascend, articulating brief words which rang in -her ears as if repeated by a trumpet blast. If he should die it would -be all over, the factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterly -lamented that she could devise no obstacle had merely to let this -helpful chance take its own course. And this, indeed, was what the -voice said, what it repeated with keen insistence, never adding another -syllable. After that there would be nothing. After that there would -merely remain the shattered remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit of -darkness splashed with blood, in which she discerned, foresaw nothing -more. What would happen on the morrow? She did not wish to know; indeed -there would be no morrow. It was solely the brutal immediate fact which -the imperious voice demanded. He dead, it would be all over, he would -never possess the works. - -He drew nearer still. And within her now there raged a frightful battle. -How long did it last--days? years? Doubtless but a few seconds. She was -still resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she felt -that she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment came -for the decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, became -materialized within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger. -She hungered for that finish, hungered to the point of suffering, seized -by one of those sudden desperate longings which beget crime; such as -when a passer-by is despoiled and throttled at the corner of a street. -It seemed to her that if she could not satisfy her craving she herself -must lose her life. A consuming passion, a mad desire for that man’s -annihilation filled her as she saw him approach. She could now see him -still more plainly and the sight of him exasperated her. His forehead, -his eyes, his lips tortured her like some hateful spectacle. Another -step, yet one more, then another, and he would be before her. Yes, yet -another step, and she was already stretching out her hand in readiness -to stop him as soon as he should brush past. - -He came along. What was it that happened? O God! When he was there, so -absorbed in his thoughts that he brushed against her without feeling -her, she turned to stone. Her hand became icy cold, she could not lift -it, it hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever a -great cold shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, while -she was deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of her -being. All demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained -intense, invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner -voice which robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead -and he would never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and -breathless against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his -light breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his -neck. He had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had -raised a call she might still have changed the course of destiny even at -that last moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she -was clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, -took yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over -that friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he -was in thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a -loud, terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash -down below in the depths of the black darkness. - -Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still -listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss. -She could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewed -rage. And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-entered -her drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had she -desired that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do with -it. Most certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If it -had been possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apart -from her, for assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassured -her. Yes, indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her past -life spread out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Never -had she sinned, never until that day had any consciousness of guilt -weighed upon her conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she had -remained upright amidst all the excesses of her husband. An impassioned -mother, she had been ascending her calvary ever since her son’s death. -And this recollection of Maurice alone drew her for a moment from her -callousness, choked her with a rising sob, as if in that direction lay -her madness, the vainly sought explanation of the crime. Vertigo again -fell upon her, the thought of her dead son and of the other being master -in his place, all her perverted passion for that only son of hers, the -despoiled prince, all her poisoned, fermenting rage which had unhinged -and maddened her, even to the point of murder. Had that monstrous -vegetation growing within her reached her brain then? A rush of blood -suffices at times to bedim a conscience. But she obstinately clung -to the view that she had been absent; she forced back her tears and -remained frigid. No remorse came to her. It was done, and ‘twas good -that it should be done. It was necessary. She had not pushed him, he -himself had fallen. Had she not been there he would have fallen just the -same. And so since she had not been there, since both her brain and -her heart had been absent, it did not concern her. And ever and ever -resounded the words which absolved her and chanted her victory; he was -dead, and would never possess the works. - -Erect in the middle of the drawing-room, Constance listened, straining -her ears. Why was it that she heard nothing? How long they were in -going down to pick him up! Anxiously waiting for the tumult which she -expected, the clamor of horror which would assuredly rise from the -works, the heavy footsteps, the loud calls, she held her breath, -quivering at the slightest, faintest sound. Several minutes still -elapsed, and the cosey quietude of her drawing-room pleased her. That -room was like an asylum of bourgeois rectitude, luxurious dignity, in -which she felt protected, saved. Some little objects on which her eyes -lighted, a pocket scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife of -burnished silver left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, -almost surprised at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some new -and particular meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived that -her hands were icy cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing to -warm them a little. Why was it, too, that she now felt so tired? It -seemed to her as if she had just returned from some long walk, from -some accident, from some affray in which she had been bruised. She felt -within her also a tendency to somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, as -if she had feasted too copiously off some spicy dish, after too great -a hunger. Amid the fatigue which benumbed her limbs she desired -nothing more; apart from her sleepiness all that she felt was a kind of -astonishment that things should be as they were. However, she had again -begun to listen, repeating that if that frightful silence continued, -she would certainly sink upon a chair, close her eyes, and sleep. And -at last it seemed to her that she detected a faint sound, scarcely a -breath, far away. - -What was it? No, there was nothing yet. Perhaps she had dreamt that -horrible scene, perhaps it had all been a nightmare; that man marching -on, that black pit, that loud cry of terror! Since she heard nothing, -perhaps nothing had really happened. Were it true a clamor would have -ascended from below in a growing wave of sound, and a distracted rush -up the staircase and along the passages would have brought her the news. -Then again she detected the faint distant sound, which seemed to draw -a little nearer. It was not the tramping of a crowd; it seemed to be a -mere footfall, perhaps that of some pedestrian on the quay. Yet no; it -came from the works, and now it was quite distinct; it ascended steps -and then sped along a passage. And the steps became quicker, and a -panting could be heard, so tragical that she at last divined that the -horror was at hand. All at once the door was violently flung open. -Morange entered. He was alone, beside himself, with livid face and -scarce able to stammer. - -“He still breathes, but his head is smashed; it is all over.” - -“What ails you?” she asked. “What is the matter?” - -He looked at her, agape. He had hastened upstairs at a run to ask -her for an explanation, for he had quite lost his poor head over that -unaccountable catastrophe. And the apparent ignorance and tranquillity -in which he found Constance completed his dismay. - -“But I left you near the trap,” said he. - -“Near the trap, yes. You went down, and I immediately came up here.” - -“But before I went down,” he resumed with despairing violence, “I begged -you to wait for me and keep a watch on the hole, so that nobody might -fall through it.” - -“Oh! dear no. You said nothing to me, or, at all events, I heard -nothing, understood nothing of that kind.” - -In his terror he peered into her eyes. Assuredly she was lying. Calm as -she might appear, he could detect her voice trembling. Besides, it was -evident she must still have been there, since he had not even had time -to get below before it happened. And all at once he recalled their -conversation, the questions she had asked him and her cry of hatred -against the unfortunate young fellow who had now been picked up, covered -with blood, in the depths of that abyss. Beneath the gust of horror -which chilled him, Morange could only find these words: “Well, madame, -poor Blaise came just behind you and broke his skull.” - -Her demeanor was perfect; her hands quivered as she raised them, and it -was in a halting voice that she exclaimed: “Good Lord! good Lord, what a -frightful misfortune.” - -But at that moment an uproar arose through the house. The drawing-room -door had remained open, and the voices and footsteps of a number of -people drew nearer, became each moment more distinct. Orders were being -given on the stairs, men were straining and drawing breath, there were -all the signs of the approach of some cumbrous burden, carried as gently -as possible. - -“What! is he being brought up here to me?” exclaimed Constance turning -pale, and her involuntary cry would have sufficed to enlighten the -accountant had he needed it. “He is being brought to me here!” - -It was not Morange who answered; he was stupefied by the blow. But -Beauchene abruptly appeared preceding the body, and he likewise was -livid and beside himself, to such a degree did this sudden visit of -death thrill him with fear, in his need of happy life. - -“Morange will have told you of the frightful catastrophe, my dear,” said -he. “Fortunately Denis was there, for the question of responsibility -towards his family. And it was Denis, too, who, just as we were about -to carry the poor fellow home to the pavilion, opposed it, saying that, -given his wife’s condition, we should kill her if we carried him to her -in this dying state. And so the only course was to bring him here, was -it not?” - -Then he quitted his wife with a gesture of bewilderment, and returned -to the landing, where one could hear him repeating in a quivering voice: -“Gently, gently, take care of the balusters.” - -The lugubrious train entered the drawing-room. Blaise had been laid on -a stretcher provided with a mattress. Denis, as pale as linen, followed, -supporting the pillow on which rested his brother’s head. A little -streamlet of blood coursed over the dying man’s brow, his eyes were -closed. And four factory hands held the shafts of the stretcher. Their -heavy shoes crushed down the carpet, and fragile articles of furniture -were thrust aside anyhow to open a passage for this invasion of horror -and of fright. - -Amid his bewilderment, an idea occurred to Beauchene, who continued to -direct the operation. - -“No, no, don’t leave him there. There is a bed in the next room. We will -take him up very gently with the mattress, and lay him with it on the -bed.” - -It was Maurice’s room; it was the bed in which Maurice had died, and -which Constance with maternal piety had kept unchanged, consecrating the -room to her son’s memory. But what could she say? How could she prevent -Blaise from dying there in his turn, killed by her? - -The abomination of it all, the vengeance of destiny which exacted this -sacrilege, filled her with such a feeling of revolt that at the moment -when vertigo was about to seize her and the flooring began to flee from -beneath her feet, she was lashed by it and kept erect. And then she -displayed extraordinary strength, will, and insolent courage. When the -stricken man passed before her, her puny little frame stiffened and -grew. She looked at him, and her yellow face remained motionless, save -for a flutter of her eyelids and an involuntary nervous twinge on the -left side of her mouth, which forced a slight grimace. But that was all, -and again she became perfect both in words and gesture, doing and saying -what was necessary without lavishness, but like one simply thunderstruck -by the suddenness of the catastrophe. - -However, the orders had been carried out in the bedroom, and the bearers -withdrew greatly upset. Down below, directly the accident had been -discovered, old Moineaud had been told to take a cab and hasten to Dr. -Boutan’s to bring him back with a surgeon, if one could be found on the -way. - -“All the same, I prefer to have him here rather than in the basement,” - Beauchene repeated mechanically as he stood before the bed. “He still -breathes. There! see, it is quite apparent. Who knows? Perhaps Boutan -may be able to pull him through, after all.” - -Denis, however, entertained no illusions. He had taken one of his -brother’s cold yielding hands in his own and he could feel that it was -again becoming a mere thing, as if broken, wrenched away from life -in that great fall. For a moment he remained motionless beside the -death-bed, with the mad hope they he might, perhaps, by his clasp infuse -a little of the blood in his own heart into the veins of the dying man. -Was not that blood common to them both? Had not their twin brotherhood -drunk life from the same source? It was the other half of himself that -was about to die. Down below, after raising a loud cry of heartrending -distress, he had said nothing. Now all at once he spoke. - -“One must go to Ambroise’s to warn my mother and father. Since he still -breathes, perhaps they will arrive soon enough to embrace him.” - -“Shall I go to fetch them?” Beauchene good-naturedly inquired. - -“No, no! thanks. I did at first think of asking that service of you, -but I have reflected. Nobody but myself can break this horrible news to -mamma. And nothing must be done as yet with regard to Charlotte. We will -see about that by and by, when I come back. I only hope that death will -have a little patience, so that I may find my poor brother still alive.” - -He leant forward and kissed Blaise, who with his eyes closed remained -motionless, still breathing faintly. Then distractedly Denis printed -another kiss upon his hand and hurried off. - -Constance meantime was busying herself, calling the maid, and requesting -her to bring some warm water in order that they might wash the -sufferer’s blood-stained brow. It was impossible to think of taking off -his jacket; they had to content themselves with doing the little they -could to improve his appearance pending the arrival of the doctor. And -during these preparations, Beauchene, haunted, worried by the accident, -again began to speak of it. - -“It is incomprehensible. One can hardly believe such a stupid mischance -to be possible. Down below the transmission gearing gets out of order, -and this prevents the mechanician from sending the trap up again. Then, -up above, Bonnard gets angry, calls, and at last decides to go down in a -fury when he finds that nobody answers him. Then Morange arrives, flies -into a temper, and goes down in his turn, exasperated at receiving no -answer to his calls for Bonnard. Poor Bonnard! he’s sobbing; he wanted -to kill himself when he saw the fine result of his absence.” - -At this point Beauchene abruptly broke off and turned to Constance. -“But what about you?” he asked. “Morange told me that he had left you up -above near the trap.” - -She was standing in front of her husband, in the full light which -came through the window. And again did her eyelids beat while a little -nervous twinge slightly twisted her mouth on the left side. That was -all. - -“I? Why I had gone down the passage. I came back here at once, as -Morange knows very well.” - -A moment previously, Morange, annihilated, his legs failing him, had -sunk upon a chair. Incapable of rendering any help, he sat there silent, -awaiting the end. When he heard Constance lie in that quiet fashion, he -looked at her. The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it. And at -that moment he felt a craving to proclaim it, to cry it aloud. - -“Why, he thought that he had begged you to remain there on the watch,” - Beauchene resumed, addressing his wife. - -“At all events his words never reached me,” Constance duly answered. -“Should I have moved if he had asked me to do that?” And turning towards -the accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyes -upon him. “Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, you -said nothing to me, and I went on my way.” - -Beneath those pale eyes, keen as steel, which dived into his own, -Morange was seized with abject fear. All his weakness, his cowardice -of heart returned. Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime? He -pictured the consequences. And then, too, he no longer knew if he were -right or not; his poor maniacal mind was lost. - -“It is possible,” he stammered, “I may simply have thought I spoke. And -it must be so since it can’t be otherwise.” - -Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude. The -complicity demanded was accepted. For a moment he thought of rising to -see if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare. Deep peacefulness -fell upon the room. - -Ah! how great was the anguish, the torture in the cab, when Blaise -brought Mathieu and Marianne back with him. He had at first spoken to -them simply of an accident, a rather serious fall. But as the vehicle -rolled along he had lost his self-possession, weeping and confessing the -truth in response to their despairing questions. Thus, when they at last -reached the factory, they doubted no longer, their child was dead. Work -had just been stopped, and they recalled their visit to the place on the -morrow of Maurice’s death. They were returning to the same stillness, -the same grave-like silence. All the rumbling life had suddenly ceased, -the machines were cold and mute, the workshops darkened and deserted. -Not a sound remained, not a soul, not a puff of that steam which was -like the very breath of the place. He who had watched over its work was -dead, and it was dead like him. Then their affright increased when they -passed from the factory to the house amid that absolute solitude, the -gallery steeped in slumber, the staircase quivering, all the doors -upstairs open, as in some uninhabited place long since deserted. In the -ante-room they found no servant. And it was indeed in the same tragedy -of sudden death that they again participated, only this time it was -their own son whom they were to find in the same room, on the same bed, -frigid, pale, and lifeless. - -Blaise had just expired. Boutan was there at the head of the bed, -holding the inanimate hand in which the final pulsation of blood was -dying away. And when he saw Mathieu and Marianne, who had instinctively -crossed the disorderly drawing-room, rushing into that bedchamber whose -odor of nihility they recognized, he could but murmur in a voice full of -sobs: - -“My poor friends, embrace him; you will yet have a little of his last -breath.” - -That breath had scarce ceased, and the unhappy mother, the unhappy -father, had already sprung forward, kissing those lips that exhaled the -final quiver of life, and sobbing and crying their distress aloud. Their -Blaise was dead. Like Rose, he had died suddenly, a year later, on a -day of festivity. Their heart wound, scarce closed as yet, opened afresh -with a tragic rending. Amid their long felicity this was the second time -that they were thus terribly recalled to human wretchedness; this was -the second hatchet stroke which fell on the flourishing, healthy, happy -family. And their fright increased. Had they not yet finished paying -their accumulated debt to misfortune? Was slow destruction now arriving -with blow following blow? Already since Rose had quitted them, her -bier strewn with flowers, they had feared to see their prosperity and -fruitfulness checked and interrupted now that there was an open breach. -And to-day, through that bloody breach, their Blaise departed in the -most frightful of fashions, crushed as it were by the jealous anger of -destiny. And now what other of their children would be torn away from -them on the morrow to pay in turn the ransom of their happiness? - -Mathieu and Marianne long remained sobbing on their knees beside the -bed. Constance stood a few paces away, silent, with an air of quivering -desolation. Beauchene, as if to combat that fear of death which made -him shiver, had a moment previously seated himself at the little -writing-table formerly used by Maurice, which had been left in the -drawing-room like a souvenir. And he then strove to draw up a notice -to his workpeople, to inform them that the factory would remain closed -until the day after the funeral. He was vainly seeking words when he -perceived Denis coming out of the bedroom, where he had wept all his -tears and set his whole heart in the last kiss which he had bestowed on -his departed brother. Beauchene called him, as if desirous of diverting -him from his gloomy thoughts. “There, sit down here and continue this,” - said he. - -Constance, in her turn entering the drawing-room, heard those words. -They were virtually the same as the words which her husband had -pronounced when making Blaise seat himself at that same table of -Maurice’s, on the day when he had given him the place of that poor boy, -whose body almost seemed to be still lying on the bed in the adjoining -room. And she recoiled with fright on seeing Denis seated there and -writing. Had not Blaise resuscitated? Even as she had mistaken the twins -one for the other that very afternoon on rising from the gay baptismal -lunch, so now again she saw Blaise in Denis, the pair of them so similar -physically that in former times their parents had only been able to -distinguish them by the different color of their eyes. And thus it was -as if Blaise returned and resumed his place; Blaise, who would possess -the works although she had killed him. She had made a mistake; dead -as he was, he would nevertheless have the works. She had killed one of -those Froments, but behold another was born. When one died his brother -filled up the breach. And her crime then appeared to her such a useless -one, such a stupid one, that she was aghast at it, the hair on the nape -of her neck standing up, while she burst into a cold sweat of fear, and -recoiled as from a spectre. - -“It is a notice for the workpeople,” Beauchene repeated. “We will have -it posted at the entrance.” - -She wished to be brave, and, approaching her husband, she said to him: -“Draw it up yourself. Why give Blaise the trouble at such a moment as -this?” - -She had said “Blaise”; and once more an icy sensation of horror came -over her. Unconsciously she had heard herself saying yonder, in the -ante-room: “Blaise, where did I put my boa?” And it was Denis who had -brought it to her. Of what use had it been for her to kill Blaise, since -Denis was there? When death mows down a soldier of life, another is -always ready to take the vacant post of combat. - -But a last defeat awaited her. Mathieu and Marianne reappeared, while -Morange, seized with a need of motion, came and went with an air of -stupefaction, quite losing his wits amid his dreadful sufferings, those -awful things which could but unhinge his narrow mind. - -“I am going down,” stammered Marianne, trying to wipe away her tears and -to remain erect. “I wish to see Charlotte, and prepare and tell her of -the misfortune. I alone can find the words to say, so that she may not -die of the shock, circumstanced as she is.” - -But Mathieu, full of anxiety, sought to detain his wife, and spare her -this fresh trial. “No, I beg you,” he said; “Denis will go, or I will go -myself.” - -With gentle obstinacy, however, she still went towards the stairs. “I -am the only one who can tell her of it, I assure you--I shall have -strength--” - -But all at once she staggered and fainted. It became necessary to lay -her on a sofa in the drawing-room. And when she recovered consciousness, -her face remained quite white and distorted, and an attack of nausea -came upon her. Then, as Constance, with an air of anxious solicitude, -rang for her maid and sent for her little medicine-chest, Mathieu -confessed the truth, which hitherto had been kept secret; Marianne, like -Charlotte, was _enceinte_. It confused her a little, he said, since she -was now three-and-forty years old; and so they had not mentioned -it. “Ah! poor brave wife!” he added. “She wished to spare our -daughter-in-law too great a shock; I trust that she herself will not be -struck down by it.” - -_Enceinte_, good heavens! As Constance heard this, it seemed as if a -bludgeon were falling on her to make her defeat complete. And so, even -if she should now let Denis, in his turn, kill himself, another Froment -was coming who would replace him. There was ever another and another of -that race--a swarming of strength, an endless fountain of life, against -which it became impossible to battle. Amid her stupefaction at -finding the breach repaired when scarce opened, Constance realized her -powerlessness and nothingness, childless as she was fated to remain. And -she felt vanquished, overcome with awe, swept away as it were herself; -thrust aside by the victorious flow of everlasting Fruitfulness. - - - - -XVIII - -FOURTEEN months later there was a festival at Chantebled. Denis, who had -taken Blaise’s place at the factory, was married to Marthe Desvignes. -And after all the grievous mourning this was the first smile, the bright -warm sun of springtime, so to say, following severe winter. Mathieu and -Marianne, hitherto grief-stricken and clad in black, displayed a gayety -tinged with soft emotion in presence of the sempiternal renewal of life. -The mother had been willing to don less gloomy a gown, and the father -had agreed to defer no longer a marriage that had long since been -resolved upon, and was necessitated by all sorts of considerations. For -more than two years now Rose had been sleeping in the little cemetery of -Janville, and for more than a year Blaise had joined her there, beneath -flowers which were ever fresh. And the souvenir of the dear dead ones, -whom they all visited, and who had remained alive in all their hearts, -was to participate in the coming festival. It was as if they themselves -had decided with their parents that the hour for the espousals had -struck, and that regret for their loss ought no longer to bar the joy of -growth and increase. - -Denis’s installation at the Beauchene works in his brother’s place had -come about quite naturally. If he had not gone thither on leaving the -science school where he had spent three years, it was simply because -the position was at that time already held by Blaise. All his technical -studies marked him out for the post. In a single day he had fitted -himself for it, and he simply had to take up his quarters in the little -pavilion, Charlotte having fled to Chantebled with her little Berthe -directly after the horrible catastrophe. It should be added that Denis’ -entry into the establishment offered a convenient solution with -regard to the large sum of money lent to Beauchene, which, it had been -arranged, should be reimbursed by a sixth share in the factory. That -money came from the family, and one brother simply took the place of the -other, signing the agreement which the deceased would have signed. With -a delicate rectitude, however, Denis insisted that out of his share of -the profits an annuity should be assigned to Charlotte, his brother’s -widow. - -Thus matters were settled in a week, in the manner that circumstances -logically demanded, and without possibility of discussion. Constance, -bewildered and overwhelmed, was not even able to struggle. Her husband -reduced her to silence by repeating: “What would you have me do? I must -have somebody to help me, and it is just as well to take Denis as a -stranger. Besides, if he worries me I will buy him out within a year and -give him his dismissal!” - -At this Constance remained silent to avoid casting his ignominy in his -face, amid her despair at feeling the walls of the house crumble and -fall, bit by bit, upon her. - -Once installed at the works, Denis considered that the time had come to -carry out the matrimonial plans which he had long since arranged with -Marthe Desvignes. The latter, Charlotte’s younger sister and at one -time the inseparable friend of Rose, had been waiting for him for nearly -three years now, with her bright smile and air of affectionate good -sense. They had known one another since childhood, and had exchanged -many a vow along the lonely paths of Janville. But they had said to one -another that they would do nothing prematurely, that for the happiness -of a whole lifetime one might well wait until one was old enough and -strong enough to undertake family duties. Some people were greatly -astonished that a young man whose future was so promising, and whose -position at twenty-six years of age was already a superb one, should -thus obstinately espouse a penniless girl. Mathieu and Marianne smiled, -however, and consented, knowing their son’s good reasons. He had no -desire to marry a rich girl who would cost him more than she brought, -and he was delighted at having discovered a pretty, healthy, and -very sensible and skilful young woman, who would be at all times his -companion, helpmate, and consoler. He feared no surprises with her, for -he had studied her; she united charm and good sense with kindliness, all -that was requisite for the happiness of a household. And he himself was -very good-natured, prudent, and sensible, and she knew it and willingly -took his arm to tread life’s path with him, certain as she felt that -they would thus walk on together until life’s end should be reached, -ever advancing with the same tranquil step under the divine and limpid -sun of reason merged in love. - -Great preparations were made at Chantebled on the day before the -wedding. Nevertheless, the ceremony was to remain of an intimate -character, on account of the recent mourning. The only guests, apart -from members of the family, were the Seguins and the Beauchenes, and -even the latter were cousins. So there would scarcely be more than a -score of them altogether, and only a lunch was to be given. One matter -which gave them some brief concern was to decide where to set the table, -and how to decorate it. Those early days of July were so bright and warm -that they resolved to place it out of doors under the trees. There was -a fitting and delightful spot in front of the old shooting-box, the -primitive pavilion, which had been their first residence on their -arrival in the Janville district. That pavilion was indeed like the -family nest, the hearth whence it had radiated over the surrounding -region. As the pavilion had threatened ruin, Mathieu had repaired -and enlarged it with the idea of retiring thither with Marianne, and -Charlotte and her children, as soon as he should cede the farm to his -son Gervais, that being his intention. He was, indeed, pleased with -the idea of living in retirement like a patriarch, like a king who -had willingly abdicated, but whose wise counsel was still sought and -accepted. In place of the former wild garden a large lawn now stretched -before the pavilion, surrounded by some beautiful trees, elms and -hornbeams. These Mathieu had planted, and he had watched them grow; thus -they seemed to him to be almost part of his flesh. But his real favorite -was an oak tree, nearly twenty years of age and already sturdy, which -stood in the centre of the lawn, where he had planted it with Marianne, -who had held the slender sapling in position while he plied his spade on -the day when they had founded their domain of Chantebled. And near this -oak, which thus belonged to their robust family, there was a basin of -living water, fed by the captured springs of the plateau--water whose -crystalline song made the spot one of continual joy. - -It was here then that a council was held on the day before the wedding. -Mathieu and Marianne repaired thither to see what preparations would -be necessary, and they found Charlotte with a sketch-book on her knees, -rapidly finishing an impression of the oak tree. - -“What is that--a surprise?” they asked. - -She smiled with some confusion. “Yes, yes, a surprise; you will see.” - -Then she confessed that for a fortnight past she had been designing in -water colors a series of menu cards for the wedding feast. And, prettily -and lovingly enough, her idea had been to depict children’s games -and children’s heads; indeed, all the members of the family in their -childish days. She had taken their likenesses from old photographs, -and her sketch of the oak tree was to serve as a background for the -portraits of the two youngest scions of the house--little Benjamin and -little Guillaume. - -Mathieu and Marianne were delighted with that fleet procession of little -faces all white and pink which they perfectly recognized as they saw -them pass before their eyes. There were the twins nestling in their -cradle, locked in one another’s arms; there was Rose, the dear lost -one, in her little shift; there were Ambroise and Gervais, bare, -and wrestling on a patch of grass; there were Gregoire and Nicolas -birdnesting; there were Claire and the three other girls, Louise, -Madeleine, and Marguerite, romping about the farm, quarrelling with the -fowls, springing upon the horses’ backs. But what particularly touched -Marianne was the sketch of her last-born, little Benjamin, now nine -months old, whom Charlotte had depicted reclining under the oak tree in -the same little carriage as her own son Guillaume, who was virtually of -the same age, having been born but eight days later. - -“The uncle and the nephew,” said Mathieu jestingly. “All the same, the -uncle is the elder by a week.” - -As Marianne stood there smiling, soft tears came into her eyes, and the -sketch shook in her happy hands. - -“The dears!” said she; “my son and grandson. With those dear little ones -I am once again a mother and a grandmother. Ah, yes! those two are the -supreme consolation; they have helped to heal the wound; it is they who -have brought us back hope and courage.” - -This was true. How overwhelming had been the mourning and sadness of the -early days when Charlotte, fleeing the factory, had sought refuge at the -farm! The tragedy by which Blaise had been carried off had nearly killed -her. Her first solace was to see that her daughter Berthe, who had been -rather sickly in Paris, regained bright rosy cheeks amid the open air -of Chantebled. Moreover, she had settled her life: she would spend her -remaining years, in that hospitable house, devoting herself to her -two children, and happy in having so affectionate a grandmother and -grandfather to help and sustain her. She had always shown herself to be -somewhat apart from life, possessed of a dreamy nature, only asking to -love and to be loved in return. - -So by degrees she settled down once more, installed beside her -grandparents in the old pavilion, which Mathieu fitted up for the three -of them. And wishing to occupy herself, irrespective of her income from -the factory, she even set to work again and painted miniatures, which -a dealer in Paris readily purchased. But her grief was mostly healed by -her little Guillaume, that child bequeathed to her by her dead husband, -in whom he resuscitated. And it was much the same with Marianne since -the birth of Benjamin. A new son had replaced the one she had lost, and -helped to fill the void in her heart. The two women, the two mothers, -found infinite solace in nursing those babes. For them they forgot -themselves; they reared them together, watching them grow side by side; -they gave them the breast at the same hours, and it was their desire to -see them both become very strong, very handsome, and very good. Although -one mother was almost twice as old as the other, they became, as it -were, sisters. The same nourishing milk flowed from both their fruitful -bosoms. And gleams of light penetrated their mourning: they began to -laugh when they saw those little cherubs laugh, and nothing could have -been gayer than the sight of that mother-in-law and that daughter-in-law -side by side, almost mingling, having but one cradle between them, amid -an unceasing florescence of maternity. - -“Be careful,” Mathieu suddenly said to Charlotte; “hide your drawings, -here are Gervais and Claire coming about the table.” - -Gervais at nineteen years of age was quite a colossus, the tallest and -the strongest of the family, with short, curly black hair, large bright -eyes, and a full broad-featured face. He had remained his father’s -favorite son, the son of the fertile earth, the one in whom Mathieu -fostered a love for the estate, a passion for skilful agriculture, in -order that later on the young man might continue the good work which had -been begun. Mathieu already disburdened himself on Gervais of a part -of his duties, and was only waiting to see him married to give him the -control of the whole farm. And he often thought of adjoining to him -Claire when she found a husband in some worthy, sturdy fellow who would -assume part of the labor. Two men agreeing well would be none too many -for an enterprise which was increasing in importance every day. Since -Marianne had again been nursing, Claire had been attending to her work. -Though she had no beauty, she was of vigorous health and quite strong -for her seventeen years. She busied herself more particularly with -cookery and household affairs, but she also kept the accounts, being -shrewd-witted and very economically inclined, on which account the -prodigals of the family often made fun of her. - -“And so it’s here that the table is to be set,” said Gervais; “I shall -have to see that the lawn is mowed then.” - -On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be at -table and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having called -to Frederic to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing the -arrangements. After Rose’s death, Frederic, her betrothed, had continued -working beside Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comrade -and helper. For some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed that -he was revolving around Claire, as though, since he had lost the elder -girl, he were willing to content himself with the younger one, who was -far less beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. -This had at first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget their -dear daughter? Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought came -to them that the family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the young -fellow’s heart would not roam in search of love elsewhere, but would -remain with them. So closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, -for in Frederic, when Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervais -would find the brother-in-law and partner that he needed. - -The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasion -burst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, and -loose hair waved in the sunshine. - -“Oh!” cried Louise, “there are no roses.” - -“No,” repeated Madeleine, “not a single white rose.” - -“And,” added Marguerite, “we have inspected all the bushes. There are no -white roses, only red ones.” - -Thirteen, eleven, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise, -plump and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim and -pretty, spent hours at her piano, her eyes full of dreaminess; -Marguerite, whose nose was rather too large and whose lips were thick, -had beautiful golden hair. She would pick up little birds at winter time -and warm them with her hands. And the three of, them, after scouring the -back garden, where flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up in -despair at their vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was the -end of everything! What could they offer to the bride? And what could -they set upon the table? - -Behind the three girls, however, appeared Gregoire, with jeering mien, -and his hands in his pockets. At fifteen he was very malicious, the most -turbulent, worrying member of the family, a lad inclined to the most -diabolical devices. His pointed nose and his thin lips denoted also -his adventurous spirit, his will power, and his skill in effecting his -object. And, apparently much amused by his sisters’ disappointment, he -forgot himself and exclaimed, by way of teasing them: “Why, I know where -there are some white roses, and fine ones, too.” - -“Where is that?” asked Mathieu. - -“Why, at the mill, near the wheel, in the little enclosure. There are -three big bushes which are quite white, with roses as big as cabbages.” - -Then he flushed and became confused, for his father was eyeing him -severely. - -“What! do you still prowl round the mill?” said Mathieu. “I had -forbidden you to do so. As you know that there are white roses in the -enclosure you must have gone in, eh?” - -“No; I looked over the wall.” - -“You climbed up the wall, that’s the finishing touch! So you want -to land me in trouble with those Lepailleurs, who are decidedly very -foolish and very malicious people. There is really a devil in you, my -boy.” - -That which Gregoire left unsaid was that he repaired to the enclosure -in order that he might there join Therese, the miller’s fair-haired -daughter with the droll, laughing face, who was also a terribly -adventurous damsel for her thirteen years. True, their meetings were but -childish play, but at the end of the enclosure, under the apple trees, -there was a delightful nook where one could laugh and chat and amuse -oneself at one’s ease. - -“Well, just listen to me,” Mathieu resumed. “I won’t have you going to -play with Therese again. She is a pretty little girl, no doubt. But -that house is not a place for you to go to. It seems that they fight one -another there now.” - -This was a fact. When that young scamp Antonin had recovered his health, -he had been tormented by a longing to return to Paris, and had done all -he could with that object, in view of resuming a life of idleness and -dissipation. Lepailleur, greatly irritated at having been duped by his -son, had at first violently opposed his plans. But what could he do in -the country with that idle fellow, whom he himself had taught to hate -the earth and to sneer at the old rotting mill. Besides, he now had -his wife against him. She was ever admiring her son’s learning, and so -stubborn was her faith in him that she was convinced that he would this -time secure a good position in the capital. Thus the father had been -obliged to give way, and Antonin was now finally wrecking his life while -filling some petty employment at a merchant’s in the Rue du Mail. But, -on the other hand, the quarrelling increased in the home, particularly -whenever Lepailleur suspected his wife of robbing him in order to send -money to that big lazybones, their son. From the bridge over the Yeuse -on certain days one could hear oaths and blows flying about. And here -again was family life destroyed, strength wasted, and happiness spoilt. - -Carried off by perfect anger, Mathieu continued: “To think of it; people -who had everything needful to be happy! How can one be so stupid? How -can one seek wretchedness for oneself with such obstinacy? As for that -idea of theirs of an only son, and their vanity in wanting to make a -gentleman of him, ah! well, they have succeeded finely! They must be -extremely pleased to-day! It is just like Lepailleur’s hatred of the -earth, his old-fashioned system of cultivation, his obstinacy in leaving -his bit of moorland barren and refusing to sell it to me, no doubt -by way of protesting against our success! Can you imagine anything so -stupid? And it’s just like his mill; all folly and idleness he stands -still, looking at it fall into ruins. He at least had a reason for that -in former times; he used to say that as the region had almost renounced -corn-growing, the peasants did not bring him enough grain to set his -mill-stones working. But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows on -all sides, surely he ought to have pulled down his old wheel and have -replaced it by a good engine. Ah! if I were in his place I would already -have a new and bigger mill there, making all use of the water of the -Yeuse, and connecting it with Janville railway station by a line of -rails, which would not cost so much to lay down.” - -Gregoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall on -another than himself. And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters were -still greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying: -“Well, for the table to-morrow morning you must gather those which are -the lightest in color--the pale pink ones; they will do very well.” - -Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by adding -gayly: “Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find. They will -symbolize the blood of life!” - -Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all the -preparations, when other little feet came tripping through the grass. -Nicolas, quite proud of his seven years, was leading his niece Berthe, -a big girl of six. They agreed very well together. That day they had -remained indoors playing at “fathers and mothers” near the cradle -occupied by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies. -But all at once the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment. And -Nicolas and Berthe, quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch the -two mothers. - -“Mamma!” called Nicolas, “Benjamin’s asking for you. He’s thirsty.” - -“Mamma, mamma!” repeated Berthe, “Guillaume’s thirsty. Come quick, he’s -in a hurry.” - -Marianne and Charlotte laughed. True enough, the morrow’s wedding had -made them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house. - -On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated in -affectionate intimacy. There were but one-and-twenty at table under the -oak tree in the middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, -seemed like a hall of verdure. The whole family was present: first -those of the farm, then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wife -Andree, who had brought their little Leonce with them. And apart from -the family proper, there were only the few invited relatives, Beauchene -and Constance, Seguin and Valentine, with, of course, Madame Desvignes, -the bride’s mother. There were twenty-one at table, as has been said; -but besides those one-and-twenty there were three very little ones -present: Leonce, who at fifteen months had just been weaned, and -Benjamin and Guillaume, who still took the breast. Their little -carriages had been drawn up near, so that they also belonged to the -party, which was thus a round two dozen. And the table, flowery with -roses, sent forth a delightful perfume under the rain of summer sunbeams -which flecked it with gold athwart the cool shady foliage. From one -horizon to the other stretched the wondrous tent of azure of the -triumphant July sky. And Marthe’s white bridal gown, and the bright -dresses of the girls, big and little; all those gay frocks, and all that -fine youthful health, seemed like the very florescence of that green -nook of happiness. They lunched joyously, and ended by clinking glasses -in country fashion, while wishing all sorts of prosperity to the bridal -pair and to everybody present. - -Then, while the servants were removing the cloth, Seguin, who affected -an interest in horse-breeding and cattle-raising, wished Mathieu to show -him his stables. He had talked nothing but horseflesh during the meal, -and was particularly desirous of seeing some big farm-horses, whose -great strength had been praised by his host. He persuaded Beauchene -to join him in the inspection, and the three men were starting, when -Constance and Valentine, somewhat inquisitive with respect to that farm, -the great growth of which still filled them with stupefaction, decided -to follow, leaving the rest of the family installed under the trees, -amid the smiling peacefulness of that fine afternoon. - -The cow-houses and stables were on the right hand. But in order to reach -them one had to cross the great yard, whence the entire estate could -be seen. And here there was a halt, a sudden stopping inspired by -admiration, so grandly did the work accomplished show forth under the -sun. They had known that land dry and sterile, covered with mere -scrub; they beheld it now one sea of waving corn, of crops whose growth -increased at each successive season. Up yonder, on the old marshy -plateau, the fertility was such, thanks to the humus amassed during long -centuries, that Mathieu did not even manure the ground as yet. Then, -to right and to left, the former sandy slopes spread out all greenery, -fertilized by the springs which ever brought them increase of -fruitfulness. And the very woods afar off, skilfully arranged, aired by -broad clearings, seemed to possess more sap, as if all the surrounding -growth of life had instilled additional vigor into them. With this -vigor, this power, indeed, the whole domain was instinct; it was -creation, man’s labor fertilizing sterile soil, and drawing from it -a wealth of nourishment for expanding humanity, the conqueror of the -world. - -There was a long spell of silence. At last Seguin, in his dry shrill -voice, with a tinge of bitterness born of his own ruin, remarked: “You -have done a good stroke of business. I should never have believed it -possible.” - -Then they walked on again. But in the sheds, the cow-houses, the -sheep-cotes, and all round, the sensation of strength and power yet -increased. Creation was there continuing; the cattle, the sheep, the -fowls, the rabbits, all that dwelt and swarmed there were incessantly -increasing and multiplying. Each year the ark became too small, and -fresh pens and fresh buildings were required. Life increased life; on -all sides there were fresh broods, fresh flocks, fresh herds; all the -conquering wealth of inexhaustible fruitfulness. - -When they reached the stables Seguin greatly admired the big draught -horses, and praised them with the expressions of a connoisseur. Then -he returned to the subject of breeding, and cited some extraordinary -results that one of his friends obtained by certain crosses. So far as -the animal kingdom was concerned his ideas were sound enough, but when -he came to the consideration of human kind he was as erratic as ever. As -they walked back from the stables he began to descant on the population -question, denouncing the century, and repeating all his old theories. -Perhaps it was jealous rancor that impelled him to protest against the -victory of life which the whole farm around him proclaimed so loudly. -Depopulation! why, it did not extend fast enough. Paris, which wished to -die, so people said, was really taking its time about it. All the same, -he noticed some good symptoms, for bankruptcy was increasing on all -sides--in science, politics, literature, and even art. Liberty was -already dead. Democracy, by exasperating ambitious instincts and setting -classes in conflict for power, was rapidly leading to a social collapse. -Only the poor still had large families; the elite, the people of wealth -and intelligence, had fewer and fewer children, so that, before final -annihilation came, there might still be a last period of acceptable -civilization, in which there would remain only a few men and women of -supreme refinement, content with perfumes for sustenance and mere breath -for enjoyment. He, however, was disgusted, for he now felt certain that -he would not see that period since it was so slow in coming. - -“If only Christianity would return to the primitive faith,” he -continued, “and condemn woman as an impure, diabolical, and harmful -creature, we might go and lead holy lives in the desert, and in that way -bring the world to an end much sooner. But the political Catholicism of -nowadays, anxious to keep alive itself, allows and regulates marriage, -with the view of maintaining things as they are. Oh! you will say, of -course, that I myself married and that I have children, which is true; -but I am pleased to think that they will redeem my fault. Gaston says -that a soldier’s only wife ought to be his sword, and so he intends -to remain single; and as Lucie, on her side, has taken the veil at the -Ursulines, I feel quite at ease. My race is, so to say, already extinct, -and that delights me.” - -Mathieu listened with a smile. He was acquainted with that more or -less literary form of pessimism. In former days all such views, as, for -instance, the struggle of civilization against the birth-rate, and the -relative childlessness of the most intelligent and able members of the -community, had disturbed him. But since he had fought the cause of love -he had found another faith. Thus he contented himself with saying rather -maliciously: “But you forget your daughter Andree and her little boy -Leonce.” - -“Oh! Andree!” replied Seguin, waving his hand as if she did not belong -to him. - -Valentine, however, had stopped short, gazing at him fixedly. Since -their household had been wrecked and they had been leading lives apart, -she no longer tolerated his sudden attacks of insane brutality and -jealousy. By reason also of the squandering of their fortune she had a -hold on him, for he feared that she might ask for certain accounts to be -rendered her. - -“Yes,” he granted, “there is Andree; but then girls don’t count.” - -They were walking on again when Beauchene, who had hitherto contented -himself with puffing and chewing his cigar, for reserve was imposed upon -him by the frightful drama of his own family life, was unable to -remain silent any longer. Forgetful, relapsing into the extraordinary -unconsciousness which always set him erect, like a victorious superior -man, he spoke out loudly and boldly: - -“I don’t belong to Seguin’s school, but, all the same, he says some true -things. That population question greatly interests me even now, and -I can flatter myself that I know it fully. Well, it is evident that -Malthus was right. It is not allowable for people to have families -without knowing how they will be able to nourish them. If the poor die -of starvation it is their fault, and not ours.” - -Then he reverted to his usual lecture on the subject. The governing -classes alone were reasonable in keeping to small families. A country -could only produce a certain supply of food, and was therefore -restricted to a certain population. People talked of the faulty division -of wealth; but it was madness to dream of an Utopia, where there would -be no more masters but only so many brothers, equal workers and sharers, -who would apportion happiness among themselves like a birthday-cake. -All the evil then came from the lack of foresight among the poor, -though with brutal frankness he admitted that employers readily availed -themselves of the circumstance that there was a surplus of children to -hire labor at reduced rates. - -Then, losing all recollection of the past, infatuated, intoxicated with -his own ideas, he went on talking of himself. “People pretend that we -are not patriots because we don’t leave troops of children behind us. -But that is simply ridiculous; each serves the country in his own way. -If the poor folks give it soldiers, we give it our capital--all the -proceeds of our commerce and industry. A fine lot of good would it do -the country if we were to ruin ourselves with big families, which would -hamper us, prevent us from getting rich, and afterwards destroy whatever -we create by subdividing it. With our laws and customs there can be no -substantial fortune unless a family is limited to one son. And yes, that -is necessary; but one son--an only son--that is the only wise course; -therein lies the only possible happiness.” - -It became so painful to hear him, in his position, speaking in that -fashion, that the others remained silent, full of embarrassment. And -he, thinking that he was convincing them, went on triumphantly: “Thus, I -myself--” - -But at this moment Constance interrupted him. She had hitherto walked -on with bowed head amid that flow of chatter which brought her so much -torture and shame, an aggravation, as it were, of her defeat. But now -she raised her face, down which two big tears were trickling. - -“Alexandre!” she said. - -“What is it, my dear?” - -He did not yet understand. But on seeing her tears, he ended by feeling -disturbed, in spite of all his fine assurance. He looked at the others, -and wishing to have the last word, he added: “Ah, yes! our poor child. -But particular cases have nothing to do with general theories; ideas are -still ideas.” - -Silence fell between them. They were now near the lawn where the family -had remained. And for the last moment Mathieu had been thinking of -Morange, whom he had also invited to the wedding, but who had excused -himself from attending, as if he were terrified at the idea of gazing -on the joy of others, and dreaded, too, lest some sacrilegious attempt -should be made in his absence on the mysterious sanctuary where he -worshipped. Would he, Morange--so Mathieu wondered--have clung like -Beauchene to his former ideas? Would he still have defended the theory -of the only child; that hateful, calculating theory which had cost him -both his wife and his daughter? Mathieu could picture him flitting -past, pale and distracted, with the step of a maniac hastening to some -mysterious end, in which insanity would doubtless have its place. But -the lugubrious vision vanished, and then again before Mathieu’s eyes -the lawn spread out under the joyous sun, offering between its belt of -foliage such a picture of happy health and triumphant beauty, that he -felt impelled to break the mournful silence and exclaim: - -“Look there! look there! Isn’t that gay; isn’t that a delightful -scene--all those dear women and dear children in that setting of -verdure? It ought to be painted to show people how healthy and beautiful -life is!” - -Time had not been lost on the lawn since the Beauchenes and Seguins -had gone off to visit the stables. First of all there had been a -distribution of the menu cards, which Charlotte had adorned with such -delicate water-color sketches. This surprise of hers had enraptured -them all at lunch, and they still laughed at the sight of those pretty -children’s heads. Then, while the servants cleared the table, Gregoire -achieved a great success by offering the bride a bouquet of splendid -white roses, which he drew out of a bush where he had hitherto kept it -hidden. He had doubtless been waiting for some absence of his father’s. -They were the roses of the mill; with Therese’s assistance he must have -pillaged the bushes in the enclosure. Marianne, recognizing how serious -was the transgression, wished to scold him. But what superb white -roses they were, as big as cabbages, as he himself had said! And he was -entitled to triumph over them, for they were the only white roses there, -and had been secured by himself, like the wandering urchin he was with -a spice of knight-errantry in his composition, quite ready to jump over -walls and cajole damsels in order to deck a bride with snowy blooms. - -“Oh! papa won’t say anything,” he declared, with no little -self-assurance; “they are far too beautiful.” - -This made the others laugh; but fresh emotion ensued, for Benjamin and -Guillaume awoke and screamed their hunger aloud. It was gayly remarked, -however, that they were quite entitled to their turn of feasting. And as -it was simply a family gathering there was no embarrassment on the part -of the mothers. Marianne took Benjamin on her knees in the shade of the -oak tree, and Charlotte placed herself with Guillaume on her right hand; -while, on her left, Andree seated herself with little Leonce, who had -been weaned a week previously, but was still very fond of caresses. - -It was at this moment that the Beauchenes and the Seguins reappeared -with Mathieu, and stopped short, struck by the charm of the spectacle -before them. Between a framework of tall trees, under the patriarchal -oak, on the thick grass of the lawn the whole vigorous family was -gathered in a group, instinct with gayety, beauty, and strength. Gervais -and Claire, ever active, were, with Frederic, hurrying on the servants, -who made no end of serving the coffee on the table which had just been -cleared. For this table the three younger girls, half buried in a heap -of flowers, tea and blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help of -knight Gregoire, devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, the -bridal pair, Denis and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while the -bride’s mother, Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreet -and infinitely gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midst -of all this that Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, ever -beautiful, with serene strength, was giving the breast to her twelfth -child, her Benjamin, and smiling at him as he sucked away; while -surrendering her other knee to little Nicolas, who was jealous of his -younger brother. And her two daughters-in-law seemed like a continuation -of herself. There was Andree on the left with Ambroise, who had stepped -up to tease his little Leonce; and Charlotte on the right with her two -children, Guillaume, who hung on her breast, and Berthe, who had -sought a place among her skirts. And here, faith in life had yielded -prosperity, ever-increasing, overflowing wealth, all the sovereign -florescence of happy fruitfulness. - -Seguin, addressing himself to Marianne, asked her jestingly: “And so -that little gentleman is the fourteenth you have nursed?” - -She likewise laughed. “No; I mustn’t tell fibs! I have nursed twelve, -including this one; that is the exact number.” - -Beauchene, who had recovered his self-possession, could not refrain from -intervening once more: “A full dozen, eh! It is madness!” - -“I share your opinion,” said Mathieu, laughing in his turn. “At all -events, if it is not madness it is extravagance, as we admit, my wife -and I, when we are alone. And we certainly don’t think that all people -ought to have such large families as ours. But, given the situation in -France nowadays, with our population dwindling and that of nearly every -other country increasing, it is hardly possible to complain of even the -largest family. Thus, even if our example be exaggerated, it remains an -example, I think, for others to think over.” - -Marianne listened, still smiling, but with tears standing in her eyes. -A feeling of gentle sadness was penetrating her; her heart-wound had -reopened even amid all her joy at seeing her children assembled around -her. “Yes,” said she in a trembling voice, “there have been twelve, but -I have only ten left. Two are already sleeping yonder, waiting for us -underground.” - -There was no sign of dread, however, in that evocation of the peaceful -little cemetery of Janville and the family grave in which all the -children hoped some day to be laid, one after the other, side by side. -Rather did that evocation, coming amid that gay wedding assembly, seem -like a promise of future blessed peace. The memory of the dear departed -ones remained alive, and lent to one and all a kind of loving gravity -even amid their mirth. Was it not impossible to accept life without -accepting death. Each came here to perform his task, and then, his work -ended, went to join his elders in that slumber of eternity where the -great fraternity of humankind was fulfilled. - -But in presence of those jesters, Beauchene and Seguin, quite a flood -of words rose to Mathieu’s lips. He would have liked to answer them; -he would have liked to triumph over the mendacious theories which they -still dared to assert even in their hour of defeat. To fear that the -earth might become over-populated, that excess of life might produce -famine, was this not idiotic? Others only had to do as he had done: -create the necessary subsistence each time that a child was born to -them. And he would have pointed to Chantebled, his work, and to all the -corn growing up under the sun, even as his children grew. They could not -be charged with having come to consume the share of others, since each -was born with his bread before him. And millions of new beings might -follow, for the earth was vast: more than two-thirds of it still -remained to be placed under cultivation, and therein lay endless -fertility for unlimited humanity. Besides, had not every civilization, -every progress, been due to the impulse of numbers? The improvidence -of the poor had alone urged revolutionary multitudes to the conquest of -truth, justice, and happiness. And with each succeeding day the human -torrent would require more kindliness, more equity, the logical division -of wealth by just laws regulating universal labor. If it were true, too, -that civilization was a check to excessive natality, this phenomenon -itself might make one hope in final equilibrium in the far-off ages, -when the earth should be entirely populated and wise enough to live in a -sort of divine immobility. But all this was pure speculation beside -the needs of the hour, the nations which must be built up afresh and -incessantly enlarged, pending the eventual definitive federation of -mankind. And it was really an example, a brave and a necessary one, that -Marianne and he were giving, in order that manners and customs, and the -idea of morality and the idea of beauty might be changed. - -Full of these thoughts Mathieu was already opening his mouth to speak. -But all at once he felt how futile discussion would be in presence of -that admirable scene; that mother surrounded by such a florescence of -vigorous children; that mother nursing yet another child, under the big -oak which she had planted. She was bravely accomplishing her task--that -of perpetuating the world. And hers was the sovereign beauty. - -Mathieu could think of only one thing that would express everything, and -that was to kiss her with all his heart before the whole assembly. - -“There, dear wife! You are the most beautiful and the best! May all the -others do as you have done.” - -Then, when Marianne had gloriously returned his kiss, there arose an -acclamation, a tempest of merry laughter. They were both of heroic -mould; it was with a great dash of heroism that they had steered their -bark onward, thanks to their full faith in life, their will of action, -and the force of their love. And Constance was at last conscious of -it: she could realize the conquering power of fruitfulness; she could -already see the Froments masters of the factory through their son Denis; -masters of Seguin’s mansion through their son Ambroise; masters, too, of -all the countryside through their other children. Numbers spelt victory. -And shrinking, consumed with a love which she could never more satisfy, -full of the bitterness of her defeat, though she yet hoped for some -abominable revenge of destiny, she--who never wept!--turned aside to -hide the big hot tears which now burnt her withered cheeks. - -Meantime Benjamin and Guillaume were enjoying themselves like greedy -little men whom nothing could disturb. Had there been less laughter -one might have heard the trickling of their mothers’ milk: that little -stream flowing forth amid the torrent of sap which upraised the earth -and made the big trees quiver in the powerful July blaze. On every side -fruitful life was conveying germs, creating and nourishing. And for its -eternal work an eternal river of milk flowed through the world. - - - - -XIX - -ONE Sunday morning Norine and Cecile--who, though it was rightly a day -of rest, were, nevertheless, working on either side of their little -table, pressed as they were to deliver boxes for the approaching New -Year season--received a visit which left them pale with stupor and -fright. - -Their unknown hidden life had hitherto followed a peaceful course, the -only battle being to make both ends meet every week, and to put by the -rent money for payment every quarter. During the eight years that the -sisters had been living together in the Rue de la Federation near the -Champ de Mars, occupying the same big room with cheerful windows, a room -whose coquettish cleanliness made them feel quite proud, Norine’s child -had grown up steadily between his two affectionate mothers. For he had -ended by confounding them together: there was Mamma Norine and there -was Mamma Cecile; and he did not exactly know whether one of the two -was more his mother than the other. It was for him alone that they both -lived and toiled, the one still a fine, good-looking woman at forty -years of age, the other yet girlish at thirty. - -Now, at about ten o’clock that Sunday, there came in succession two -loud knocks at the door. When the latter was opened a short, thick-set -fellow, about eighteen, stepped in. He was dark-haired, with a square -face, a hard prominent jaw, and eyes of a pale gray. And he wore a -ragged old jacket and a gray cloth cap, discolored by long usage. - -“Excuse me,” said he; “but isn’t it here that live Mesdames Moineaud, -who make cardboard boxes?” - -Norine stood there looking at him with sudden uneasiness. Her heart -had contracted as if she were menaced. She had certainly seen that face -somewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, which -suddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threatening -to spoil her quiet life. - -“Yes, it is here,” she answered. - -Without any haste the young man glanced around the room. He must have -expected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted slightly. Then -his eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, -had been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his face -to examine the newcomer. And the latter concluded his examination by -directing a brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, -sickly creature who likewise felt anxious in presence of that sudden -apparition of the unknown. - -“I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor,” the young man -resumed. “But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, for -the things I have to say can’t be said to everybody. It isn’t an easy -matter, and, of course, I thought it well over before I came here.” - -He spoke slowly in a drawling way, and after again making sure that the -other woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his pale -eyes steadily fixed on Norine. The growing anguish with which he saw -her quivering, the appeal that she was evidently making to her memory, -induced him to prolong things for another moment. Then he spoke out: -“I am the child who was put to nurse at Rougemont; my name is -Alexandre-Honore.” - -There was no need for him to say anything more. The unhappy Norine began -to tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung her hands, while an -ashen hue came over her distorted features. Good heavens--Beauchene! -Yes, it was Beauchene whom he resembled, and in so striking a manner, -with his eyes of prey, his big jaw which proclaimed an enjoyer consumed -by base voracity, that she was now astonished that she had not been able -to name him at her first glance. Her legs failed her, and she had to sit -down. - -“So it’s you,” said Alexandre. - -As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, but -unable to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and fright -clutch her at the throat, he felt the need of reassuring her a little, -particularly if he was to keep that door open to him. - -“You must not upset yourself like that,” said he; “you have nothing to -fear from me; it isn’t my intention to give you any trouble. Only when -I learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that was -natural, wasn’t it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased to -see me.. .. Then, too, the truth is that I’m precious badly off. Three -years ago I was silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do little -more than starve. And on the days when one hasn’t breakfasted, one feels -inclined to look up one’s parents, even though they may have turned one -into the street, for, all the same, they can hardly be so hard-hearted -as to refuse one a plateful of soup.” - -Tears rose to Norine’s eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the return -of that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow who -accused her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable to -elicit from her any response but shivers and sobs, Alexandre turned -to Cecile: “You are her sister, I know,” said he; “tell her that it’s -stupid of her to go on like that. I haven’t come to murder her. It’s -funny how pleased she is to see me! Yet I don’t make any noise, and I -said nothing whatever to the door-porter downstairs, I assure you.” - -Then as Cecile, without answering him, rose to go and comfort Norine, he -again became interested in the child, who likewise felt frightened and -turned pale on seeing the grief of his two mammas. - -“So that lad is my brother?” - -Thereupon Norine suddenly sprang to her feet and set herself between -the child and him. A mad fear had come to her of some catastrophe, some -great collapse which would crush them all. Yet she did not wish to be -harsh, she even sought kind words, but amid it all she lost her head, -carried away by feelings of revolt, rancor, instinctive hostility. - -“You came, I can understand it. But it is so cruel. What can I do? After -so many years one doesn’t know one another, one has nothing to say. And, -besides, as you can see for yourself, I’m not rich.” - -Alexandre glanced round the room for the second time. “Yes, I see,” he -answered; “and my father, can’t you tell me his name?” - -She remained thunderstruck by this question and turned yet paler, while -he continued: “Because if my father should have any money I should know -very well how to make him give me some. People have no right to fling -children into the gutter like that.” - -All at once Norine had seen the past rise up before her: Beauchene, -the works, and her father, who now had just quitted them owing to his -infirmities, leaving his son Victor behind him. - -And a sort of instinctive prudence came to her at the thought that if -she were to give up Beauchene’s name she might compromise all her happy -life, since terrible complications might ensue. The dread she felt of -that suspicious-looking lad, who reeked of idleness and vice, inspired -her with an idea: “Your father? He has long been dead,” said she. - -He could have known nothing, have learnt nothing on that point, for, in -presence of the energy of her answer, he expressed no doubt whatever of -her veracity, but contented himself with making a rough gesture which -indicated how angry he felt at seeing his hungry hopes thus destroyed. - -“So I’ve got to starve!” he growled. - -Norine, utterly distracted, was possessed by one painful desire--a -desire that he might take himself away, and cease torturing her by his -presence, to such a degree did remorse, and pity, and fright, and horror -now wring her bleeding heart. She opened a drawer and took from it a -ten-franc piece, her savings for the last three months, with which she -had intended to buy a New Year’s present for her little boy. And giving -those ten francs to Alexandre, she said: “Listen, I can do nothing for -you. We live all three in this one room, and we scarcely earn our -bread. It grieves me very much to know that you are so unfortunately -circumstanced. But you mustn’t rely on me. Do as we do--work.” - -He pocketed the ten francs, and remained there for another moment -swaying about, and saying that he had not come for money, and that -he could very well understand things. For his part he always behaved -properly with people when people behaved properly with him. And he -repeated that since she showed herself good-natured he had no idea of -creating any scandal. A mother who did what she could performed her -duty, even though she might only give a ten-sous piece. Then, as he was -at last going off, he inquired: “Won’t you kiss me?” - -She kissed him, but with cold lips and lifeless heart, and the two -smacking kisses which, with noisy affectation, he gave her in return, -left her cheeks quivering. - -“And au revoir, eh?” said he. “Although one may be poor and unable -to keep together, each knows now that the other’s in the land of the -living. And there is no reason why I shouldn’t come up just now and -again to wish you good day when I’m passing.” - -When he had at last disappeared long silence fell amid the infinite -distress which his short stay had brought there. Norine had again sunk -upon a chair, as if overwhelmed by this catastrophe. Cecile had been -obliged to sit down in front of her, for she also was overcome. And -it was she who, amid the mournfulness of that room, which but a little -while ago had held all their happiness, spoke out the first to complain -and express her astonishment. - -“But you did not ask him anything; we know nothing about him,” said she. -“Where has he come from? What is he doing? What does he want? And, -in particular, how did he manage to discover you? These were the -interesting things to learn.” - -“Oh! what would you have!” replied Norine. “When he told me his name he -knocked all the strength out of me; I felt as cold as ice! Oh! it’s -he, there’s no doubt of it. You recognized his likeness to his father, -didn’t you? But you are right; we know nothing, and now we shall always -be living with that threat over our heads, in fear that everything will -crumble down upon us.” - -All her strength, all her courage was gone, and she began to sob, -stammering indistinctly: “To think of it! a big fellow of eighteen -falling on one like that without a word of warning! And it’s quite true -that I don’t love him, since I don’t even know him. When he kissed me I -felt nothing. I was icy cold, as if my heart were frozen. O God! O God! -what trouble to be sure, and how horrid and cruel it all is!” - -Then, as her little boy, on seeing her weep, ran up and flung himself; -frightened and tearful, against her bosom, she wildly caught him in her -arms. “My poor little one! my poor little one! if only you don’t suffer -by it; if only my sin doesn’t fall on you! Ah! that would be a terrible -punishment. Really the best course is for folks to behave properly in -life if they don’t want to have a lot of trouble afterwards!” - -In the evening the sisters, having grown somewhat calmer, decided that -their best course would be to write to Mathieu. Norine remembered that -he had called on her a few years previously to ask if Alexandre had not -been to see her. He alone knew all the particulars of the business, and -where to obtain information. And, indeed, as soon as the sisters’ -letter reached him Mathieu made haste to call on them in the Rue de -la Federation, for he was anxious with respect to the effect which any -scandal might have at the works, where Beauchene’s position was becoming -worse every day. After questioning Norine at length, he guessed that -Alexandre must have learnt her address through La Couteau, though he -could not say precisely how this had come about. At last, after a long -month of discreet researches, conversations with Madame Menoux, Celeste, -and La Couteau herself, he was able in some measure to explain -things. The alert had certainly come from the inquiry intrusted to the -nurse-agent at Rougemont, that visit which she had made to the hamlet of -Saint-Pierre in quest of information respecting the lad who was supposed -to be in apprenticeship with Montoir the wheelwright. She had talked too -much, said too much, particularly to the other apprentice, that Richard, -another foundling, and one of such bad instincts, too, that seven months -later he had taken flight, like Alexandre, after purloining some money -from his master. Then years elapsed, and all trace of them was lost. But -later on, most assuredly they had met one another on the Paris pavement, -in such wise that the big carroty lad had told the little dark fellow -the whole story how his relatives had caused a search to be made for -him, and perhaps, too, who his mother was, the whole interspersed with -tittle-tattle and ridiculous inventions. Still this did not explain -everything, and to understand how Alexandre had procured his mother’s -actual address, Mathieu had to presume that he had secured it from La -Couteau, whom Celeste had acquainted with so many things. Indeed, he -learnt at Broquette’s nurse-agency that a short, thickset young man -with pronounced jaw-bones had come there twice to speak to La Couteau. -Nevertheless, many points remained unexplained; the whole affair had -taken place amid the tragic, murky gloom of Parisian low life, whose -mire it is not healthy to stir. Mathieu ended by resting content with -a general notion of the business, for he himself felt frightened at -the charges already hanging over those two young bandits, who lived so -precariously, dragging their idleness and their vices over the pavement -of the great city. And thus all his researches had resulted in but one -consoling certainty, which was that even if Norine the mother was known, -the father’s name and position were certainly not suspected by anybody. - -When Mathieu saw Norine again on the subject he terrified her by the few -particulars which he was obliged to give her. - -“Oh! I beg you, I beg you, do not let him come again,” she pleaded. -“Find some means; prevent him from coming here. It upsets me too -dreadfully to see him.” - -Mathieu, of course, could do nothing in this respect. After mature -reflection he realized that the great object of his efforts must be to -prevent Alexandre from discovering Beauchene. What he had learnt of the -young man was so bad, so dreadful, that he wished to spare Constance the -pain and scandal of being blackmailed. He could see her blanching at the -thought of the ignominy of that lad whom she had so passionately -desired to find, and he felt ashamed for her sake, and deemed it more -compassionate and even necessary to bury the secret in the silence of -the grave. Still, it was only after a long fight with himself that he -came to this decision, for he felt that it was hard to have to abandon -the unhappy youth in the streets. Was it still possible to save him? He -doubted it. And besides, who would undertake the task, who would know -how to instil honest principles into that waif by teaching him to work? -It all meant yet another man cast overboard, forsaken amid the tempest, -and Mathieu’s heart bled at the thought of condemning him, though he -could think of no reasonable means of salvation. - -“My opinion,” he said to Norine, “is that you should keep his father’s -name from him for the present. Later on we will see. But just now I -should fear worry for everybody.” - -She eagerly acquiesced. “Oh! you need not be anxious,” she responded. -“I have already told him that his father is dead. If I were to speak out -everything would fall on my shoulders, and my great desire is to be left -in peace in my corner with my little one.” - -With sorrowful mien Mathieu continued reflecting, unable to make up his -mind to utterly abandon the young man. “If he would only work, I would -find him some employment. And I would even take him on at the farm -later, when I should no longer have cause to fear that he might -contaminate my people. However, I will see what can be done; I know a -wheelwright who would doubtless employ him, and I will write to you in -order that you may tell him where to apply, when he comes back to see -you.” - -“What? When he comes back!” she cried in despair. “So you think that he -will come back. O God! O God! I shall never be happy again.” - -He did, indeed, come back. But when she gave him the wheelwright’s -address he sneered and shrugged his shoulders. He knew all about the -Paris wheelwrights! A set of sweaters, a parcel of lazy rogues, who made -poor people toil and moil for them. Besides, he had never finished his -apprenticeship; he was only fit for running errands, in which capacity -he was willing to accept a post in a large shop. When Mathieu had -procured him such a situation, he did not remain in it a fortnight. One -fine evening he disappeared with the parcels of goods which he had been -told to deliver. In turn he tried to learn a baker’s calling, became -a mason’s hodman, secured work at the markets, but without ever fixing -himself anywhere. He simply discouraged his protector, and left all -sorts of roguery behind him for others to liquidate. It became necessary -to renounce the hope of saving him. When he turned up, as he did -periodically, emaciated, hungry, and in rags, they had to limit -themselves to providing him with the means to buy a jacket and some -bread. - -Thus Norine lived on in a state of mortal disquietude. For long weeks -Alexandre seemed to be dead, but she, nevertheless, started at the -slightest sound that she heard on the landing. She always felt him to -be there, and whenever he suddenly rapped on the door she recognized his -heavy knock and began to tremble as if he had come to beat her. He had -noticed how his presence reduced the unhappy woman to a state of abject -terror, and he profited by this to extract from her whatever little -sums she hid away. When she had handed him the five-franc piece which -Mathieu, as a rule, left with her for this purpose, the young rascal -was not content, but began searching for more. At times he made his -appearance in a wild, haggard state, declaring that he should certainly -be sent to prison that evening if he did not secure ten francs, and -talking the while of smashing everything in the room or else of carrying -off the little clock in order to sell it. And it was then necessary for -Cecile to intervene and turn him out of the place; for, however puny -she might be, she had a brave heart. But if he went off it was only to -return a few days later with fresh demands, threatening that he would -shout his story to everybody on the stairs if the ten francs were not -given to him. One day, when his mother had no money in the place and -began to weep, he talked of ripping up the mattress, where, said he, she -probably kept her hoard. Briefly, the sisters’ little home was becoming -a perfect hell. - -The greatest misfortune of all, however, was that in the Rue de la -Federation Alexandre made the acquaintance of Alfred, Norine’s youngest -brother, the last born of the Moineaud family. He was then twenty, -and thus two years the senior of his nephew. No worse prowler than he -existed. He was the genuine rough, with pale, beardless face, blinking -eyes, and twisted mouth, the real gutter-weed that sprouts up amid the -Parisian manure-heaps. At seven years of age he robbed his sisters, -beating Cecile every Saturday in order to tear her earnings from her. -Mother Moineaud, worn out with hard work and unable to exercise a -constant watch over him, had never managed to make him attend school -regularly, or to keep him in apprenticeship. He exasperated her to such -a degree that she herself ended by turning him into the streets in order -to secure a little peace and quietness at home. His big brothers kicked -him about, his father was at work from morning till evening, and the -child, thus morally a waif, grew up out of doors for a career of vice -and crime among the swarms of lads and girls of his age, who all rotted -there together like apples fallen on the ground. And as Alfred grew he -became yet more corrupt; he was like the sacrificed surplus of a poor -man’s family, the surplus poured into the gutter, the spoilt fruit which -spoils all that comes into contact with it. - -Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was not -even known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died at -a hospital exhausted by her long life of wretchedness and family cares -which had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at the -time of her death, but was as bent and as worn out as a centenarian. -Moineaud, two years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted by -paralysis, a lamentable wreck after fifty years of unjust toil, had been -obliged to quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its few -poor sticks had been cast to the four winds of heaven. - -Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he was -indebted to Denis’s compassionate initiative. But he was sinking into -second childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and not -only did he squander his few coppers in drink, but he could not be left -alone, for his feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degree -that he ran the risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he tried -to light his pipe. At last he found himself stranded in the home of his -daughters, Norine and Cecile, the only two who had heart enough to take -him in. They rented a little closet for him, on the fifth floor of the -house, over their own room, and they nursed him and bought him food and -clothes with his pension-money, to which they added a good deal of their -own. As they remarked in their gay, courageous way, they now had two -children, a little one and a very old one, which was a heavy burden -for two women who earned but five francs a day, although they were ever -making boxes from morn till night, There was a touch of soft irony in -the circumstance that old Moineaud should have been unable to find any -other refuge than the home of his daughter Norine--that daughter whom he -had formerly turned away and cursed for her misconduct, that hussy who -had dishonored him, but whose very hands he now kissed when, for fear -lest he should set the tip of his nose ablaze, she helped him to light -his pipe. - -All the same, the shaky old nest of the Moineauds was destroyed, and the -whole family had flown off, dispersed chancewise. Irma alone, thanks -to her fine marriage with a clerk, lived happily, playing the part of a -lady, and so full of vanity that she no longer condescended to see her -brothers and sisters. Victor, meantime, was leading at the factory much -the same life as his father had led, working at the same mill as the -other, and in the same blind, stubborn way. He had married, and though -he was under six-and-thirty, he already had six children, three boys and -three girls, so that his wife seemed fated to much the same existence -as his mother La Moineaude. Both of them would finish broken down, and -their children in their turn would unconsciously perpetuate the swarming -and accursed starveling race. - -At Euphrasie’s, destiny the inevitable showed itself more tragic still. -The wretched woman had not been lucky enough to die. She had gradually -become bedridden, quite unable to move, though she lived on and could -hear and see and understand things. From that open grave, her bed, she -had beheld the final break-up of what remained of her sorry home. She -was nothing more than a thing, insulted by her husband and tortured by -Madame Joseph, who would leave her for days together without water, and -fling her occasional crusts much as they might be flung to a sick animal -whose litter is not even changed. Terror-stricken, and full of humility -amid her downfall, Euphrasie resigned herself to everything; but the -worst was that her three children, her twin daughters and her son, being -abandoned to themselves, sank into vice, the all-corrupting life of the -streets. Benard, tired out, distracted by the wreck of his home, had -taken to drinking with Madame Joseph; and afterwards they would fight -together, break the furniture, and drive off the children, who came home -muddy, in rags, and with their pockets full of stolen things. On two -occasions Benard disappeared for a week at a time. On the third he did -not come back at all. When the rent fell due, Madame Joseph in her turn -took herself off. And then came the end. Euphrasie had to be removed -to the hospital of La Salpetriere, the last refuge of the aged and the -infirm; while the children, henceforth without a home in name, were -driven into the gutter. The boy never turned up again; it was as if he -had been swallowed by some sewer. One of the twin girls, found in the -streets, died in a hospital during the ensuing year; and the other, -Toinette, a fair-haired scraggy hussy, who, however puny she might look, -was a terrible little creature with the eyes and the teeth of a wolf, -lived under the bridges, in the depths of the stone quarries, in the -dingy garrets of haunts of vice, so that at sixteen she was already an -expert thief. Her fate was similar to Alfred’s; here was a girl morally -abandoned, then contaminated by the life of the streets, and carried off -to a criminal career. And, indeed, the uncle and the niece having met -by chance, ended by consorting together, their favorite refuge, it was -thought, being the limekilns in the direction of Les Moulineaux. - -One day then it happened that Alexandre upon calling at Norine’s there -encountered Alfred, who came at times to try to extract a half-franc -from old Moineaud, his father. The two young bandits went off together, -chatted, and met again. And from that chance encounter there sprang a -band. Alexandre was living with Richard, and Alfred brought Toinette -to them. Thus they were four in number, and the customary developments -followed: begging at first, the girl putting out her hand at the -instigation of the three prowlers, who remained on the watch and drew -alms by force at nighttime from belated bourgeois encountered in dark -corners; next came vulgar vice and its wonted attendant, blackmail; -and then theft, petty larceny to begin with, the pilfering of things -displayed for sale by shopkeepers, and afterwards more serious affairs, -premeditated expeditions, mapped out like real war plans. - -The band slept wherever it could; now in suspicious dingy doss-houses, -now on waste ground. In summer time there were endless saunters through -the woods of the environs, pending the arrival of night, which handed -Paris over to their predatory designs. They found themselves at the -Central Markets, among the crowds on the boulevards, in the low -taverns, along the deserted avenues--indeed, wherever they sniffed the -possibility of a stroke of luck, the chance of snatching the bread of -idleness, or the pleasures of vice. They were like a little clan of -savages on the war-path athwart civilization, living outside the pale of -the laws. They suggested young wild beasts beating the ancestral forest; -they typified the human animal relapsing into barbarism, forsaken since -birth, and evincing the ancient instincts of pillage and carnage. And -like noxious weeds they grew up sturdily, becoming bolder and bolder -each day, exacting a bigger and bigger ransom from the fools who toiled -and moiled, ever extending their thefts and marching along the road to -murder. - -Never should it be forgotten that the child, born chancewise, and then -cast upon the pavement, without supervision, without prop or help, rots -there and becomes a terrible ferment of social decomposition. All those -little ones thrown to the gutter, like superfluous kittens are flung -into some sewer, all those forsaken ones, those wanderers of the -pavement who beg, and thieve, and indulge in vice, form the dung-heap in -which the worst crimes germinate. Childhood left to wretchedness breeds -a fearful nucleus of infection in the tragic gloom of the depths of -Paris. Those who are thus imprudently cast into the streets yield a -harvest of brigandage--that frightful harvest of evil which makes all -society totter. - -When Norine, through the boasting of Alexandre and Alfred, who took -pleasure in astonishing her, began to suspect the exploits of the band, -she felt so frightened that she had a strong bolt placed upon her door. -And when night had fallen she no longer admitted any visitor until she -knew his name. Her torture had been lasting for nearly two years; she -was ever quivering with alarm at the thought of Alexandre rushing in -upon her some dark night. He was twenty now; he spoke authoritatively, -and threatened her with atrocious revenge whenever he had to retire -with empty hands. One day, in spite of Cecile, he threw himself upon -the wardrobe and carried off a bundle of linen, handkerchiefs, towels, -napkins, and sheets, intending to sell them. And the sisters did not -dare to pursue him down the stairs. Despairing, weeping, overwhelmed by -it all, they had sunk down upon their chairs. - -That winter proved a very severe one; and the two poor workwomen, -pillaged in this fashion, would have perished in their sorry home of -cold and starvation, together with the dear child for whom they still -did their best, had it not been for the help which their old friend, -Madame Angelin, regularly brought them. She was still a lady-delegate -of the Poor Relief Service, and continued to watch over the children of -unhappy mothers in that terrible district of Grenelle, whose poverty is -so great. But for a long time past she had been unable to do anything -officially for Norine. If she still brought her a twenty-franc piece -every month, it was because charitable people intrusted her with fairly -large amounts, knowing that she could distribute them to advantage in -the dreadful inferno which her functions compelled her to frequent. -She set her last joy and found the great consolation of her desolate, -childless life in thus remitting alms to poor mothers whose little ones -laughed at her joyously as soon as they saw her arrive with her hands -full of good things. - -One day when the weather was frightful, all rain and wind, Madame -Angelin lingered for a little while in Norine’s room. It was barely two -o’clock in the afternoon, and she was just beginning her round. On her -lap lay her little bag, bulging out with the gold and the silver which -she had to distribute. Old Moineaud was there, installed on a chair -and smoking his pipe, in front of her. And she felt concerned about -his needs, and explained that she would have greatly liked to obtain a -monthly relief allowance for him. - -“But if you only knew,” she added, “what suffering there is among the -poor during these winter months. We are quite swamped, we cannot give to -everybody, there are too many. And after all you are among the fortunate -ones. I find some lying like dogs on the tiled floors of their rooms, -without a scrap of coal to make a fire or even a potato to eat. And -the poor children, too, good Heavens! Children in heaps among vermin, -without shoes, without clothes, all growing up as if destined for prison -or the scaffold, unless consumption should carry them off.” - -Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escape -the spectacle of all the terrifying things that she evoked, the -wretchedness, the shame, the crimes that she elbowed during her -continual perambulations through that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger. -She often returned home pale and silent, having reached the uttermost -depths of human abomination, and never daring to say all. At times -she trembled and raised her eyes to Heaven, wondering what vengeful -cataclysm would swallow up that accursed city of Paris. - -“Ah!” she murmured once more; “their sufferings are so great, may their -sins be forgiven them.” - -Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable to -understand. At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipe -from his mouth. It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do such -a thing, and yet for fifty years he had wrestled with iron--iron in the -vice or on the anvil. - -“There is nothing like good conduct,” he stammered huskily. “When a man -works he’s rewarded.” - -Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but was -unable to do so. His hand, deformed by the constant use of tools, -trembled too violently. So it became necessary for Norine to rise from -her chair and help him. - -“Poor father!” exclaimed Cecile, who had not ceased working, cutting out -the cardboard for the little boxes she made: “What would have become -of him if we had not given him shelter? It isn’t Irma, with her stylish -hats and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at her -place.” - -Meantime Norine’s little boy had taken his stand in front of Madame -Angelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good lady -called, there was some dessert at supper in the evening. He smiled at -her with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned with -tumbled sunshiny hair. And when she noticed with what a merry glance he -was waiting for her to open her little bag, she felt quite moved. - -“Come and kiss me, my little friend,” said she. - -She knew no sweeter reward for all that she did than the kisses of the -children in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy. When the -youngster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filled -with tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated: “No, -no, you must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy than -you. I know one who if this pretty little fellow could only be her -own would willingly accept your poverty, and paste boxes together from -morning till night and lead a recluse’s life in this one room, which -he suffices to fill with sunshine. Ah! good Heavens, if you were only -willing, if we could only change.” - -For a moment she became silent, afraid that she might burst into sobs. -The wound dealt her by her childlessness had always remained open. She -and her husband were now growing old in bitter solitude in three little -rooms overlooking a courtyard in the Rue de Lille. In this retirement -they subsisted on the salary which she, the wife, received as a -lady-delegate, joined to what they had been able to save of their -original fortune. The former fan-painter of triumphant mien was now -completely blind, a mere thing, a poor suffering thing, whom his wife -seated every morning in an armchair where she still found him in the -evening when she returned home from her incessant peregrinations through -the frightful misery of guilty mothers and martyred children. He could -no longer eat, he could no longer go to bed without her help, he had -only her left him, he was her child as he would say at times with a -despairing irony which made them both weep. - -A child? Ah, yes! she had ended by having one, and it was he! An old -child, born of disaster; one who appeared to be eighty though he was -less than fifty years old, and who amid his black and ceaseless night -ever dreamt of sunshine during the long hours which he was compelled to -spend alone. And Madame Angelin did not only envy that poor workwoman -her little boy, she also envied her that old man smoking his pipe -yonder, that infirm relic of labor who at all events saw clearly and -still lived. - -“Don’t worry the lady,” said Norine to her son; for she felt anxious, -quite moved indeed, at seeing the other so disturbed, with her heart so -full. “Run away and play.” - -She had learnt a little of Madame Angelin’s sad story from Mathieu. -And with the deep gratitude which she felt towards her benefactress -was blended a sort of impassioned respect, which rendered her timid and -deferent each time that she saw her arrive, tall and distinguished, -ever clad in black, and showing the remnants of her former beauty which -sorrow had wrecked already, though she was barely six-and-forty years -of age. For Norine, the lady-delegate was like some queen who had fallen -from her throne amid frightful and undeserved sufferings. - -“Run away, go and play, my darling,” Norine repeated to her boy: “you -are tiring madame.” - -“Tiring me, oh no!” exclaimed Madame Angelin, conquering her emotion. -“On the contrary, he does me good. Kiss me, kiss me again, my pretty -fellow.” - -Then she began to bestir and collect herself. - -“Well, it is getting late, and I have so many places to go to between -now and this evening! This is what I can do for you.” - -She was at last taking a gold coin from her little bag, but at that very -moment a heavy blow, as if dealt by a fist, resounded on the door. And -Norine turned ghastly pale, for she had recognized Alexandre’s brutal -knock. What could she do? If she did not open the door, the bandit would -go on knocking, and raise a scandal. She was obliged to open it, but -things did not take the violent tragical turn which she had feared. -Surprised at seeing a lady there, Alexandre did not even open his mouth. -He simply slipped inside, and stationed himself bolt upright against -the wall. The lady-delegate had raised her eyes and then carried them -elsewhere, understanding that this young fellow must be some friend, -probably some relative. And without thought of concealment, she went on: - -“Here are twenty francs, I can’t do more. Only I promise you that I will -try to double the amount next month. It will be the rent month, and I’ve -already applied for help on all sides, and people have promised to -give me the utmost they can. But shall I ever have enough? So many -applications are made to me.” - -Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with his -glittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure of -the poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the copper -money that distended its sides. Still in silence, he watched Madame -Angelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, and -then finally rose from her chair. - -“Well, au revoir, till next month then,” she resumed. “I shall certainly -call on the 5th; and in all probability I shall begin my round with you. -But it’s possible that it may be rather late in the afternoon, for -it happens to be my poor husband’s name-day. And so be brave and work -well.” - -Norine and Cecile had likewise risen, in order to escort her to the -door. Here again there was an outpouring of gratitude, and the child -once more kissed the good lady on both cheeks with all his little heart. -The sisters, so terrified by Alexandre’s arrival, at last began to -breathe again. - -In point of fact the incident terminated fairly well, for the young man -showed himself accommodating. When Cecile returned from obtaining -change for the gold, he contented himself with taking one of the four -five-franc pieces which she brought up with her. And he did not tarry to -torture them as was his wont, but immediately went off with the money he -had levied, whistling the while the air of a hunting-song. - -The 5th of the ensuing month, a Saturday, was one of the gloomiest, -most rainy days of that wretched, mournful winter. Darkness fell rapidly -already at three o’clock in the afternoon, and it became almost night. -At the deserted end of Rue de la Federation there was an expanse of -waste ground, a building site, for long years enclosed by a fence, which -dampness had ended by rotting. Some of the boards were missing, and at -one part there was quite a breach. All through that afternoon, in spite -of the constantly recurring downpours, a scraggy girl remained stationed -near that breach, wrapped to her eyes in the ragged remnants of an -old shawl, doubtless for protection against the cold. She seemed to -be waiting for some chance meeting, the advent it might be of some -charitably disposed wayfarer. And her impatience was manifest, for -while keeping close to the fence like some animal lying in wait, she -continually peered through the breach, thrusting out her tapering -weasel’s head and watching yonder, in the direction of the Champ de -Mars. - -Hours went by, three o’clock struck, and then such dark clouds rolled -over the livid sky, that the girl herself became blurred, obscured, as -if she were some mere piece of wreckage cast into the darkness. At times -she raised her head and watched the sky darken, with eyes that glittered -as if to thank it for throwing so dense a gloom over that deserted -corner, that spot so fit for an ambuscade. And just as the rain had once -more begun to fall, a lady could be seen approaching, a lady clad in -black, quite black, under an open umbrella. While seeking to avoid the -puddles in her path, she walked on quickly, like one in a hurry, who -goes about her business on foot in order to save herself the expense of -a cab. - -From some precise description which she had obtained, Toinette, the -girl, appeared to recognize this lady from afar off. She was indeed none -other than Madame Angelin, coming quickly from the Rue de Lille, on her -way to the homes of her poor, with the little chain of her little bag -encircling her wrist. And when the girl espied the gleaming steel of -that little chain, she no longer had any doubts, but whistled softly. -And forthwith cries and moans arose from a dim corner of the vacant -ground, while she herself began to wail and call distressfully. - -Astonished, disturbed by it all, Madame Angelin stopped short. - -“What is the matter, my girl?” she asked. - -“Oh! madame, my brother has fallen yonder and broken his leg.” - -“What, fallen? What has he fallen from?” - -“Oh! madame, there’s a shed yonder where we sleep, because we haven’t -any home, and he was using an old ladder to try to prevent the rain from -pouring in on us, and he fell and broke his leg.” - -Thereupon the girl burst into sobs, asking what was to become of them, -stammering that she had been standing there in despair for the last ten -minutes, but could see nobody to help them, which was not surprising -with that terrible rain falling and the cold so bitter. And while she -stammered all this, the calls for help and the cries of pain became -louder in the depths of the waste ground. - -Though Madame Angelin was terribly upset, she nevertheless hesitated, as -if distrustful. - -“You must run to get a doctor, my poor child,” said she, “I can do -nothing.” - -“Oh! but you can, madame; come with me, I pray you. I don’t know where -there’s a doctor to be found. Come with me, and we will pick him up, -for I can’t manage it by myself; and at all events we can lay him in the -shed, so that the rain sha’n’t pour down on him.” - -This time the good woman consented, so truthful did the girl’s accents -seem to be. Constant visits to the vilest dens, where crime sprouted -from the dunghill of poverty, had made Madame Angelin brave. She was -obliged to close her umbrella when she glided through the breach in the -fence in the wake of the girl, who, slim and supple like a cat, glided -on in front, bareheaded, in her ragged shawl. - -“Give me your hand, madame,” said she. “Take care, for there are some -trenches.... It’s over yonder at the end. Can you hear how he’s moaning, -poor brother?... Ah! here we are!” - -Then came swift and overwhelming savagery. The three bandits, Alexandre, -Richard, and Alfred, who had been crouching low, sprang forward and -threw themselves upon Madame Angelin with such hungry, wolfish violence -that she was thrown to the ground. Alfred, however, being a coward, then -left her to the two others, and hastened with Toinette to the breach in -order to keep watch. Alexandre, who had a handkerchief rolled up, all -ready, thrust it into the poor lady’s mouth to stifle her cries. Their -intention was to stun her only and then make off with her little bag. - -But the handkerchief must have slipped out, for she suddenly raised a -shriek, a loud and terrible shriek. And at that moment the others near -the breach gave the alarm whistle: some people were, doubtless, drawing -near. It was necessary to finish. Alexandre knotted the handkerchief -round the unhappy woman’s neck, while Richard with his fist forced her -shriek back into her throat. Red madness fell upon them, they both began -to twist and tighten the handkerchief, and dragged the poor creature -over the muddy ground until she stirred no more. Then, as the whistle -sounded again, they took the bag, left the body there with the -handkerchief around the neck, and galloped, all four of them, as far -as the Grenelle bridge, whence they flung the bag into the Seine, after -greedily thrusting the coppers, and the white silver, and the yellow -gold into their pockets. - -When Mathieu read the particulars of the crime in the newspapers, he -was seized with fright and hastened to the Rue de la Federation. The -murdered woman had been promptly identified, and the circumstance that -the crime had been committed on that plot of vacant ground but a hundred -yards or so from the house where Norine and Cecile lived upset him, -filled him with a terrible presentiment. And he immediately realized -that his fears were justified when he had to knock three times at -Norine’s door before Cecile, having recognized his voice, removed the -articles with which it had been barricaded, and admitted him inside. -Norine was in bed, quite ill, and as white as her sheets. She began to -sob and shuddered repeatedly as she told him the story: Madame Angelin’s -visit the previous month, and the sudden arrival of Alexandre, who had -seen the bag and had heard the promise of further help, at a certain -hour on a certain date. Besides, Norine could have no doubts, for -the handkerchief found round the victim’s neck was one of hers which -Alexandre had stolen: a handkerchief embroidered with the initial -letters of her Christian name, one of those cheap fancy things which -are sold by thousands at the big linendrapery establishments. That -handkerchief, too, was the only clew to the murderers, and it was such -a very vague one that the police were still vainly seeking the culprits, -quite lost amid a variety of scents and despairing of success. - -Mathieu sat near the bed listening to Norine and feeling icy cold. Good -God! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in her -younger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming the -woods there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losing -themselves among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shade -of the pollard willows beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses sounded -beneath the branches like the twittering of song birds. And he could -picture her at a later date, already too severely punished for her lack -of foresight, in despair at remaining childless, and bowed down with -grief as by slow degrees her husband became blind, and night fell upon -the little happiness yet left to them. And all at once Mathieu also -pictured that wretched blind man, on the evening when he vainly awaited -the return of his wife, in order that she might feed him and put him to -bed, old child that he was, now motherless, forsaken, forever alone in -his dark night, in which he could only see the bloody spectre of his -murdered helpmate. Ah! to think of it, so bright a promise of radiant -life, followed by such destiny, such death! - -“We did right,” muttered Mathieu, as his thoughts turned to Constance, -“we did right to keep that ruffian in ignorance of his father’s name. -What a terrible thing! We must bury the secret as deeply as possible -within us.” - -Norine shuddered once more. - -“Oh! have no fear,” she answered, “I would die rather than speak.” - -Months, years, flowed by; and never did the police discover the -murderers of the lady with the little bag. For years, too, Norine -shuddered every time that anybody knocked too roughly at her door. But -Alexandre did not reappear there. He doubtless feared that corner of -the Rue de la Federation, and remained as it were submerged in the dim -unsoundable depths of the ocean of Paris. - - - - -XX - -DURING the ten years which followed, the vigorous sprouting of the -Froments, suggestive of some healthy vegetation of joy and strength, -continued in and around the ever and ever richer domain of Chantebled. -As the sons and the daughters grew up there came fresh marriages, and -more and more children, all the promised crop, all the promised swarming -of a race of conquerors. - -First it was Gervais who married Caroline Boucher, daughter of a big -farmer of the region, a fair, fine-featured, gay, strong girl, one of -those superior women born to rule over a little army of servants. On -leaving a Parisian boarding-school she had been sensible enough to feel -no shame of her family’s connection with the soil. Indeed she loved the -earth and had set herself to win from it all the sterling happiness of -her life. By way of dowry she brought an expanse of meadow-land in -the direction of Lillebonne, which enlarged the estate by some seventy -acres. But she more particularly brought her good humor, her health, her -courage in rising early, in watching over the farmyard, the dairy, the -whole home, like an energetic active housewife, who was ever bustling -about, and always the last to bed. - -Then came the turn of Claire, whose marriage with Frederic Berthaud, -long since foreseen, ended by taking place. There were tears of soft -emotion, for the memory of her whom Berthaud had loved and whom he was -to have married disturbed several hearts on the wedding day when the -family skirted the little cemetery of Janville as it returned to the -farm from the municipal offices. But, after all, did not that love of -former days, that faithful fellow’s long affection, which in time had -become transferred to the younger sister, constitute as it were another -link in the ties which bound him to the Froments? He had no fortune, -he brought with him only his constant faithfulness, and the fraternity -which had sprung up between himself and Gervais during the many seasons -when they had ploughed the estate like a span of tireless oxen drawing -the same plough. His heart was one that could never be doubted, he was -the helper who had become indispensable, the husband whose advent would -mean the best of all understandings and absolute certainty of happiness. - -From the day of that wedding the government of the farm was finally -settled. Though Mathieu was barely five-and-fifty he abdicated, and -transferred his authority to Gervais, that son of the earth as with a -laugh he often called him, the first of his children born at Chantebled, -the one who had never left the farm, and who had at all times given him -the support of his arm and his brain and his heart. And now Frederic -in turn would think and strive as Gervais’s devoted lieutenant, in -the great common task. Between them henceforth they would continue the -father’s work, and perfect the system of culture, procuring appliances -of new design from the Beauchene works, now ruled by Denis, and ever -drawing from the soil the largest crops that it could be induced to -yield. Their wives had likewise divided their share of authority; Claire -surrendered the duties of supervision to Caroline, who was stronger and -more active than herself, and was content to attend to the accounts, the -turnover of considerable sums of money, all that was paid away and all -that was received. The two couples seemed to have been expressly and -cleverly selected to complete one another and to accomplish the greatest -sum of work without ever the slightest fear of conflict. And, indeed, -they lived in perfect union, with only one will among them, one purpose -which was ever more and more skilfully effected--the continual increase -of the happiness and wealth of Chantebled under the beneficent sun. - -At the same time, if Mathieu had renounced the actual exercise of -authority, he none the less remained the creator, the oracle who was -consulted, listened to, and obeyed. He dwelt with Marianne in the -old shooting-box which had been transformed and enlarged into a very -comfortable house. Here they lived like the founders of a dynasty who -had retired in full glory, setting their only delight in beholding -around them the development and expansion of their race, the birth and -growth of their children’s children. Leaving Claire and Gervais on one -side, there were as yet only Denis and Ambroise--the first to wing their -flight abroad--engaged in building up their fortunes in Paris. The three -girls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, who would soon be old enough -to marry, still dwelt in the happy home beside their parents, as well -as the three youngest boys, Gregoire, the free lance, Nicolas, the most -stubborn and determined of the brood, and Benjamin, who was of a dreamy -nature. All these finished growing up at the edge of the nest, so to -say, with the window of life open before them, ready for the day when -they likewise would take wing. - -With them dwelt Charlotte, Blaise’s widow, and her two children, Berthe -and Guillaume, the three of them occupying an upper floor of the house -where the mother had installed her studio. She was becoming rich since -her little share in the factory profits, stipulated by Denis, had been -increasing year by year; but nevertheless, she continued working for -her dealer in miniatures. This work brought her pocket-money, she gayly -said, and would enable her to make her children a present whenever they -might marry. There was, indeed, already some thought of Berthe -marrying; and assuredly she would be the first of Mathieu and Marianne’s -grandchildren to enter into the state of matrimony. They smiled softly -at the idea of becoming great-grandparents before very long perhaps. - -After the lapse of four years, Gregoire, first of the younger children, -flew away. There was a great deal of trouble, quite a little drama in -connection with the affair, which Mathieu and Marianne had for some -time been anticipating. Gregoire was anything but reasonable. Short, but -robust, with a pert face in which glittered the brightest of eyes, he -had always been the turbulent member of the family, the one who caused -the most anxiety. His childhood had been spent in playing truant in -the woods of Janville, and he had afterwards made a mere pretence of -studying in Paris, returning home full of health and spirits, but unable -or unwilling to make up his mind with respect to any particular trade -or profession. Already four-and-twenty, he knew little more than how -to shoot and fish, and trot about the country on horseback. He was -certainly not more stupid or less active than another, but he seemed -bent on living and amusing himself according to his fancy. The worst was -that for some months past all the gossips of Janville had been -relating that he had renewed his former boyish friendship with Therese -Lepailleur, the miller’s daughter, and that they were to be met of an -evening in shady nooks under the pollard-willows by the Yeuse. - -One morning Mathieu, wishing to ascertain if the young coveys of -partridges were plentiful in the direction of Mareuil, took Gregoire -with him; and when they found themselves alone among the plantations of -the plateau, he began to talk to him seriously. - -“You know I’m not pleased with you, my lad,” said he. “I really cannot -understand the idle life which you lead here, while all the rest of us -are hard at work. I shall wait till October since you have positively -promised me that you will then come to a decision and choose the calling -which you most fancy. But what is all this tittle-tattle which I hear -about appointments which you keep with the daughter of the Lepailleurs? -Do you wish to cause us serious worry?” - -Gregoire quietly began to laugh. - -“Oh, father! You are surely not going to scold a son of yours because -he happens to be on friendly terms with a pretty girl! Why, as you may -remember, it was I who gave her her first bicycle lesson nearly ten -years ago. And you will recollect the fine white roses which she helped -me to secure in the enclosure by the mill for Denis’ wedding.” - -Gregoire still laughed at the memory of that incident, and lived afresh -through all his old time sweethearting--the escapades with Therese along -the river banks, and the banquets of blackberries in undiscoverable -hiding-places, deep in the woods. And it seemed, too, that the love -of childhood had revived, and was now bursting into consuming fire, so -vividly did his cheeks glow, and so hotly did his eyes blaze as he thus -recalled those distant times. - -“Poor Therese! We had been at daggers drawn for years, and all because -one evening, on coming back from the fair at Vieux-Bourg, I pushed her -into a pool of water where she dirtied her frock. It’s true that last -spring we made it up again on finding ourselves face to face in the -little wood at Monval over yonder. But come, father, do you mean to -say that it’s a crime if we take a little pleasure in speaking to one -another when we meet?” - -Rendered the more anxious by the fire with which Gregoire sought to -defend the girl, Mathieu spoke out plainly. - -“A crime? No, if you just wish one another good day and good evening. -Only folks relate that you are to be seen at dusk with your arms -round each other’s waist, and that you go stargazing through the grass -alongside the Yeuse.” - -Then, as Gregoire this time without replying laughed yet more loudly, -with the merry laugh of youth, his father gravely resumed: - -“Listen, my lad, it is not at all to my taste to play the gendarme -behind my sons. But I won’t have you drawing some unpleasant business -with the Lepailleurs on us all. You know the position, they would -be delighted to give us trouble. So don’t give them occasion for -complaining, leave their daughter alone.” - -“Oh! I take plenty of care,” cried the young man, thus suddenly -confessing the truth. “Poor girl! She has already had her ears boxed -because somebody told her father that I had been met with her. He -answered that rather than give her to me he would throw her into the -river.” - -“Ah! you see,” concluded Mathieu. “It is understood, is it not? I shall -rely on your good behavior.” - -Thereupon they went their way, scouring the fields as far as the road to -Mareuil. Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started up -both to the right and to the left. The shooting would be good. Then as -the father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a long -spell of silence fell between them. They were both reflecting. - -“I don’t wish that there should be any misunderstanding between us,” - Mathieu suddenly resumed; “you must not imagine that I shall prevent you -from marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you to -take an heiress. Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl. And it -was the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, in -marriage to Frederic, who was simply one of our farm hands. So I don’t -look down on Therese. On the contrary, I think her charming. She’s one -of the prettiest girls of the district--not tall, certainly, but so -alert and determined, with her little pink face shining under such a -wild crop of fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all the -flour in the mill.” - -“Yes, isn’t that so, father?” interrupted Gregoire enthusiastically. -“And if you only knew how affectionate and courageous she is! She’s -worth a man any day. It’s wrong of them to smack her, for she will never -put up with it. Whenever she sets her mind on anything she’s bound to do -it, and it isn’t I who can prevent her.” - -Absorbed in some reflections of his own, Mathieu scarcely heard his son. - -“No, no,” he resumed; “I certainly don’t look down on their mill. If it -were not for Lepailleur’s stupid obstinacy he would be drawing a fortune -from that mill nowadays. Since corn-growing has again been taken up all -over the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pile -of crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism of his -wheel which he leaves rotting under the moss. And better still, I should -like to see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway line -connecting the mill with Janville station.” - -In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Gregoire -listened, again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way. - -“Well, father,” the young man ended by saying, “as you wish that I -should have a calling, it’s settled. If I marry Therese, I’ll be a -miller.” - -Mathieu protested in surprise: “No, no, I was merely talking. And -besides, you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable. So -once again, for the sake of the peace and quietness of all of us, -leave Therese alone, for we can only expect to reap worry with the -Lepailleurs.” - -The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm. That evening, -however, the father told the mother of the young man’s confession, and -she, who already entertained various misgivings, felt more anxious than -ever. Still a month went by without anything serious happening. - -Then, one morning Marianne was astounded at finding Gregoire’s bedroom -empty. As a rule he came to kiss her. Perhaps he had risen early, and -had gone on some excursion in the environs. But she trembled slightly -when she remembered how lovingly he had twice caught her in his arms on -the previous night when they were all retiring to bed. And as she looked -inquisitively round the room she noticed on the mantelshelf a letter -addressed to her--a prettily worded letter in which the young fellow -begged her to forgive him for causing her grief, and asked her to excuse -him with his father, for it was necessary that he should leave them -for a time. Of his reasons for doing so and his purpose, however, no -particulars were given. - -This family rending, this bad conduct on the part of the son who had -been the most spoilt of all, and who, in a fit of sudden folly was the -first to break the ties which united the household together, was a very -painful blow for Marianne and Mathieu. They were the more terrified -since they divined that Gregoire had not gone off alone. They pieced -together the incidents of the deplorable affair. Charlotte remembered -that she had heard Gregoire go downstairs again, almost immediately -after entering his bedroom, and before the servants had even bolted the -house-doors for the night. He had certainly rushed off to join Therese -in some coppice, whence they must have hurried away to Vieux-Bourg -station which the last train to Paris quitted at five-and-twenty minutes -past midnight. And it was indeed this which had taken place. At noon the -Froments already learnt that Lepailleur was creating a terrible scandal -about the flight of Therese. He had immediately gone to the gendarmes -to shout the story to them, and demand that they should bring the guilty -hussy back, chained to her accomplice, and both of them with gyves about -their wrists. - -He on his side had found a letter in his daughter’s bedroom, a plucky -letter in which she plainly said that as she had been struck again the -previous day, she had had enough of it, and was going off of her own -free will. Indeed, she added that she was taking Gregoire with her, and -was quite big and old enough, now that she was two-and-twenty, to know -what she was about. Lepailleur’s fury was largely due to this letter -which he did not dare to show abroad; besides which, his wife, ever -at war with him respecting their son Antonin, not only roundly abused -Therese, but sneeringly declared that it might all have been expected, -and that he, the father, was the cause of the gad-about’s misconduct. -After that, they engaged in fisticuffs; and for a whole week the -district did nothing but talk about the flight of one of the Chantebled -lads with the girl of the mill, to the despair of Mathieu and Marianne, -the latter of whom in particular grieved over the sorry business. - -Five days later, a Sunday, matters became even worse. As the search for -the runaways remained fruitless Lepailleur, boiling over with rancor, -went up to the farm, and from the middle of the road--for he did not -venture inside--poured forth a flood of ignoble insults. It so happened -that Mathieu was absent; and Marianne had great trouble to restrain -Gervais as well as Frederic, both of whom wished to thrust the miller’s -scurrilous language back into his throat. When Mathieu came home in the -evening he was extremely vexed to hear of what had happened. - -“It is impossible for this state of things to continue,” he said to his -wife, as they were retiring to rest. “It looks as if we were hiding, -as if we were guilty in the matter. I will go to see that man in the -morning. There is only one thing, and a very simple one, to be done, -those unhappy children must be married. For our part we consent, is it -not so? And it is to that man’s advantage to consent also. To-morrow the -matter must be settled.” - -On the following day, Monday, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Mathieu -set out for the mill. But certain complications, a tragic drama, which -he could not possibly foresee, awaited him there. For years now a -stubborn struggle had been going on between Lepailleur and his wife with -respect to Antonin. While the farmer had grown more and more exasperated -with his son’s idleness and life of low debauchery in Paris, the latter -had supported her boy with all the obstinacy of an illiterate woman, -who was possessed of a blind faith in his fine handwriting, and felt -convinced that if he did not succeed in life it was simply because he -was refused the money necessary for that purpose. In spite of her sordid -avarice in some matters, the old woman continued bleeding herself for -her son, and even robbed the house, promptly thrusting out her claws and -setting her teeth ready to bite whenever she was caught in the act, and -had to defend some twenty-franc piece or other, which she had been on -the point of sending away. And each time the battle began afresh, to -such a point indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would some -day end by falling on their heads. - -Then, all at once, Antonin, a perfect wreck at thirty-six years of age, -fell seriously ill. Lepailleur forthwith declared that if the scamp had -the audacity to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into the -water. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held the -country in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him up -like a dog. So his mother placed him with some people of Batignolles, -paying for his board and for the attendance of a doctor of the district. -This had been going on for three months or so, and every fortnight La -Lepailleur went to see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday, -and on the Sunday evening she received a telegram summoning her to -Batignolles again. Thus, on the morning of the day when Mathieu repaired -to the mill, she had once more gone to Paris after a frightful quarrel -with her husband, who asked if their good-for-nothing son ever meant to -cease fooling them and spending their money, when he had not the courage -even to turn a spit of earth. - -Alone in the mill that morning Lepailleur did not cease storming. At the -slightest provocation he would have hammered his plough to pieces, or -have rushed, axe in hand, and mad with hatred, on the old wheel by way -of avenging his misfortunes. When he saw Mathieu come in he believed in -some act of bravado, and almost choked. - -“Come, neighbor,” said the master of Chantebled cordially, “let us both -try to be reasonable. I’ve come to return your visit, since you called -upon me yesterday. Only, bad words never did good work, and the best -course, since this misfortune has happened, is to repair it as speedily -as possible. When would you have us marry off those bad children?” - -Thunderstruck by the quiet good nature of this frontal attack, -Lepailleur did not immediately reply. He had shouted over the house -roofs that he would have no marriage at all, but rather a good lawsuit -by way of sending all the Froments to prison. Nevertheless, when it -came to reflection, a son of the big farmer of Chantebled was not to be -disdained as a son-in-law. - -“Marry them, marry them,” he stammered at the first moment. “Yes, by -fastening a big stone to both their necks and throwing them together -into the river. Ah! the wretches! I’ll skin them, I will, her as well as -him.” - -At last, however, the miller grew calmer and was even showing a -disposition to discuss matters, when all at once an urchin of Janville -came running across the yard. - -“What do you want, eh?” called the master of the premises. - -“Please, Monsieur Lepailleur, it’s a telegram.” - -“All right, give it here.” - -The lad, well pleased with the copper he received as a gratuity, had -already gone off, and still the miller, instead of opening the telegram, -stood examining the address on it with the distrustful air of a man who -does not often receive such communications. However, he at last had to -tear it open. It contained but three words: “Your son dead”; and in that -brutal brevity, that prompt, hasty bludgeon-blow, one could detect the -mother’s cold rage and eager craving to crush without delay the man, the -father yonder, whom she accused of having caused her son’s death, even -as she had accused him of being responsible for her daughter’s flight. -He felt this full well, and staggered beneath the shock, stunned by the -words that appeared on that strip of blue paper, reading them again -and again till he ended by understanding them. Then his hands began to -tremble and he burst into oaths. - -“Thunder and blazes! What again is this? Here’s the boy dying now! -Everything’s going to the devil!” - -But his heart dilated and tears appeared in his eyes. Unable to remain -standing, he sank upon a chair and again obstinately read the telegram; -“Your son dead--Your son dead,” as if seeking something else, the -particulars, indeed, which the message did not contain. Perhaps the boy -had died before his mother’s arrival. Or perhaps she had arrived just -before he died. Such were his stammered comments. And he repeated a -score of times that she had taken the train at ten minutes past eleven -and must have reached Batignolles about half-past twelve. As she had -handed in the telegram at twenty minutes past one it seemed more likely -that she had found the lad already dead. - -“Curse it! curse it!” he shouted; “a cursed telegram, it tells you -nothing, and it murders you! She might, at all events, have sent -somebody. I shall have to go there. Ah the whole thing’s complete, it’s -more than a man can bear!” - -Lepailleur shouted those words in such accents of rageful despair that -Mathieu, full of compassion, made bold to intervene. The sudden shock -of the tragedy had staggered him, and he had hitherto waited in silence. -But now he offered his services and spoke of accompanying the other -to Paris. He had to retreat, however, for the miller rose to his feet, -seized with wild exasperation at perceiving him still there in his -house. - -“Ah! yes, you came; and what was it you were saying to me? That we ought -to marry off those wretched children? Well, you can see that I’m in -proper trim for a wedding! My boy’s dead! You’ve chosen your day well. -Be off with you, be off with you, I say, if you don’t want me to do -something dreadful!” - -He raised his fists, quite maddened as he was by the presence of Mathieu -at that moment when his whole life was wrecked. It was terrible indeed -that this bourgeois who had made a fortune by turning himself into a -peasant should be there at the moment when he so suddenly learnt the -death of Antonin, that son whom he had dreamt of turning into a Monsieur -by filling his mind with disgust of the soil and sending him to rot of -idleness and vice in Paris! It enraged him to find that he had erred, -that the earth whom he had slandered, whom he had taxed with decrepitude -and barrenness was really a living, youthful, and fruitful spouse to the -man who knew how to love her! And nought but ruin remained around him, -thanks to his imbecile resolve to limit his family: a foul life had -killed his only son, and his only daughter had gone off with a scion of -the triumphant farm, while he was now utterly alone, weeping and howling -in his deserted mill, that mill which he had likewise disdained and -which was crumbling around him with old age. - -“You hear me!” he shouted. “Therese may drag herself at my feet; but -I will never, never give her to your thief of a son! You’d like it, -wouldn’t you? so that folks might mock me all over the district, and so -that you might eat me up as you have eaten up all the others!” - -This finish to it all had doubtless appeared to him, confusedly, in a -sudden threatening vision: Antonin being dead, it was Gregoire who would -possess the mill, if he should marry Therese. And he would possess the -moorland also, that enclosure, hitherto left barren with such savage -delight, and so passionately coveted by the farm. And doubtless he would -cede it to the farm as soon as he should be the master. The thought that -Chantebled might yet be increased by the fields which he, Lepailleur, -had withheld from it brought the miller’s delirious rage to a climax. - -“Your son, I’ll send him to the galleys! And you, if you don’t go, I’ll -throw you out! Be off with you, be off!” - -Mathieu, who was very pale, slowly retired before this furious madman. -But as he went off he calmly said: “You are an unhappy man. I forgive -you, for you are in great grief. Besides, I am quite easy, sensible -things always end by taking place.” - -Again, a month went by. Then, one rainy morning in October, Madame -Lepailleur was found hanging in the mill stable. There were folks at -Janville who related that Lepailleur had hung her there. The truth was -that she had given signs of melancholia ever since the death of Antonin. -Moreover, the life led at the mill was no longer bearable; day by day -the husband and wife reproached one another for their son’s death and -their daughter’s flight, battling ragefully together like two abandoned -beasts shut up in the same cage. Folks were merely astonished that such -a harsh, avaricious woman should have been willing to quit this life -without taking her goods and chattels with her. - -As soon as Therese heard of her mother’s death she hastened home, -repentant, and took her place beside her father again, unwilling as she -was that he should remain alone in his two-fold bereavement. At first it -proved a terrible time for her in the company of that brutal old man who -was exasperated by what he termed his bad luck. But she was a girl of -sterling courage and prompt decision; and thus, after a few weeks, she -had made her father consent to her marriage with Gregoire, which, as -Mathieu had said, was the only sensible course. The news gave great -relief at the farm whither the prodigal son had not yet dared to return. -It was believed that the young couple, after eloping together, had lived -in some out of the way district of Paris, and it was even suspected that -Ambroise, who was liberally minded, had, in a brotherly way, helped them -with his purse. And if, on the one hand, Lepailleur consented to the -marriage in a churlish, distrustful manner--like one who deemed himself -robbed, and was simply influenced by the egotistical dread of some -day finding himself quite alone again in his gloomy house--Mathieu and -Marianne, on the other side, were delighted with an arrangement which -put an end to an equivocal situation that had caused them the greatest -suffering, grieved as they were by the rebellion of one of their -children. - -Curiously enough, it came to pass that Gregoire, once married and -installed at the mill in accordance with his wife’s desire, agreed with -his father-in-law far better than had been anticipated. This resulted in -particular from a certain discussion during which Lepailleur had wished -to make Gregoire swear, that, after his death, he would never dispose -of the moorland enclosure, hitherto kept uncultivated with peasant -stubbornness, to any of his brothers or sisters of the farm. Gregoire -took no oath on the subject, but gayly declared that he was not such -a fool as to despoil his wife of the best part of her inheritance, -particularly as he proposed to cultivate those moors and, within two or -three years’ time, make them the most fertile land in the district. That -which belonged to him did not belong to others, and people would soon -see that he was well able to defend the property which had fallen to -his lot. Things took a similar course with respect to the mill, where -Gregoire at first contented himself with repairing the old mechanism, -for he was unwilling to upset the miller’s habits all at once, and -therefore postponed until some future time the installation of an -engine, and the laying down of a line of rails to Janville station--all -those ideas formerly propounded by Mathieu which henceforth fermented in -his audacious young mind. - -In this wise, then, people found themselves in presence of a new -Gregoire. The madcap had become wise, only retaining of his youthful -follies the audacity which is needful for successful enterprise. And it -must be said that he was admirably seconded by the fair and energetic -Therese. They were both enraptured at now being free to love each other -in the romantic old mill, garlanded with ivy, pending the time when -they would resolutely fling it to the ground to install in its place -the great white meal stores and huge new mill-stones, which, with their -conquering ambition, they often dreamt of. - -During the years that followed, Mathieu and Marianne witnessed other -departures. The three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, in -turn took their flight from the family nest. All three found husbands -in the district. Louise, a plump brunette, all gayety and health, -with abundant hair and large laughing eyes, married notary Mazaud of -Janville, a quiet, pensive little man, whose occasional silent smiles -alone denoted the perfect satisfaction which he felt at having found a -wife of such joyous disposition. Then Madeleine, whose chestnut tresses -were tinged with gleaming gold, and who was slimmer than her sister, and -of a more dreamy style of beauty, her character and disposition refined -by her musical tastes, made a love match which was quite a romance. -Herbette, the architect, who became her husband, was a handsome, elegant -man, already celebrated; he owned near Monvel a park-like estate, where -he came to rest at times from the fatigue of his labors in Paris. - -At last, Marguerite, the least pretty of the girls--indeed, she -was quite plain, but derived a charm from her infinite goodness of -heart--was chosen in marriage by Dr. Chambouvet, a big, genial, kindly -fellow, who had inherited his father’s practice at Vieux-Bourg, where he -lived in a large white house, which had become the resort of the poor. -And thus the three girls being married, the only ones who remained with -Mathieu and Marianne in the slowly emptying nest were their two last -boys, Nicolas and Benjamin. - -At the same time, however, as the youngsters flew away and installed -themselves elsewhere, there came other little ones, a constant swarming -due to the many family marriages. In eight years, Denis, who reigned -at the factory in Paris, had been presented by his wife with three -children, two boys, Lucien and Paul, and a girl, Hortense. Then Leonce, -the son of Ambroise, who was conquering such a high position in the -commercial world, now had a brother, Charles, and two little sisters, -Pauline and Sophie. At the farm, moreover, Gervais was already the -father of two boys, Leon and Henri, while Claire, his sister, could -count three children, a boy, Joseph, and two daughters, Lucile and -Angele. There was also Gregoire, at the mill, with a big boy who had -received the name of Robert; and there were also the three last married -daughters--Louise, with a girl two years old; Madeleine, with a boy six -months of age; and Marguerite, who in anticipation of a happy event, had -decided to call her child Stanislas, if it were a boy, and Christine, if -it should be a girl. - -Thus upon every side the family oak spread out its branches, its trunk -forking and multiplying, and boughs sprouting from boughs at each -successive season. And withal Mathieu was not yet sixty, and Marianne -not yet fifty-seven. Both still possessed flourishing health, and -strength, and gayety, and were ever in delight at seeing the family, -which had sprung from them, thus growing and spreading, invading all the -country around, even like a forest born from a single tree. - -But the great and glorious festival of Chantebled at that period was the -birth of Mathieu and Marianne’s first great-grandchild--a girl, called -Angeline, daughter of their granddaughter, Berthe. In this little girl, -all pink and white, the ever-regretted Blaise seemed to live again. -So closely did she resemble him that Charlotte, his widow, already a -grandmother in her forty-second year, wept with emotion at the sight of -her. Madame Desvignes had died six months previously, passing away, even -as she had lived, gently and discreetly, at the termination of her task, -which had chiefly consisted in rearing her two daughters on the scanty -means at her disposal. Still it was she, who, before quitting the scene, -had found a husband for her granddaughter, Berthe, in the person of -Philippe Havard, a young engineer who had recently been appointed -assistant-manager at a State factory near Mareuil. It was at Chantebled, -however, that Berthe’s little Angeline was born; and on the day of -the churching, the whole family assembled together there once more to -glorify the great-grandfather and great-grandmother. - -“Ah! well,” said Marianne gayly, as she stood beside the babe’s cradle, -“if the young ones fly away there are others born, and so the nest will -never be empty.” - -“Never, never!” repeated Mathieu with emotion, proud as he felt of -that continual victory over solitude and death. “We shall never be left -alone!” - -Yet there came another departure which brought them many tears. Nicolas, -the youngest but one of their boys, who was approaching his twentieth -birthday, and thus nigh the cross-roads of life, had not yet decided -which one he would follow. He was a dark, sturdy young man, with an -open, laughing face. As a child, he had adored tales of travel and -far-away adventure, and had always evinced great courage and endurance, -returning home enraptured from interminable rambles, and never uttering -complaints, however badly his feet might be blistered. And withal he -possessed a most orderly mind, ever carefully arranging and classifying -his little belongings in his drawers, and looking down with contempt on -the haphazard way in which his sisters kept their things. - -Later on, as he grew up, he became thoughtful, as if he were vainly -seeking around him some means of realizing his two-fold craving, that -of discovering some new land and organizing it properly. One of the -last-born of a numerous family, he no longer found space enough for the -amplitude and force of his desires. His brothers and sisters had already -taken all the surrounding lands, and he stifled, threatened also, as it -were, with famine, and ever sought the broad expanse that he dreamt of, -where he might grow and reap his bread. No more room, no more food! At -first he knew not in which direction to turn, but groped and hesitated -for some months. Nevertheless, his hearty laughter continued to gladden -the house; he wearied neither his father nor his mother with the care -of his destiny, for he knew that he was already strong enough to fix it -himself. - -There was no corner left for him at the farm where Gervais and Claire -took up all the room. At the Beauchene works Denis was all sufficient, -reigning there like a conscientious toiler, and nothing justified -a younger brother in claiming a share beside him. At the mill, too, -Gregoire was as yet barely established, and his kingdom was so small -that he could not possibly cede half of it. Thus an opening was only -possible with Ambroise, and Nicolas ended by accepting an obliging offer -which the latter made to take him on trial for a few months, by way of -initiating him into the higher branches of commerce. Ambroise’s fortune -was becoming prodigious since old uncle Du Hordel had died, leaving him -his commission business. Year by year the new master increased his trade -with all the countries of the world. Thanks to his lucky audacity and -broad international views, he was enriching himself with the spoils of -the earth. And though Nicolas again began to stifle in Ambroise’s huge -store-houses, where the riches of distant countries, the most varied -climes, were collected together, it was there that his real vocation -came to him; for a voice suddenly arose, calling him away yonder to dim, -unknown regions, vast stretches of country yet sterile, which needed to -be populated, and cleared and sowed with the crops of the future. - -For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he was -now maturing. He was extremely discreet, as are all men of great energy, -who reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neither -space nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of his -birth; but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfect -state, deficient in the means needed for the heroic task of populating -and clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau, -who was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, and -activity had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, like -Nicolas, she stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confined -her; for she craved for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. An -orphan, and long dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little village -haberdasher, she had hitherto, from feelings of affection, remained -cloistered in a small and gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died, -leaving her some ten thousand francs, and her dream was to sell the -little business, and go away and really live at last. One October -evening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told one another things that they -had never previously told anybody, they came to an understanding. They -resolutely took each other’s hand and plighted their troth for life, for -the hard battle of creating a new world, a new family, somewhere on the -earth’s broad surface, in those mysterious, far away climes of which -they knew so little. ‘Twas a delightful betrothal, full of courage and -faith. - -Only then, everything having been settled, did Nicolas speak out, -announcing his departure to his father and mother. It was an autumn -evening, still mild, but fraught with winter’s first shiver, and the -twilight was falling. Intense grief wrung the parents’ hearts as soon -as they understood their son. This time it was not simply a young one -flying from the family nest to build his own on some neighboring tree -of the common forest; it was flight across the seas forever, severance -without hope of return. They would see their other children again, but -this one was breathing an eternal farewell. Their consent would be the -share of cruel sacrifice, that life demands, their supreme gift to life, -the tithe levied by life on their affection and their blood. To pursue -its victory, life, the perpetual conqueror, demanded this portion -of their flesh, this overplus of the numerous family, which was -overflowing, spreading, peopling the world. And what could they answer, -how could they refuse? The son who was unprovided for took himself -off; nothing could be more logical or more sensible. Far beyond the -fatherland there were vast continents yet uninhabited, and the seed -which is scattered by the breezes of heaven knows no frontiers. Beyond -the race there is mankind with that endless spreading of humanity that -is leading us to the one fraternal people of the accomplished times, -when the whole earth shall be but one sole city of truth and justice. - -Moreover, quite apart from the great dream of those seers, the poets, -Nicolas, like a practical man, whatever his enthusiasm, gayly gave his -reasons for departing. He did not wish to be a parasite; he was setting -off to the conquest of another land, where he would grow the bread he -needed, since his own country had no field left for him. Besides, he -took his country with him in his blood; she it was that he wished to -enlarge afar off with unlimited increase of wealth and strength. It was -ancient Africa, the mysterious, now explored, traversed from end to -end, that attracted him. In the first instance he intended to repair to -Senegal, whence he would doubtless push on to the Soudan, to the very -heart of the virgin lands where he dreamt of a new France, an immense -colonial empire, which would rejuvenate the old Gallic race by endowing -it with its due share of the earth. And it was there that he had the -ambition of carving out a kingdom for himself, and of founding with -Lisbeth another dynasty of Froments, and a new Chantebled, covering -under the hot sun a tract ten times as extensive as the old one, and -peopled with the people of his own children. And he spoke of all this -with such joyous courage that Mathieu and Marianne ended by smiling amid -their tears, despite the rending of their poor hearts. - -“Go, my lad, we cannot keep you back. Go wherever life calls you, -wherever you may live with more health and joy and strength. All that -may spring from you yonder will still be health and joy and strength -derived from us, of which we shall be proud. You are right, one must not -weep, your departure must be a fete, for the family does not separate, -it simply extends, invades, and conquers the world.” - -Nevertheless, on the day of farewell, after the marriage of Nicolas and -Lisbeth there was an hour of painful emotion at Chantebled. The family -had met to share a last meal all together, and when the time came for -the young and adventurous couple to tear themselves from the maternal -soil there were those who sobbed although they had vowed to be very -brave. Nicolas and Lisbeth were going off with little means, but rich in -hopes. Apart from the ten thousand francs of the wife’s dowry they had -only been willing to take another ten thousand, just enough to provide -for the first difficulties. Might courage and labor therefore prove -sturdy artisans of conquest. - -Young Benjamin, the last born of the brothers Froment, was particularly -upset by this departure. He was a delicate, good-looking child not yet -twelve years old, whom his parents greatly spoiled, thinking that he was -weak. And they were quite determined that they would at all events keep -him with them, so handsome did they find him with his soft limpid eyes -and beautiful curly hair. He was growing up in a languid way, dreamy, -petted, idle among his mother’s skirts, like the one charming weakling -of that strong, hardworking family. - -“Let me kiss you again, my good Nicolas,” said he to his departing -brother. “When will you come back?” - -“Never, my little Benjamin.” - -The boy shuddered. - -“Never, never!” he repeated. “Oh! that’s too long. Come back, come back -some day, so that I may kiss you again.” - -“Never,” repeated Nicolas, turning pale himself. “Never, never.” - -He had lifted up the lad, whose tears were raining fast; and then for -all came the supreme grief, the frightful moment of the hatchet-stroke, -of the separation which was to be eternal. - -“Good-by, little brother! Good-by, good-by, all of you!” - -While Mathieu accompanied the future conqueror to the door for the last -time wishing him victory, Benjamin in wild grief sought a refuge beside -his mother who was blinded by her tears. And she caught him up with a -passionate clasp, as if seized with fear that he also might leave her. -He was the only one now left to them in the family nest. - - - - -XXI - -AT the factory, in her luxurious house on the quay, where she had long -reigned as sovereign mistress, Constance for twelve years already -had been waiting for destiny, remaining rigid and stubborn amid the -continual crumbling of her life and hopes. - -During those twelve years Beauchene had pursued a downward course, the -descent of which was fatal. He was right at the bottom now, in the -last state of degradation. After beginning simply as a roving husband, -festively inclined, he had ended by living entirely away from his home, -principally in the company of two women, aunt and niece. He was now but -a pitiful human rag, fast approaching some shameful death. And large as -his fortune had been, it had not sufficed him; as he grew older he -had squandered money yet more and more lavishly, immense sums being -swallowed up in disreputable adventures, the scandal of which it had -been necessary to stifle. Thus he at last found himself poor, receiving -but a small portion of the ever-increasing profits of the works, which -were in full prosperity. - -This was the disaster which brought so much suffering to Constance in -her incurable pride. Beauchene, since the death of his son, had quite -abandoned himself to a dissolute life, thinking of nothing but his -pleasures, and taking no further interest in his establishment. What was -the use of defending it, since there was no longer an heir to whom it -might be transmitted, enlarged and enriched? And thus he had surrendered -it, bit by bit, to Denis, his partner, whom, by degrees, he allowed to -become the sole master. On arriving at the works, Denis had possessed -but one of the six shares which represented the totality of the property -according to the agreement. And Beauchene had even reserved to himself -the right of repurchasing that share within a certain period. But far -from being in a position to do so before the appointed date was passed, -he had been obliged to cede yet another share to the young man, in order -to free himself of debts which he could not confess. - -From that time forward it became a habit with Beauchene to cede Denis a -fresh share every two years. A third followed the second, then came the -turn of the fourth and the fifth, in such wise, indeed, that after a -final arrangement, he had not even kept a whole share for himself; but -simply some portion of the sixth. And even that was really fictitious, -for Denis had only acknowledged it in order to have a pretext for -providing him with a certain income, which, by the way, he subdivided, -handing half of it to Constance every month. - -She, therefore, was ignorant of nothing. She knew that, as a matter of -fact, the works would belong to that son of the hated Froments, whenever -he might choose to close the doors on their old master, who, as it -happened, was never seen now in the workshops. True, there was a clause -in the covenant which admitted, so long as that covenant should not be -broken, the possibility of repurchasing all the shares at one and the -same time. Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent belief -in a miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven, -that kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Those -twelve years of vain waiting--and increasing decline did not seem to -have diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she would -some day triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled in -presence of the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recovered -her self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpected -occurrence would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in the -right. - -She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she was -simply bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon the -over-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her own -home, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of her -husband who was in the gutter--all the abomination, indeed, which had -been so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony. -However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as an -honest bourgeoise filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could not -admit that she had been in the wrong. And thus she awaited the revenge -of destiny in that luxurious house, which was far too large now that -she alone inhabited it. She only occupied the rooms on the first floor, -where she shut herself up for days together with an old serving woman, -the sole domestic that she had retained. Gowned in black, as if bent on -wearing eternal mourning for Maurice, always erect, stiff, and haughtily -silent, she never complained, although her covert exasperation had -greatly affected her heart, in such wise that she experienced at times -most terrible attacks of stifling. These she kept as secret as possible, -and one day when the old servant ventured to go for Doctor Boutan she -threatened her with dismissal. She would not even answer the doctor, -and she refused to take any remedies, certain as she felt that she would -last as long as the hope which buoyed her up. - -Yet what anguish it was when she suddenly began to stifle, all alone -in the empty house, without son or husband near her! She called nobody -since she knew that nobody would come. And the attack over, with what -unconquerable obstinacy did she rise erect again, repeating that her -presence sufficed to prevent Denis from being the master, from reigning -alone in full sovereignty, and that in any case he would not have the -house and install himself in it like a conqueror, so long as she had not -sunk to death under the final collapse of the ceilings. - -Amid this retired life, Constance, haunted as she was by her fixed -idea, had no other occupation than that of watching the factory, and -ascertaining what went on there day by day. Morange, whom she had made -her confidant, gave her information in all simplicity almost every -evening, when he came to speak to her for a moment after leaving his -office. She learnt everything from his lips--the successive sales of -the shares into which the property had been divided, their gradual -acquisition by Denis, and the fact that Beauchene and herself were -henceforth living on the new master’s liberality. Moreover, she so -organized her system of espionage as to make the old accountant tell her -unwittingly all that he knew of the private life led by Denis, his wife -Marthe, and their children, Lucien, Paul, and Hortense all, indeed, that -was done and said in the modest little pavilion where the young people, -in spite of their increasing fortune, were still residing, evincing no -ambitious haste to occupy the large house on the quay. They did not -even seem to notice what scanty accommodation they had in that pavilion, -while she alone dwelt in the gloomy mansion, which was so spacious -that she seemed quite lost in it. And she was enraged, too, by their -deference, by the tranquil way in which they waited for her to be no -more; for she had been unable to make them quarrel with her, and was -obliged to show herself grateful for the means they gave her, and to -kiss their children, whom she hated, when they brought her flowers. - -Thus, months and years went by, and almost every evening when Morange -for a moment called on Constance, he found her in the same little silent -salon, gowned in the same black dress, and stiffened into a posture of -obstinate expectancy. Though no sign was given of destiny’s revenge, of -the patiently hoped-for fall of misfortune upon others, she never seemed -to doubt of her ultimate victory. On the contrary, when things fell -more and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defying -fate, buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced to -prove that she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior to -fatigue, and ever relying on a prodigy. - -Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, the -conversation invariably began in the same way. - -“Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?” - -“No, my friend, nothing.” - -“Well, the chief thing is to enjoy good health. One can wait for better -days.” - -“Oh! nobody enjoys good health; still one waits all the same.” - -And now one evening, at the end of the twelve years, as Morange went in -to see her, he detected that the atmosphere of the little drawing-room -was changed, quivering as it were with restrained delight amid the -eternal silence. - -“Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?” - -“Yes, my friend, there’s something fresh.” - -“Something favorable I hope, then; something pleasant that you have been -waiting for?” - -“Something that I have been waiting for--yes! What one knows how to wait -for always comes.” - -He looked at her in surprise, feeling almost anxious when he saw -how altered she was, with glittering eyes and quick gestures. What -fulfilment of her desires, after so many years of immutable mourning, -could have resuscitated her like that? She smiled, she breathed -vigorously, as if she were relieved of the enormous weight which had so -long crushed and immured her. But when he asked the cause of her great -happiness she said: - -“I will not tell you yet, my friend. Perhaps I do wrong to rejoice; for -everything is still very vague and doubtful. Only somebody told me this -morning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. When -I have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tell -you everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So have -a little patience, some evening you shall come to dinner with me here, -and we shall have the whole evening before us to chat at our ease. But -ah! _mon Dieu_! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle at -last!” - -More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. He -saw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did not -even question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, not -to say automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had lately -completed his sixty-ninth year; thirty years had gone by since the -death of his wife Valerie, more than twenty since his daughter Reine -had joined her, and he still ever lived on in his methodical, punctual -manner, amid the downfall of his existence. Never had man suffered more -than he, passed through greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse, -and withal he came and went in a careful, correct way, ever and ever -prolonging his career of mediocrity, like one whom many may have -forgotten, but whom keenness of grief has preserved. - -Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of a -nature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias. -While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which he -had formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived there -absolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his own -marketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself had -been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there. -But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even -to cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who was -now white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously -clean of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he -must have spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal, -sordid avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from -the money which he paid for his bread--bread of the commonest kind, -which he purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order -that he might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the people -who were acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the -house-porter propounding the question: “When a gentleman of such quiet -habits earns eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends -a cent, what can he do with his money?” Some folks even tried to reckon -up the amount which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought -that it might perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs. - -But more serious trouble declared itself. He was twice snatched away -from certain death. One day, when Denis was returning homewards across -the Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet, -watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if he -had not been grasped by his coat-tails. The poor man, on recovering his -self-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked of having -felt giddy. Then, on another occasion, at the works, Victor Moineaud -pushed him away from some machinery in motion at the very moment when, -as if hypnotized, he was about to surrender himself to its devouring -clutches. Then he again smiled, and acknowledged that he had done wrong -in passing so near to the wheels. After this he was watched, for people -came to the conclusion that he occasionally lost his head. If Denis -retained him as chief accountant, this was, firstly, from a feeling -of gratitude for his long services; but, apart from that matter, the -extraordinary thing was that Morange had never discharged his duties -more ably, obstinately tracing every doubtful centime in his books, -and displaying the greatest accuracy over the longest additions. Always -showing a calm and restful face, as though no tempest had ever assailed -his heart, he clung tightly to his mechanical life, like a discreet -maniac, who, though people might not know it, ought, perhaps, to have -been placed under restraint. - -At the same time, it should be mentioned that for some few years already -there had been quite a big affair in Morange’s life. Although he was -Constance’s confidant, although she had made him her creature by the -force of her despotic will, he had gradually conceived the greatest -affection for Denis’s daughter, Hortense. As this child grew up, he -fancied that he found in her his own long-mourned daughter, Reine. She -had recently completed her ninth year, and each time that Morange -met her he was thrown into a state of emotion and adoration, the more -touching since it was all a divine illusion on his part, for the two -girls in no wise resembled each other, the one having been extremely -dark, and the other being nearly fair. In spite of his terrible avarice, -the accountant loaded Hortense with dolls and sweetmeats on every -possible occasion; and at last his affection for the child absorbed him -to such a degree that Constance felt offended by it. She thereupon gave -him to understand that whosoever was not entirely on her side was, in -reality, against her. - -To all appearance, he made his submission; in reality, he only loved the -child the more for the thwarting of his passion, and he watched for her -in order to kiss her in secret. In his daily intercourse with Constance, -in showing apparent fidelity to the former mistress of the works, he -now simply yielded to fear, like the poor weak being he was, one whom -Constance had ever bent beneath her stern hand. The pact between them -was an old one, it dated from that monstrous thing which they alone -knew, that complicity of which they never spoke, but which bound them so -closely together. - -He, with his weak, good nature, seemed from that day to have remained -annihilated, tamed, cowed like a frightened animal. Since that day, too, -he had learnt many other things, and now no secret of the house remained -unknown to him. This was not surprising. He had been living there so -many years. He had so often walked to and fro with his short, discreet, -maniacal step, hearing, seeing, and surprising everything! However, this -madman, who knew the truth and who remained silent--this madman, left -free amid the mysterious drama enacted in the Beauchenes’ home, was -gradually coming to a rebellious mood, particularly since he was -compelled to hide himself to kiss his little friend Hortense. His heart -growled at the thought of it, and he felt ready to explode should his -passion be interfered with. - -All at once, one evening, Constance kept him to dinner. And he suspected -that the hour of her revelations had come, on seeing how she quivered -and how erectly she carried her little figure, like a fighter henceforth -certain of victory. Nevertheless, although the servant left them alone -after bringing in at one journey the whole of the frugal repast, she did -not broach the great affair at table. She spoke of the factory and then -of Denis and his wife Marthe, whom she criticised, and she was even -so foolish as to declare that Hortense was badly behaved, ugly, and -destitute of grace. The accountant, like the coward he was, listened to -her, never daring to protest in spite of the irritation and rebellion of -his whole being. - -“Well, we shall see,” she said at last, “when one and all are put back -into their proper places.” - -Then she waited until they returned to the little drawing-room, and the -doors were shut behind them; and it was only then, near the fire, -amid the deep silence of the winter evening, that she spoke out on the -subject which she had at heart: - -“As I think I have already told you, my friend, I have need of you. -You must obtain employment at the works for a young man in whom I am -interested. And if you desire to please me, you will even take him into -your own office.” - -Morange, who was seated in front of her on the other side of the -chimney-piece, gave her a look of surprise. - -“But I am not the master,” he replied; “apply to the master, he will -certainly do whatever you ask.” - -“No, I do not wish to be indebted to Denis in any way. Besides, that -would not suit my plans. You yourself must recommend the young man, and -take him as an assistant, coaching him and giving him a post under you. -Come, you surely have the power to choose a clerk. Besides, I insist on -it.” - -She spoke like a sovereign, and he bowed his back, for he had obeyed -people all his life; first his wife, then his daughter, and now that -dethroned old queen who terrified him in spite of the dim feeling of -rebellion which had been growing within him for some time past. - -“No doubt, I might take the young man on,” he said, “but who is he?” - -Constance did not immediately reply. She had turned towards the fire, -apparently for the purpose of raising a log of wood with the tongs, but -in reality to give herself time for further reflection. What good would -it do to tell him everything at once? She would some day be forced to -tell it him, if she wished to have him entirely on her side; but there -was no hurry, and she fancied that it would be skilful policy if at -present she merely prepared the ground. - -“He is a young man whose position has touched me, on account of certain -recollections,” she replied. “Perhaps you remember a girl who worked -here--oh! a very long time ago, some thirty years at the least--a -certain Norine Moineaud, one of old Moineaud’s daughters.” - -Morange had hastily raised his head, and as sudden light flashed on his -memory he looked at Constance with dilated eyes. Before he could even -weigh his words he let everything escape him in a cry of surprise: -“Alexandre-Honore, Norine’s son, the child of Rougemont!” - -Quite thunderstruck by those words, Constance dropped the tongs she was -holding, and gazed into the old man’s eyes, diving to the very depths of -his soul. - -“Ah! you know, then!” she said. “What is it you know? You must tell me; -hide nothing. Speak! I insist on it!” - -What he knew? Why, he knew everything. He spoke slowly and at length, -as from the depths of a dream. He had witnessed everything, learnt -everything--Norine’s trouble, the money given by Beauchene to provide -for her at Madame Bourdieu’s, the child carried to the Foundling -Hospital and then put out to nurse at Rougemont, whence he had fled -after stealing three hundred francs. And the old accountant was even -aware that the young scamp, after stranding on the pavement of Paris, -had led the vilest of lives there. - -“But who told you all that? How do you know all that?” cried Constance, -who felt full of anxiety. - -He waved his arm with a vague, sweeping gesture, as if to take in -all the surrounding atmosphere, the whole house. He knew those things -because they were things pertaining to the place, which people had told -him of, or which he had guessed. He could no longer remember exactly how -they had reached him. But he knew them well. - -“You understand,” said he, “when one has been in a place for more than -thirty years, things end by coming to one naturally. I know everything, -everything.” - -Constance started and deep silence fell. He, with his eyes fixed on the -embers, had sunk back into the dolorous past. She reflected that it was, -after all, preferable that the position should be perfectly plain. Since -he was acquainted with everything, it was only needful that she, -with all determination and bravery, should utilize him as her docile -instrument. - -“Alexandre-Honore, the child of Rougemont,” she said. “Yes! that is the -young man whom I have at last found again. But are you also aware of the -steps which I took twelve years ago, when I despaired of finding him, -and actually thought him dead?” - -Morange nodded affirmatively, and she again went on speaking, relating -that she had long since renounced her old plans, when all at once -destiny had revealed itself to her. - -“Imagine a flash of lightning!” she exclaimed. “It was on the morning -of the day when you found me so moved! My sister-in-law, Seraphine, who -does not call on me four times a year, came here, to my great surprise, -at ten o’clock. She has become very strange, as you are aware, and I did -not at first pay any attention to the story which she began to relate to -me--the story of a young man whom she had become acquainted with through -some lady--an unfortunate young man who had been spoilt by bad company, -and whom one might save by a little help. Then what a blow it was, -my friend, when she all at once spoke out plainly, and told me of -the discovery which she had made by chance. I tell you, it is destiny -awaking and striking!” - -The story was indeed curious. Prematurely aged though she was, -Seraphine, amid her growing insanity, continued to lead a wild, rackety -life, and the strangest stories were related of her. A singular caprice -of hers, given her own viciousness, was to join, as a lady patroness, -a society whose purpose was to succor and moralize young offenders on -their release from prison. And it was in this wise that she had become -acquainted with Alexandre-Honore, now a big fellow of two-and-thirty, -who had just completed a term of six years’ imprisonment. He had ended -by telling her his true story, speaking of Rougemont, naming Norine his -mother, and relating the fruitless efforts that he had made in former -years to discover his father, who was some immensely wealthy man. In the -midst of it, Seraphine suddenly understood everything, and in particular -why it was that his face had seemed so familiar to her. His striking -resemblance to Beauchene sufficed to throw a vivid light upon the -question of his parentage. For fear of worry, she herself told him -nothing, but as she remembered how passionately Constance had at one -time striven to find him, she went to her and acquainted her with her -discovery. - -“He knows nothing as yet,” Constance explained to Morange. “My -sister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who will -find him a good situation. It appears that he now asks nothing better -than to work. If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, there -have been many excuses for it! And, besides, I will answer for him as -soon as he is in my hands; he will then only do as I tell him.” - -All that Constance knew respecting Alexandre’s recent years was a story -which he had concocted and retailed to Seraphine--a story to the effect -that he owed his long term of imprisonment to a woman, the real culprit, -who had been his mistress and whom he had refused to denounce. Of course -that imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out of -the twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the six -others, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominy -and crime. On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had a -restful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmer -and keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer. -And cleansed, clad, and schooled by Seraphine, he had almost become a -presentable young man. - -Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had been -staring so fixedly. - -“Well, what do you want to do with him?” he inquired. “Does he write a -decent hand?” - -“Yes, his handwriting is good. No doubt, however, he knows very little. -It is for that reason that I wish to intrust him to you. You will polish -him up for me and make him conversant with everything. My desire is that -in a year or two he should know everything about the factory, like a -master.” - -At that last word which enlightened him, the accountant’s good sense -suddenly awoke. Amid the manias which were wrecking his mind, he had -remained a man of figures with a passion for arithmetical accuracy, and -he protested. - -“Well, madame, since you wish me to assist you, pray tell me everything; -tell me in what work we can employ this young man here. Really now, -you surely cannot hope through him to regain possession of the factory, -re-purchase the shares, and become sole owner of the place?” - -Then, with the greatest logic and clearness, he showed how foolish such -a dream would be, enumerating figures and fully setting forth how large -a sum of money would be needed to indemnify Denis, who was installed in -the place like a conqueror. - -“Besides, dear madame, I don’t understand why you should take that young -man rather than another. He has no legal rights, as you must be aware. -He could never be anything but a stranger here, and I should prefer an -intelligent, honest man, acquainted with our line of business.” - -Constance had set to work poking the fire logs with the tongs. When she -at last looked up she thrust her face towards the other’s, and said in -a low voice, but violently: “Alexandre is my husband’s son, he is the -heir. He is not the stranger. The stranger is that Denis, that son of -the Froments, who has robbed us of our property! You rend my heart; you -make it bleed, my friend, by forcing me to tell you this.” - -The answer she thus gave was the answer of a conservative bourgeoise, -who held that it would be more just if the inheritance should go to an -illegitimate scion of the house rather than to a stranger. Doubtless -the woman, the wife, the mother within her, bled even as she herself -acknowledged, but she sacrificed everything to her rancor; she would -drive the stranger away even if in doing so her own flesh should be -lacerated. Then, too, it vaguely seemed to her that her husband’s son -must be in some degree her own, since his father was likewise the father -of the son to whom she had given birth, and who was dead. Besides, she -would make that young fellow her son; she would direct him, she would -compel him to be hers, to work through her and for her. - -“You wish to know how I shall employ him in the place,” she resumed. -“I myself don’t know. It is evident that I shall not easily find the -hundreds of thousands of francs which may be required. Your figures are -accurate, and it is possible that we may never have the money to buy -back the property. But, all the same, why not fight, why not try? And, -besides--I will admit it--suppose we are vanquished, well then, so much -the worse for the other. For I assure you that if this young man will -only listen to me, he will then become the agent of destruction, the -avenger and punisher, implanted in the factory to wreck it!” - -With a gesture which summoned ruin athwart the walls, she finished -expressing her abominable hopes. Among her vague plans, reared upon -hate, was that of employing the wretched Alexandre as a destructive -weapon, whose ravages would bring her some relief. Should she lose -all other battles, that would assuredly be the final one. And she had -attained to this pitch of madness through the boundless despair in which -the loss of her only son had plunged her, withered, consumed by a love -which she could not content, then demented, perverted to the point of -crime. - -Morange shuddered when, with her stubborn fierceness, she concluded: -“For twelve years past I have been waiting for a stroke of destiny, and -here it is! I would rather perish than not draw from it the last chance -of good fortune which it brings me!” - -This meant that Denis’s ruin was decided on, and would be effected if -destiny were willing. And the old accountant could picture the disaster: -innocent children struck down in the person of their father, a great and -most unjust catastrophe, which made his kindly heart rise in rebellion. -Would he allow that fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud -all that he knew? Doubtless the memory of the other crime, the first -one, the monstrous buried crime about which they both kept silence, -returned at that horrible moment and shone out disturbingly in his eyes, -for she herself shuddered as if she could see it there, while with the -view of mastering him she gazed at him fixedly. For a moment, as -they peered into one another’s eyes, they lived once more beside the -murderous trap, and shivered in the cold gust which rose from the abyss. -And this time again Morange, like a poor weak man overpowered by a -woman’s will, was vanquished, and did not speak. - -“So it is agreed, my friend,” she softly resumed. “I rely on you to -take Alexandre, in the first place, as a clerk. You can see him here one -evening at five o’clock, after dusk, for I do not wish him to know -at first what interest I take in him. Shall we say the day after -to-morrow?” - -“Yes, the evening of the day after to-morrow, if it pleases you, dear -madame.” - -On the morrow Morange displayed so much agitation that the wife of the -door-porter of the house where he resided, a woman who was ever watching -him, imparted her fears to her husband. The old gentleman was certainly -going to have an attack, for he had forgotten to put on his slippers -when he came downstairs to fetch some water in the morning; and, -besides, he went on talking to himself, and looked dreadfully upset. The -most extraordinary incident of the day, however, was that after lunch -Morange quite forgot himself, and was an hour late in returning to his -office, a lack of punctuality which had no precedent, which, in the -memory of everybody at the works, had never occurred before. - -As a matter of fact, Morange had been carried away as by a storm, and, -walking straight before him, had once more found himself on the Grenelle -bridge, where Denis had one day saved him from the fascination of the -water. And some force, some impulse had carried him again to the very -same spot, and made him lean over the same parapet, gazing, in the same -way as previously, at the flowing river. Ever since the previous evening -he had been repeating the same words, words which he stammered in an -undertone, and which haunted and tortured him. “Would he allow that -fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?” No -doubt it was those words, of which he could not rid himself, that had -made him forget to put on his slippers in the morning, and that had just -now again dazed him to the point of preventing him from returning to the -factory, as if he no longer recognized the entrance as he passed it. And -if he were at present leaning over that water, had he not been impelled -thither by an unconscious desire to have done with all his troubles, -an instinctive hope of drowning the torment into which he was thrown -by those stubbornly recurring words? Down below, at the bottom of the -river, those words would at last cease; he would no longer repeat them; -he would no longer hear them urging him to an act of energy for which he -could not find sufficient strength. And the call of the water was very -gentle, and it would be so pleasant to have to struggle no longer, to -yield to destiny, like a poor soft-hearted weakling who has lived too -long. - -Morange leant forward more and more, and in fancy could already feel the -sonorous river seizing him, when a gay young voice in the rear recalled -him to reality. - -“What are you looking at, Monsieur Morange? Are there any big fishes -there?” - -It was Hortense, looking extremely pretty, and tall already for her ten -years, whom a maid was conducting on a visit to some little friends at -Auteuil. And when the distracted accountant turned round, he remained -for a moment with trembling hands, and eyes moist with tears, at the -sight of that apparition, that dear angel, who had recalled him from so -far. - -“What! is it you, my pet!” he exclaimed. “No, no, there are no big -fishes. I think that they hide at the bottom because the water is so -cold in winter. Are you going on a visit? You look quite beautiful in -that fur-trimmed cloak!” - -The little girl began to laugh, well pleased at being flattered and -loved, for her old friend’s voice quivered with adoration. - -“Yes, yes, I am very happy; there are to be some private theatricals -where I’m going. Oh! it is amusing to feel happy!” - -She spoke those words like his own Reine might formerly have spoken -them, and he could have gone down on his knees to kiss her little hands -like an idol’s. - -“But it is necessary that you should always be happy,” he replied. “You -look so beautiful, I must really kiss you.” - -“Oh! you may, Monsieur Morange, I’m quite willing. Ah! you know the doll -you gave me; her name’s Margot, and you have no idea how good she is. -Come to see her some day.” - -He had kissed her; and with glowing heart, ready for martyrdom, he -watched her as she went off in the pale light of winter. What he had -thought of would be too cowardly: besides, that child must be happy! - -He slowly quitted the bridge, while within him the haunting words rang -out with decisive distinctness, demanding a reply: “Would he allow that -fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?” No, -no! It was impossible: he would speak, he would act. Nevertheless, his -mind remained clouded, befogged. How could he speak, how could he act? - -Then, to crown his extravagant conduct, utterly breaking away from the -habits of forty years, he no sooner returned to the office than, instead -of immediately plunging into his everlasting additions, he began to -write a long letter. This letter, which was addressed to Mathieu, -recounted the whole affair--Alexandre’s resurrection, Constance’s plans, -and the service which he himself had promised to render her. These -things were set down simply as his impulse dictated, like a kind of -confession by which he relieved his feelings. He had not yet come to -any positive decision as to how he should play the part of a justiciar, -which seemed so heavy to his shoulders. His one purpose was to warn -Mathieu in order that there might be two of them to decide and act. -And he simply finished by asking the other to come to see him on the -following evening, though not before six o’clock, as he desired to see -Alexandre and learn how the interview passed off, and what Constance -might require of the young man. - -The ensuing night, the ensuing day, must have been full of abominable -torment for Morange. The doorkeeper’s wife recounted, later on, that the -fourth-floor tenant had heard the old gentleman walking about overhead -all through the night. Doors were slammed, and furniture was dragged -about as if for a removal. It was even thought that one could detect -cries, sobs, and the monologues of a madman addressing phantoms, some -mysterious rendering of worship to the dead who haunted him. And at -the works during the day which followed Morange gave alarming signs of -distress, of the final sinking of his mind into a flood of gloom. -Ever darting troubled glances around him, he was tortured by internal -combats, which, without the slightest motive, made him descend the -stairs a dozen times, linger before the machinery in motion, and then -return to his additions up above, with the bewildered, distracted air -of one who could not find what he sought so painfully. When the darkness -fell, about four o’clock on that gloomy winter day, the two clerks whom -he had with him in his office noticed that he altogether ceased working. -From that moment, indeed, he waited with his eyes fixed upon the clock. -And when five o’clock struck he once more made sure that a certain total -was correct, then rose and went out, leaving the ledger open, as if he -meant to return to check the next addition. - -He followed the gallery which led to the passage connecting the -workshops with the private house. The whole factory was at that hour -lighted up, electric lamps cast the brightness of daylight over it, -while the stir of work ascended and the walls shook amid the rumbling -of machinery. And all at once, before reaching the passage, Morange -perceived the lift, the terrible cavity, the abyss of murder in which -Blaise had met his death fourteen years previously. Subsequent to that -catastrophe, and in order to prevent the like of it from ever occurring -again, the trap had been surrounded by a balustrade with a gate, in -such wise that a fall became impossible unless one should open the gate -expressly to take a plunge. At that moment the trap was lowered and the -gate was closed, and Morange, yielding to some superior force, bent over -the cavity, shuddering. The whole scene of long ago rose up before him; -he was again in the depths of that frightful void; he could see the -crushed corpse; and he could feel the gust of terror chilling him in -the presence of murder, accepted and concealed. Since he suffered so -dreadfully, since he could no longer sleep, since he had promised his -dear dead ones that he would join them, why should he not make an end -of himself? Two days previously, while leaning over the parapet of -the Grenelle bridge, a desire to do so had taken possession of him. He -merely had to lose his equilibrium and he would be liberated, laid to -rest in the peaceful earth between his wife and his daughter. And, all -at once, as if the abyss itself suggested to him the frightful solution -for which he had been vainly groping, in his growing madness, for two -days past, he thought that he could hear a voice calling him from below, -the voice of Blaise, which cried: “Come with the other one! Come with -the other one!” - -He started violently and drew himself erect; decision had fallen on him -in a lightning flash. Insane as he was, that appeared to him to be the -one sole logical, mathematical, sensible solution, which would settle -everything. It seemed to him so simple, too, that he was astonished that -he had sought it so long. And from that moment this poor soft-hearted -weakling, whose wretched brain was unhinged, gave proof of iron will and -sovereign heroism, assisted by the clearest reasoning, the most subtle -craft. - -In the first place he prepared everything, set the catch to prevent the -trap from being sent up again in his absence, and also assured himself -that the balustrade door opened and closed easily. He came and went with -a light, aerial step, as if carried off his feet, with his eyes ever on -the alert, anxious as he was to be neither seen nor heard. At last -he extinguished the three electric lamps and plunged the gallery into -darkness. From below, through the gaping cavity the stir of the working -factory, the rumbling of the machinery ever ascended. And it was only -then, everything being ready, that Morange turned into the passage to -betake himself to the little drawing room of the mansion. - -Constance was there waiting for him with Alexandre. She had given -instructions for the latter to call half-an-hour earlier, for she wished -to confess him while as yet telling him nothing of the real position -which she meant him to take in the house. She was not disposed to place -herself all at once at his mercy, and had therefore simply expressed her -willingness to give him employment in accordance with the recommendation -of her relative, the Baroness de Lowicz. Nevertheless, she studied him -with restrained ardor, and was well pleased to find that he was strong, -sturdy, and resolute, with a hard face lighted by terrible eyes, which -promised her an avenger. She would finish polishing him up, and then he -would suit her perfectly. For his part, without plainly understanding -the truth, he scented something, divined that his fortune was at hand, -and was quite ready to wait awhile for the certain feast, like a young -wolf who consents to be domesticated in order that he may, later on, -devour the whole flock at his ease. - -When Morange went in only one thing struck him, Alexandre’s resemblance -to Beauchene, that extraordinary resemblance which had already upset -Constance, and which now sent an icy chill through the old accountant as -if in purposing to carry out his idea he had condemned his old master. - -“I was waiting for you, my friend; you are late, you who are so punctual -as a rule,” said Constance. - -“Yes, there was a little work which I wished to finish.” - -But she had merely been jesting, she felt so happy. And she immediately -settled everything: “Well, here is the gentleman whom I spoke about,” - she said. “You will begin by taking him with you and making him -acquainted with the business, even if in the first instance you can -merely send him about on commissions for you. It is understood, is it -not?” - -“Quite so, dear madame, I will take him with me; you may rely on me.” - -Then, as she gave Alexandre his dismissal, saying that he might come on -the morrow, Morange offered to show him out by way of his office and the -workshops, which were still open. - -“In that way he will form an acquaintance with the works, and can come -straight to me to-morrow.” - -Constance laughed again, so fully did the accountant’s obligingness -reassure her. - -“That is a good idea, my friend,” she said. “Thank you. And au revoir, -monsieur; we will take charge of your future if you behave sensibly.” - -At this moment, however, she was thunderstruck by an extravagant and -seemingly senseless incident. Morange, having shown Alexandre out of the -little salon, in advance of himself, turned round towards her with the -sudden grimace of a madman, revealing his insanity by the distortion of -his countenance. And in a low, familiar, sneering voice, he stammered in -her face: “Ha! ha! Blaise at the bottom of the hole! He speaks, he has -spoken to me! Ha! ha! the somersault! you would have the somersault! And -you shall have it again, the somersault, the somersault!” - -Then he disappeared, following Alexandre. - -She had listened to him agape with wonder. It was all so unforeseen, so -idiotic, that at first she did not understand it. But afterwards what a -flash of light came to her! That which Morange had referred to was the -murder yonder--the thing to which they had never referred, the monstrous -thing which they had kept buried for fourteen years past, which their -glances only had confessed, but which, all of a sudden, he had cast in -her teeth with the grimace of a madman. What was the meaning of the poor -fool’s diabolical rebellion, the dim threat which she had felt passing -like a gust from an abyss? She turned frightfully pale, she intuitively -foresaw some frightful revenge of destiny, that destiny which, only a -moment previously, she had believed to be her minion. Yes, it was surely -that. And she felt herself carried fourteen years backward, and she -remained standing, quivering, icy cold, listening to the sounds which -arose from the works, waiting for the awful thud of the fall, even as -on the distant day when she had listened and waited for the other to be -crushed and killed. - -Meantime Morange, with his discreet, short step, was leading Alexandre -away, and speaking to him in a quiet, good-natured voice. - -“I must ask your pardon for going first, but I have to show you the way. -Oh! this is a very intricate place, with stairs and passages whose turns -and twists never end. The passage now turns to the left, you see.” - -Then, on reaching the gallery where the darkness was complete, he -affected anger in the most natural manner possible. - -“Ah! well, that is just their way. They haven’t yet lighted up this -part. The switch is at the other end. Fortunately I know where to step, -for I have been going backwards and forwards here for the last forty -years. Mind follow me carefully.” - -Thereupon, at each successive step, he warned the other what he ought to -do, guiding him along in his obliging way without the faintest tremor in -his voice. - -“Don’t let go of me, turn to the left.--Now we merely have to go -straight ahead.--Only, wait a moment, a barrier intersects the -gallery, and there is a gate.--There we are! I’m opening the gate, you -hear?--Follow me, I’ll go first.” - -Morange quietly stepped into the void, amid the darkness. And, without -a cry, he fell. Alexandre who was close in the rear, almost touching him -so as not to lose him, certainly detected the void and the gust which -followed the fall, as with sudden horror the flooring failed beneath -them; but force of motion carried him on, he stepped forward in his -turn, howled and likewise fell, head over heels. Both were smashed -below, both killed at once. True, Morange still breathed for a few -seconds. Alexandre, for his part, lay with his skull broken to pieces -and his brains scattered on the very spot where Blaise had been picked -up. - -Horrible was the stupefaction when those bodies were found there. Nobody -could explain the catastrophe. Morange carried off his secret, the -reason for that savage act of justice which he had accomplished -according to the chance suggestions of his dementia. Perhaps he had -wished to punish Constance, perhaps he had desired to repair the old -wrong: Denis long since stricken in the person of his brother, and now -saved for the sake of his daughter Hortense, who would live happily with -Margot, the pretty doll who was so good. By suppressing the criminal -instrument the old accountant had indeed averted the possibility of a -fresh crime. Swayed by his fixed idea, however, he had doubtless never -reasoned that cataclysmic deed of justice, which was above reason, -and which passed by with the impassive savagery of a death-dealing -hurricane. - -At the works there was but one opinion, Morange had assuredly been mad; -and he alone could have caused the accident, particularly as it was -impossible to account, otherwise than by an act of madness, for the -extinguishing of the lights, the opening of the balustrade-door, and -the plunge into the cavity which he knew to be there, and into which -had followed him the unfortunate young man his companion. Moreover, the -accountant’s madness was no longer doubted by anybody a few days later, -when the doorkeeper of his house related his final eccentricities, and -a commissary of police went to search his rooms. He had been mad, mad -enough to be placed in confinement. - -To begin, nobody had ever seen a flat in such an extraordinary -condition, the kitchen a perfect stable, the drawing-room in a state of -utter abandonment with its Louis XIV. furniture gray with dust, and the -dining-room all topsy-turvy, the old oak tables and chairs being piled -up against the window as if to shut out every ray of light, though -nobody could tell why. The only properly kept room was that in which -Reine had formerly slept, which was as clean as a sanctuary, with its -pitch-pine furniture as bright as if it had been polished every day. But -the apartment in which Morange’s madness became unmistakably manifest -was his own bedchamber, which he had turned into a museum of souvenirs, -covering its walls with photographs of his wife and daughter. Above a -table there, the wall facing the window quite disappeared from view, -for a sort of little chapel had been set up, decked with a multitude of -portraits. In the centre were photographs of Valerie and Reine, both -of them at twenty years of age, so that they looked like twin sisters; -while symmetrically disposed all around was an extraordinary number of -other portraits, again showing Valerie and Reine, now as children, now -as girls, and now as women, in every sort of position, too, and every -kind of toilet. And below them on the table, like an offering on an -altar, was found more than one hundred thousand francs, in gold, and -silver, and even copper; indeed, the whole fortune which Morange had -been saving up for several years by eating only dry bread, like a -pauper. - -At last, then, one knew what he had done with his savings; he had given -them to his dead wife and daughter, who had remained his will, passion, -and ambition. Haunted by remorse at having killed them while dreaming -of making them rich, he reserved for them that money which they had so -keenly desired, and which they would have spent with so much ardor. It -was still and ever for them that he earned it, and he took it to -them, lavished it upon them, never devoting even a tithe of it to any -egotistical pleasure, absorbed as he was in his vision-fraught worship -and eager to pacify and cheer their spirits. And the whole neighborhood -gossiped endlessly about the old mad gentleman who had let himself die -of wretchedness by the side of a perfect treasure, piled coin by coin -upon a table, and for twenty years past tendered to the portraits of -his wife and daughter, even as flowers might have been offered to their -memory. - -About six o’clock, when Mathieu reached the works, he found the place -terrified by the catastrophe. Ever since the morning he had been -rendered anxious by Morange’s letter, which had greatly surprised and -worried him with that extraordinary story of Alexandre turning up -once more, being welcomed by Constance, and introduced by her into the -establishment. Plain as was the greater part of the letter, it contained -some singularly incoherent passages, and darted from one point to -another with incomprehensible suddenness. Mathieu had read it three -times, indulging on each occasion in fresh hypotheses of a gloomier and -gloomier nature; for the more he reflected, the more did the affair -seem to him to be fraught with menace. Then, on reaching the rendezvous -appointed by Morange, he found himself in presence of those bleeding -bodies which Victor Moineaud had just picked up and laid out side by -side! Silent, chilled to his bones, Mathieu listened to his son, Denis, -who had hastened up to tell him of the unexplainable misfortune, the -two men falling one atop of the other, first the old mad accountant, and -then the young fellow whom nobody knew and who seemed to have dropped -from heaven. - -Mathieu, for his part, had immediately recognized Alexandre, and if, -pale and terrified, he kept silent on the subject, it was because he -desired to take nobody, not even his son, into his confidence, given the -fresh suppositions, the frightful suppositions, which now arose in his -mind from out of all the darkness. He listened with growing anxiety to -the enumeration of the few points which were certain: the extinguishing -of the electric lights in the gallery and the opening of the balustrade -door, which was always kept closed and could only have been opened -by some habitue, since, to turn the handle, one had to press a secret -spring which kept it from moving. And, all at once, as Victor Moineaud -pointed out that the old man had certainly been the first to fall, -since one of the young man’s legs had been stretched across his stomach, -Mathieu was carried fourteen years backward. He remembered old Moineaud -picking up Blaise on the very spot where Victor, the son, had just -picked up Morange and Alexandre. Blaise! At the thought of his dead boy -fresh light came to Mathieu, a frightful suspicion blazed up amid the -terrible obscurity in which he had been groping and doubting. And, -thereupon, leaving Denis to settle everything down below, he decided to -see Constance. - -Up above, however, when Mathieu was on the point of turning into the -communicating passage, he paused once more, this time near the lift. -It was there, fourteen years previously, that Morange, finding the trap -open, had gone down to warn and chide the workmen, while Constance, -according to her own account, had quietly returned into the house, -at the very moment when Blaise, coming from the other end of the dim -gallery, plunged into the gulf. Everybody had eventually accepted -that narrative as being accurate, but Mathieu now felt that it was -mendacious. He could recall various glances, various words, various -spells of silence; and sudden certainty came upon him, a certainty based -on all the petty things which he had not then understood, but which -now assumed the most frightful significance. Yes, it was certain, even -though round it there hovered the monstrous vagueness of silent crimes, -cowardly crimes, over which a shadow of horrible mystery always lurks. -Moreover, it explained the sequel, those two bodies lying below, as far, -that is, as logical reasoning can explain a madman’s action with all its -gaps and mysteriousness. Nevertheless, Mathieu still strove to doubt; -before anything else he wished to see Constance. - -Showing a waxy pallor, she had remained erect, motionless, in the middle -of her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously had -begun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxiety -that she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, no -sound of footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could be -happening then? Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely a -nightmare after all? Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she had -fully understood him. Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reached -her ears? And now, had not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It was -death, the factory silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once her -heart ceased beating as she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearer -and nearer with increased rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieu -who came in. - -She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? How -was it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the one -whom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she would -not have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition of -the father. - -She did not speak. He simply said: “They made the plunge, they are both -dead--like Blaise.” - -Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a moment -their eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder was -begun afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead, -one atop of the other. - -“Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And how -much blood there is upon you!” - -By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up and -even increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud that -she was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, and -would ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a final -revelation. - -“You don’t know, then, that that ruffian, Alexandre, was one of the -murderers of your friend, Madame Angelin, the poor woman who was robbed -and strangled one winter afternoon. I compassionately hid that from you. -But he would now be at the galleys had I spoken out! And if I were to -speak to-day you would be there too!” - -That was the hatchet-stroke. She did not speak, but dropped, all of a -lump, upon the carpet, like a tree which has been felled. This time her -defeat was complete; destiny, which she awaited, had turned against her -and thrown her to the ground. A mother the less, perverted by the -love which she had set on her one child, a mother duped, robbed, -and maddened, who had glided into murder amid the dementia born of -inconsolable motherliness! And now she lay there, stretched out, scraggy -and withered, poisoned by the affection which she had been unable to -bestow. - -Mathieu became anxious, and summoned the old servant, who, after -procuring assistance, carried her mistress to her bed and then undressed -her. Meantime, as Constance gave no sign of life, seized as she was -by one of those fainting fits which often left her quite breathless, -Mathieu himself went for Boutan, and meeting him just as he was -returning home for dinner, was luckily able to bring him back at once. - -Boutan, who was now nearly seventy-two, and was quietly spending -his last years in serene cheerfulness, born of his hope in life, had -virtually ceased practising, only attending a very few old patients, -his friends. However, he did not refuse Mathieu’s request. When he had -examined Constance he made a gesture of hopelessness, the meaning of -which was so plain that Mathieu, his anxiety increasing, bethought -himself of trying to find Beauchene in order that the latter might, at -least, be present if his wife should die. But the old servant, on being -questioned, began by raising her arms to heaven. She did not know where -Monsieur might be, Monsieur never left any address. At last, feeling -frightened herself, she made up her mind to hasten to the abode of the -two women, aunt and niece, with whom Beauchene spent the greater part -of his time. She knew their address perfectly well, as her mistress had -even sent her thither in pressing emergencies. But she learnt that the -ladies had gone with Monsieur to Nice for a holiday; whereupon, not -desiring to return without some member of the family, she was seized -on her way back with the fine idea of calling on Monsieur’s sister, the -Baroness de Lowicz, whom she brought, almost by force, in her cab. - -It was in vain that Boutan attempted treatment. When Constance opened -her eyes again, she looked at him fixedly, recognized him, no doubt, and -then lowered her eyelids. And from that moment she obstinately refused -to reply to any question that was put to her. She must have heard and -have known that people were there, trying to succor her. But she would -have none of their succor, she was stubbornly intent on dying, on giving -no further sign of life. Neither did she raise her eyelids, nor did her -lips part again. It was as if she had already quitted the world amid the -mute agony of her defeat. - -That evening Seraphine’s manner was extremely strange. She reeked -of ether, for she drank ether now. When she heard of the two-fold -“accident,” the death of Morange and that of Alexandre, which had -brought on Constance’s cardiacal attack, she simply gave an insane grin, -a kind of involuntary snigger, and stammered: “Ah! that’s funny.” - -Though she removed neither her hat nor her gloves, she installed herself -in an armchair, where she sat waiting, with her eyes wide open and -staring straight before her--those brown eyes flecked with gold, whose -living light was all that she had retained of her massacred beauty. At -sixty-two she looked like a centenarian; her bold, insolent face was -ravined, as it were, by her stormy life, and the glow of her sun-like -hair had been extinguished by a shower of ashes. And time went on, -midnight approached, and she was still there, near that death-bed of -which she seemed to be ignorant, in that quivering chamber where she -forgot herself, similar to a mere thing, apparently no longer even -knowing why she had been brought thither. - -Mathieu and Boutan had been unwilling to retire. Since Monsieur was -at Nice in the company of those ladies, the aunt and the niece, they -decided to spend the night there in order that Constance might not be -left alone with the old servant. And towards midnight, while they were -chatting together in undertones, they were suddenly stupefied at hearing -Seraphine raise her voice, after preserving silence for three hours. - -“He is dead, you know,” said she. - -Who was dead? At last they understood that she referred to Dr. Gaude. -The celebrated surgeon, had, indeed, been found in his consulting-room -struck down by sudden death, the cause of which was not clearly known. -In fact, the strangest, the most horrible and tragical stories were -current on the subject. According to one of them a patient had wreaked -vengeance on the doctor; and Mathieu, full of emotion, recalled that one -day, long ago, Seraphine herself had suggested that all Gaude’s unhappy -patients ought to band themselves together and put an end to him. - -When Seraphine perceived that Mathieu was gazing at her, as in a -nightmare, moved by the shuddering silence of that death-watch, she once -more grinned like a lunatic, and said: “He is dead, we were all there!” - -It was insane, improbable, impossible; and yet was it true or was it -false? A cold, terrifying quiver swept by, the icy quiver of mystery, of -that which one knows not, which one will never know. - -Boutan leant towards Mathieu and whispered in his ear: “She will be -raving mad and shut up in a padded cell before a week is over.” And, -indeed, a week later the Baroness de Lowicz was wearing a straight -waistcoat. In her case Dr. Gaude’s treatment had led to absolute -insanity. - -Mathieu and Boutan watched beside Constance until daybreak. She never -opened her lips, nor raised her eyelids. As the sun rose up, she turned -towards the wall, and then she died. - - - - -XXII - -STILL more years passed, and Mathieu was already sixty-eight and -Marianne sixty-five, when amid the increasing good fortune which they -owed to their faith in life, and their long courageous hopefulness, a -last battle, the most dolorous of their existence, almost struck them -down and sent them to the grave, despairing and inconsolable. - -One evening Marianne went to bed, quivering, utterly distracted. Quite a -rending was taking place in the family. A disastrous and hateful quarrel -had set the mill, where Gregoire reigned supreme, against the farm which -was managed by Gervais and Claire. And Ambroise, on being selected -as arbiter, had fanned the flames by judging the affair in a purely -business way from his Paris counting-house, without taking into account -the various passions which were kindled. - -It was on returning from a secret application to Ambroise, prompted by a -maternal longing for peace, that Marianne had taken to her bed, wounded -to the heart, and terrified by the thought of the future. Ambroise had -received her roughly, almost brutally, and she had gone back home in a -state of intense anguish, feeling as if her own flesh were lacerated -by the quarrelling of her ungrateful sons. And she had kept her bed, -begging Mathieu to say nothing, and explaining that a doctor’s services -would be useless, since she did not suffer from any malady. She was -fading away, however, as he could well detect; she was day by day taking -leave of him, carried off by her bitter grief. Was it possible that all -those loving and well-loved children, who had grown up under their care -and their caresses, who had become the joy and pride of their victory, -all those children born of their love, united in their fidelity, a -sacred brotherly, sisterly battalion gathered close around them, was it -possible that they should now disband and desperately seek to destroy -one another? If so, it was true, then, that the more a family increases, -the greater is the harvest of ingratitude. And still more accurate -became the saying, that to judge of any human being’s happiness or -unhappiness in life, one must wait until he be dead. - -“Ah!” said Mathieu, as he sat near Marianne’s bed, holding her feverish -hand, “to think of it! To have struggled so much, and to have triumphed -so much, and then to encounter this supreme grief, which will bring -us more pain than all the others. Decidedly it is true that one must -continue battling until one’s last breath, and that happiness is only -to be won by suffering and tears. We must still hope, still triumph, and -conquer and live.” - -Marianne, however, had lost all courage, and seemed to be overwhelmed. - -“No,” said she, “I have no energy left me, I am vanquished. I was always -able to heal the wounds which came from without, but this wound comes -from my own blood; my blood pours forth within me and stifles me. All -our work is destroyed. Our joy, our health, our strength, have at the -last day become mere lies.” - -Then Mathieu, whom her grievous fears of a disaster gained, went off to -weep in the adjoining room, already picturing his wife dead and himself -in utter solitude. - -It was with reference to Lepailleur’s moorland, the plots intersecting -the Chantebled estate, that the wretched quarrel had broken out between -the mill and the farm. For many years already, the romantic, ivy-covered -old mill, with its ancient mossy wheel, had ceased to exist. Gregoire, -at last putting his father’s ideas into execution, had thrown it down -to replace it by a large steam mill, with spacious meal-stores which -a light railway-line connected with Janville station. And he himself, -since he had been making a big fortune--for all the wheat of the -district was now sent to him--had greatly changed, with nothing of his -youthful turbulence left save a quick temper, which his wife Therese -with her brave, loving heart alone could somewhat calm. On a score of -occasions he had almost broken off all relations with his father-in-law, -Lepailleur, who certainly abused his seventy years. Though the old -miller, in spite of all his prophecies of ruin, had been unable to -prevent the building of the new establishment, he none the less sneered -and jeered at it, exasperated as he was at having been in the wrong. -He had, in fact, been beaten for the second time. Not only did the -prodigious crops of Chantebled disprove his theory of the bankruptcy -of the earth, that villainous earth in which, like an obstinate peasant -weary of toil and eager for speedy fortune, he asserted nothing more -would grow; but now that mill of his, which he had so disdained, was -born as it were afresh, growing to a gigantic size, and becoming in his -son-in-law’s hands an instrument of great wealth. - -The worst was that Lepailleur so stubbornly lived on, experiencing -continual defeats, but never willing to acknowledge that he was beaten. -One sole delight remained to him, the promise given and kept by Gregoire -that he would not sell the moorland enclosure to the farm. The old man -had even prevailed on him to leave it uncultivated, and the sight of -that sterile tract intersecting the wavy greenery of the beautiful -estate of Chantebled, like a spot of desolation, well pleased his -spiteful nature. He was often to be seen strolling there, like an old -king of the stones and the brambles, drawing up his tall, scraggy figure -as if he were quite proud of the poverty of that soil. In going thither -one of his objects doubtless was to find a pretext for a quarrel; for it -was he who in the course of one of these promenades, when he displayed -such provoking insolence, discovered an encroachment on the part of the -farm--an encroachment which his comments magnified to such a degree that -disastrous consequences seemed probable. As it was, all the happiness of -the Froments was for a time destroyed. - -In business matters Gregoire invariably showed the rough impulsiveness -of a man of sanguine temperament, obstinately determined to part with -no fraction of his rights. When his father-in-law told him that the -farm had impudently cleared some seven acres of his moorland, with the -intention no doubt of carrying this fine robbery even further, if it -were not promptly stopped, Gregoire at once decided to inquire into the -matter, declaring that he would not tolerate any invasion of that sort. -The misfortune then was that no boundary stones could be found. Thus, -the people of the farm might assert that they had made a mistake in -all good faith, or even that they had remained within their limits. But -Lepailleur ragefully maintained the contrary, entered into particulars, -and traced what he declared to be the proper frontier line with his -stick, swearing that within a few inches it was absolutely correct. -However, matters went altogether from bad to worse after an interview -between the brothers, Gervais and Gregoire, in the course of which the -latter lost his temper and indulged in unpardonable language. On the -morrow, too, he began an action-at-law, to which Gervais replied by -threatening that he would not send another grain of corn to be ground -at the mill. And this rupture of business relations meant serious -consequences for the mill, which really owed its prosperity to the -custom of Chantebled. - -From that moment matters grew worse each day, and conciliation soon -seemed to be out of the question; for Ambroise, on being solicited to -find a basis of agreement, became in his turn impassioned, and even -ended by enraging both parties. Thus the hateful ravages of that -fratricidal war were increased: there were now three brothers up in arms -against one another. And did not this forebode the end of everything; -might not this destructive fury gain the whole family, overwhelming it -as with a blast of folly and hatred after so many years of sterling good -sense and strong and healthy affection? - -Mathieu naturally tried to intervene. But at the very outset he felt -that if he should fail, if his paternal authority should be disregarded, -the disaster would become irreparable. Without renouncing the struggle, -he therefore waited for some opportunity which he might turn to good -account. At the same time, each successive day of discord increased his -anxiety. It was really all his own life-work, the little people which -had sprung from him, the little kingdom which he had founded under the -benevolent sun, that was threatened with sudden ruin. A work such as -this can only live by force of love. The love which created it can alone -perpetuate it; it crumbles as soon as the bond of fraternal solidarity -is broken. Thus it seemed to Mathieu that instead of leaving his work -behind him in full florescence of kindliness, joy, and vigor, he would -see it cast to the ground in fragments, soiled, and dead even before he -were dead himself. Yet what a fruitful and prosperous work had hitherto -been that estate of Chantebled, whose overflowing fertility increased -at each successive harvest; and that mill too, so enlarged and so -flourishing, which was the outcome of his own inspiring suggestions, -to say nothing of the prodigious fortunes which his conquering sons had -acquired in Paris! Yet it was all this admirable work, which faith in -life had created, that a fratricidal onslaught upon life was about to -destroy! - -One evening, in the mournful gloaming of one of the last days of -September, the couch on which Marianne lay dying of silent grief was, by -her desire, rolled to the window. Charlotte alone nursed her, and of -all her sons she had but the last one, Benjamin, beside her in the now -over-spacious house which had replaced the old shooting-box. Since the -family had been at war she had kept the doors closed, intent on opening -them only to her children when they became reconciled, if they should -then seek to make her happy by coming to embrace one another beneath her -roof. But she virtually despaired of that sole cure for her grief, the -only joy that would make her live again. - -That evening, as Mathieu came to sit beside her, and they lingered there -hand in hand according to their wont, they did not at first speak, but -gazed straight before them at the spreading plain; at the estate, whose -interminable fields blended with the mist far away; at the mill yonder -on the banks of the Yeuse, with its tall, smoking chimney; and at Paris -itself on the horizon, where a tawny cloud was rising as from the huge -furnace of some forge. - -The minutes slowly passed away. During the afternoon Mathieu had taken -a long walk in the direction of the farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne, -in the hope of quieting his torment by physical fatigue. And in a low -voice, as if speaking to himself, he at last said: - -“The ploughing could not take place under better conditions. Yonder on -the plateau the quality of the soil has been much improved by the recent -methods of cultivation; and here, too, on the slopes, the sandy soil -has been greatly enriched by the new distribution of the springs which -Gervais devised. The estate has almost doubled in value since it has -been in his hands and Claire’s. There is no break in the prosperity; -labor yields unlimited victory.” - -“What is the good of it if there is no more love?” murmured Marianne. - -“Then, too,” continued Mathieu, after a pause, “I went down to the -Yeuse, and from a distance I saw that Gregoire had received the new -machine which Denis has just built for him. It was being unloaded in the -yard. It seems that it imparts a certain movement to the mill-stones, -which saves a good third of the power needed. With such appliances the -earth may produce seas of corn for innumerable nations, they will all -have bread. And that mill-engine, with its regular breath and motion, -will produce fresh wealth also.” - -“What use is it if people hate one another?” Marianne exclaimed. - -At this Mathieu dropped the subject. But, in accordance with a -resolution which he had formed during his walk, he told his wife that -he meant to go to Paris on the morrow. And on noticing her surprise, -he pretended that he wished to see to a certain business matter, the -settlement of an old account. But the truth was, that he could no longer -endure the spectacle of his wife’s lingering agony, which brought him -so much suffering. He wished to act, to make a supreme effort at -reconciliation. - -At ten o’clock on the following morning, when Mathieu alighted from the -train at the Paris terminus, he drove direct to the factory at Grenelle. -Before everything else he wished to see Denis, who had hitherto taken no -part in the quarrel. For a long time now, indeed ever since Constance’s -death, Denis had been installed in the house on the quay with his -wife Marthe and their three children. This occupation of the luxurious -dwelling set apart for the master had been like a final entry into -possession, with respect to the whole works. True, Beauchene had lived -several years longer, but his name no longer figured in that of the -firm. He had surrendered his last shred of interest in the business for -an annuity; and at last one evening it was learnt that he had died that -day, struck down by an attack of apoplexy after an over-copious lunch, -at the residence of his lady-friends, the aunt and the niece. He had -previously been sinking into a state of second childhood, the outcome -of his life of fast and furious pleasure. And this, then, was the end -of the egotistical debauchee, ever going from bad to worse, and finally -swept into the gutter. - -“Why! what good wind has blown you here?” cried Denis gayly, when he -perceived his father. “Have you come to lunch? I’m still a bachelor, you -know; for it is only next Monday that I shall go to fetch Marthe and the -children from Dieppe, where they have spent a delightful September.” - -Then, on hearing that his mother was ailing, even in danger, he become -serious and anxious. - -“Mamma ill, and in danger! You amaze me. I thought she was simply -troubled with some little indisposition. But come, father, what is -really the matter? Are you hiding something? Is something worrying you?” - -Thereupon he listened to the plain and detailed statement which Mathieu -felt obliged to make to him. And he was deeply moved by it, as if the -dread of the catastrophe which it foreshadowed would henceforth upset -his life. “What!” he angrily exclaimed, “my brothers are up to these -fine pranks with their idiotic quarrel! I knew that they did not get -on well together. I had heard of things which saddened me, but I never -imagined that matters had gone so far, and that you and mamma were so -affected that you had shut yourselves up and were dying of it all! But -things must be set to rights! One must see Ambroise at once. Let us go -and lunch with him, and finish the whole business.” - -Before starting he had a few orders to give, so Mathieu went down to -wait for him in the factory yard. And there, during the ten minutes -which he spent walking about dreamily, all the distant past arose before -his eyes. He could see himself a mere clerk, crossing that courtyard -every morning on his arrival from Janville, with thirty sous for his -lunch in his pocket. The spot had remained much the same; there was the -central building, with its big clock, the workshops and the sheds, quite -a little town of gray structures, surmounted by two lofty chimneys, -which were ever smoking. True, his son had enlarged this city of toil; -the stretch of ground bordered by the Rue de la Federation and the -Boulevard de Grenelle had been utilized for the erection of other -buildings. And facing the quay there still stood the large brick house -with dressings of white stone, of which Constance had been so proud, -and where, with the mien of some queen of industry, she had received her -friends in her little salon hung with yellow silk. Eight hundred men now -worked in the place; the ground quivered with the ceaseless trepidation -of machinery; the establishment had grown to be the most important -of its kind in Paris, the one whence came the finest agricultural -appliances, the most powerful mechanical workers of the soil. And it -was his, Mathieu’s, son whom fortune had made prince of that branch of -industry, and it was his daughter-in-law who, with her three strong, -healthy children near her, received her friends in the little salon hung -with yellow silk. - -As Mathieu, moved by his recollections, glanced towards the right, -towards the pavilion where he had dwelt with Marianne, and where Gervais -had been born, an old workman who passed, lifted his cap to him, saying, -“Good day, Monsieur Froment.” - -Mathieu thereupon recognized Victor Moineaud, now five-and-fifty years -old, and aged, and wrecked by labor to even a greater degree than his -father had been at the time when mother Moineaud had come to offer the -Monster her children’s immature flesh. Entering the works at sixteen -years of age, Victor, like his father, had spent forty years between -the forge and the anvil. It was iniquitous destiny beginning afresh: -the most crushing toil falling upon a beast of burden, the son hebetated -after the father, ground to death under the millstones of wretchedness -and injustice. - -“Good day, Victor,” said Mathieu, “are you well?” - -“Oh, I’m no longer young, Monsieur Froment,” the other replied. “I shall -soon have to look somewhere for a hole to lie in. Still, I hope it won’t -be under an omnibus.” - -He alluded to the death of his father, who had finally been picked up -under an omnibus in the Rue de Grenelle, with his skull split and both -legs broken. - -“But after all,” resumed Victor, “one may as well die that way as any -other! It’s even quicker. The old man was lucky in having Norine and -Cecile to look after him. If it hadn’t been for them, it’s starvation -that would have killed him, not an omnibus.” - -Mathieu interrupted. “Are Norine and Cecile well?” he asked. - -“Yes, Monsieur Froment. Leastways, as far as I know, for, as you can -understand, we don’t often see one another. Them and me, that’s about -all that’s left out of our lot; for Irma won’t have anything more to do -with us since she’s become one of the toffs. Euphrasie was lucky enough -to die, and that brigand Alfred disappeared, which was real relief, I -assure you; for I feared that I should be seeing him at the galleys. And -I was really pleased when I had some news of Norine and Cecile lately. -Norine is older than I am, you know; she will soon be sixty. But she -was always strong, and her boy, it seems, looks after her. Both she and -Cecile still work; yes, Cecile still lives on, though one used to think -that a fillip would have killed her. It’s a pretty home, that one of -theirs; two mothers for a big lad of whom they’ve made a decent fellow.” - -Mathieu nodded approvingly, and then remarked: “But you yourself, -Victor, had boys and girls who must now in their turn be fathers and -mothers.” - -The old workman waved his hand vaguely. - -“Yes,” said he, “I had eight, one more than my father. They’ve all -gone off, and they are fathers and mothers in their turn, as you say, -Monsieur Froment. It’s all chance, you know; one has to live. There are -some of them who certainly don’t eat white bread, ah! that they don’t. -And the question is whether, when my arms fail me, I shall find one to -take me in, as Norine and Cecile took my father. But when everything’s -said, what can you expect? It’s all seed of poverty, it can’t grow well, -or yield anything good.” - -For a moment he remained silent; then resuming his walk towards the -works, with bent, weary back and hanging hands, dented by toil, he said: -“Au revoir, Monsieur Froment.” - -“Au revoir, Victor,” Mathieu answered in a kindly tone. - -Having given his orders, Denis now came to join his father, and proposed -to him that they should go on foot to the Avenue d’Antin. On the way he -warned him that they would certainly find Ambroise alone, for his -wife and four children were still at Dieppe, where, indeed, the two -sisters-in-law, Andree and Marthe, had spent the season together. - -In a period of ten years, Ambroise’s fortune had increased tenfold. -Though he was barely five-and-forty, he reigned over the Paris market. -With his spirit of enterprise, he had greatly enlarged the business -left him by old Du Hordel, transforming it into a really universal -_comptoir_, through which passed merchandise from all parts of the -world. Frontiers did not exist for Ambroise, he enriched himself with -the spoils of the earth, particularly striving to extract from the -colonies all the wealth they were able to yield, and carrying on his -operations with such triumphant audacity, such keen perception, that the -most hazardous of his campaigns ended victoriously. - -A man of this stamp, whose fruitful activity was ever winning battles, -was certain to devour the idle, impotent Seguins. In the downfall of -their fortune, the dispersal of the home and family, he had carved a -share for himself by securing possession of the house in the Avenue -d’Antin. Seguin himself had not resided there for years, he had thought -it original to live at his club, where he secured accommodation after he -and his wife had separated by consent. Two of the children had also gone -off; Gaston, now a major in the army, was on duty in a distant garrison -town, and Lucie was cloistered in an Ursuline convent. Thus, Valentine, -left to herself and feeling very dreary, no longer able, moreover, to -keep up the establishment on a proper footing, in her turn quitted -the mansion for a cheerful and elegant little flat on the Boulevard -Malesherbes, where she finished her life as a very devout old lady, -presiding over a society for providing poor mothers with baby-linen, and -thus devoting herself to the children of others--she who had not known -how to bring up her own. And, in this wise, Ambroise had simply had to -take possession of the empty mansion, which was heavily mortgaged, to -such an extent, indeed, that when the Seguins died their heirs would -certainly be owing him money. - -Many were the recollections which awoke when Mathieu, accompanied by -Denis, entered that princely mansion of the Avenue d’Antin! There, as at -the factory, he could see himself arriving in poverty, as a needy tenant -begging his landlord to repair a roof, in order that the rain might no -longer pour down on the four children, whom, with culpable improvidence, -he already had to provide for. There, facing the avenue, was the -sumptuous Renaissance facade with eight lofty windows on each of its -upper floors; there, inside, was the hall, all bronze and marble, -conducting to the spacious ground-floor reception-rooms which a winter -garden prolonged; and there, up above, occupying all the central part of -the first floor, was Seguin’s former “cabinet,” the vast apartment with -lofty windows of old stained glass. Mathieu could well remember -that room with its profuse and amusing display of “antiquities,” old -brocades, old goldsmith’s ware and old pottery, and its richly bound -books, and its famous modern pewters. And he remembered it also at a -later date, in the abandonment to which it had fallen, the aspect of -ruin which it had assumed, covered, as it was, with gray dust which -bespoke the slow crumbling of the home. And now he found it once more -superb and cheerful, renovated with healthier and more substantial -luxury by Ambroise, who had put masons and joiners and upholsterers into -it for a period of three months. The whole mansion now lived afresh, -more luxurious than ever, filled at winter-time with sounds of -festivity, enlivened by the laughter of four happy children, and the -blaze of a living fortune which effort and conquest ever renewed. And -it was no longer Seguin, the idler, the artisan of nothingness, whom -Mathieu came to see there, it was his own son Ambroise, a man of -creative energy, whose victory had been sought by the very forces of -life, which had made him triumph there, installed him as the master in -the home of the vanquished. - -When Mathieu and Denis arrived Ambroise was absent, but was expected -home for lunch. They waited for him, and as the former again crossed -the ante-room the better to judge of some new arrangements that had been -made, he was surprised at being stopped by a lady who was sitting there -patiently, and whom he had not previously noticed. - -“I see that Monsieur Froment does not recognize me,” she said. - -Mathieu made a vague gesture. The woman had a tall, plump figure, and -was certainly more than sixty years of age; but she evidently took care -of her person, and had a smiling mien, with a long, full face and -almost venerable white hair. One might have taken her for some worthy, -well-to-do provincial bourgeoise in full dress. - -“Celeste,” said she. “Celeste, Madame Seguin’s former maid.” - -Thereupon he fully recognized her, but hid his stupefaction at finding -her so fortunately circumstanced at the close of her career. He had -imagined that she was buried in some sewer. - -In a gay, placid way she proceeded to recount her happiness: “Oh! I am -very pleased,” she said; “I had retired to Rougemont, my birth-place, -and I ended by there marrying a retired naval officer, who has a very -comfortable pension, not to speak of a little fortune which his first -wife left him. As he has two big sons, I ventured to recommend the -younger one to Monsieur Ambroise, who was kind enough to take him into -his counting-house. And so I have profited by my first journey to Paris -since then, to come and give Monsieur Ambroise my best thanks.” - -She did not say how she had managed to marry the retired naval officer; -how she had originally been a servant in his household, and how she -had hastened his first wife’s death in order to marry him. All things -considered, however, she rendered him very happy, and even rid him of -his sons, who were in his way, thanks to the relations she had kept up -in Paris. - -She continued smiling like a worthy woman, whose feelings softened at -the recollection of the past. “You can have no idea how pleased I felt -when I saw you pass just now, Monsieur Froment,” she resumed. “Ah! it -was a long time ago that I first had the honor of seeing you here! You -remember La Couteau, don’t you? She was always complaining, was she not? -But she is very well pleased now; she and her husband have retired to -a pretty little house of their own, with some little savings which they -live on very quietly. She is no longer young, but she has buried a good -many in her time, and she’ll bury more before she has finished! For -instance, Madame Menoux--you must surely remember Madame Menoux, the -little haberdasher close by--well, there was a woman now who never had -any luck! She lost her second child, and she lost that big fellow, her -husband, whom she was so fond of, and she herself died of grief six -months afterwards. I did at one time think of taking her to Rougemont, -where the air is so good for one’s health. There are old folks of ninety -living there. Take La Couteau, for instance, she will live as long -as she likes! Oh! yes, it is a very pleasant part indeed, a perfect -paradise.” - -At these words the abominable Rougemont, the bloody Rougemont, arose -before Mathieu’s eyes, rearing its peaceful steeple above the low -plain, with its cemetery paved with little Parisians, where wild flowers -bloomed and hid the victims of so many murders. - -But Celeste was rattling on again, saying: “You remember Madame Bourdieu -whom you used to know in the Rue de Miromesnil; she died very near -our village on some property where she went to live when she gave up -business, a good many years ago. She was luckier than her colleague La -Rouche, who was far too good-natured with people. You must have read -about her case in the newspapers, she was sent to prison with a medical -man named Sarraille.” - -“La Rouche! Sarraille!” Yes, Mathieu had certainly read the trial of -those two social pests, who were fated to meet at last in their work of -iniquity. And what an echo did those names awaken in the past: Valerie -Morange! Reine Morange! Already in the factory yard Mathieu had fancied -that he could see the shadow of Morange gliding past him--the punctual, -timid, soft-hearted accountant, whom misfortune and insanity had carried -off into the darkness. And suddenly the unhappy man here again appeared -to Mathieu, like a wandering phantom, the restless victim of all the -imbecile ambition, all the desperate craving for pleasure which animated -the period; a poor, weak, mediocre being, so cruelly punished for the -crimes of others, that he was doubtless unable to sleep in the tomb -into which he had flung himself, bleeding, with broken limbs. And before -Mathieu’s eyes there likewise passed the spectre of Seraphine, with -the fierce and pain-fraught face of one who is racked and killed by -insatiate desire. - -“Well, excuse me for having ventured to stop you, Monsieur Froment,” - Celeste concluded; “but I am very, very pleased at having met you -again.” - -He was still looking at her; and as he quitted her he said, with the -indulgence born of his optimism: “May you keep happy since you are -happy. Happiness must know what it does.” - -Nevertheless, Mathieu remained disturbed, as he thought of the apparent -injustice of impassive nature. The memory of his Marianne, struck down -by such deep grief, pining away through the impious quarrels of her -sons, returned to him. And as Ambroise at last came in and gayly -embraced him, after receiving Celeste’s thanks, he felt a thrill of -anguish, for the decisive moment which would save or wreck the family -was now at hand. - -Indeed, Denis, after inviting himself and Mathieu to lunch, promptly -plunged into the subject. - -“We are not here for the mere pleasure of lunching with you,” said he; -“mamma is ill, did you know it?” - -“Ill?” said Ambroise. “Not seriously ill?” - -“Yes, very ill, in danger. And are you aware that she has been ill -like this ever since she came to speak to you about the quarrel between -Gregoire and Gervais, when it seems that you treated her very roughly.” - -“I treated her roughly? We simply talked business, and perhaps I spoke -to her like a business man, a little bluntly.” - -Then Ambroise turned towards Mathieu, who was waiting, pale and silent: -“Is it true, father, that mamma is ill and causes you anxiety?” - -And as his father replied with a long affirmative nod, he gave vent to -his emotion, even as Denis had done at the works immediately on learning -the truth. - -“But dash it all,” he said; “this affair is becoming quite idiotic! In -my opinion Gregoire is right and Gervais wrong. Only I don’t care a fig -about that; they must make it up at once, so that poor mamma may not -have another moment’s suffering. But then, why did you shut yourselves -up? Why did you not let us know how grieved you were? Every one would -have reflected and understood things.” - -Then, all at once, Ambroise embraced his father with that promptness of -decision which he displayed to such happy effect in business as soon as -ever a ray of light illumined his mind. - -“After all, father,” said he; “you are the cleverest; you understand -things and foresee them. Even if Gregoire were within his rights in -bringing an action against Gervais, it would be idiotic for him to do -so, because far above any petty private interest, there is the interest -of all of us, the interest of the family, which is to remain, united, -compact, and unattackable, if it desires to continue invincible. Our -sovereign strength lies in our union--And so it’s simple enough. We -will lunch as quickly as possible and take the first train. We shall -go, Denis and I, to Chantebled with you. Peace must be concluded this -evening. I will see to it.” - -Laughing, and well pleased to find his own feelings shared by his two -sons, Mathieu returned Ambroise’s embrace. And while waiting for lunch -to be served, they went down to see the winter garden, which was being -enlarged for some fetes which Ambroise wished to give. He took pleasure -in adding to the magnificence of the mansion, and in reigning there with -princely pomp. At lunch he apologized for only offering his father -and brother a bachelor’s pot-luck, though, truth to tell, the fare was -excellent. Indeed, whenever Andree and the children absented themselves, -Ambroise still kept a good cook to minister to his needs, for he held -the cuisine of restaurants in horror. - -“Well, for my part,” said Denis, “I go to a restaurant for my meals; for -since Marthe and all the others have been at Dieppe, I have virtually -shut up the house.” - -“You are a wise man, you see,” Ambroise answered, with quiet frankness. -“For my part, as you are aware, I am an enjoyer. Now, make haste and -drink your coffee, and we will start.” - -They reached Janville by the two o’clock train. Their plan was to repair -to Chantebled in the first instance, in order that Ambroise and Denis -might begin by talking to Gervais, who was of a gentler nature than -Gregoire, and with whom they thought they might devise some means of -conciliation. Then they intended to betake themselves to the mill, -lecture Gregoire, and impose on him such peace conditions as they might -have agreed upon. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farm, however, -the difficulties of their undertaking appeared to them, and seemed to -increase in magnitude. An arrangement would not be arrived at so easily -as they had at first imagined. So they girded their loins in readiness -for a hard battle. - -“Suppose we begin by going to see mamma,” Denis suggested. “We should -see and embrace her, and that would give us some courage.” - -Ambroise deemed the idea an excellent one. “Yes, let us go by all means, -particularly as mamma has always been a good counsellor. She must have -some idea.” - -They climbed to the first floor of the house, to the spacious room -where Marianne spent her days on a couch beside the window. And to their -stupefaction they found her seated on that couch with Gregoire standing -by her and holding both her hands, while on the other side were Gervais -and Claire, laughing softly. - -“Why! what is this?” exclaimed Ambroise in amazement. “The work is -done!” - -“And we who despaired of being able to accomplish it!” declared Denis, -with a gesture of bewilderment. - -Mathieu was equally stupefied and delighted, and on noticing the -surprise occasioned by the arrival of the two big brothers from Paris, -he proceeded to explain the position. - -“I went to Paris this morning to fetch them,” he said, “and I’ve brought -them here to reconcile us all!” - -A joyous peal of laughter resounded. The big brothers were too -late! Neither their wisdom nor their diplomacy had been needed. They -themselves made merry over it, feeling the while greatly relieved that -the victory should have been won without any battle. - -Marianne, whose eyes were moist, and who felt divinely happy, so happy -that she seemed already well again, simply replied to Mathieu: “You see, -my friend, it’s done. But as yet I know nothing further. Gregoire came -here and kissed me, and wished me to send for Gervais and Claire at -once. Then, of his own accord, he told them that they were all three -mad in causing me such grief, and that they ought to come to an -understanding together. Thereupon they kissed one another. And now it’s -done; it’s all over.” - -But Gregoire gayly intervened. “Wait a moment; just listen; I cut too -fine a figure in the story as mamma relates it, and I must tell you the -truth. I wasn’t the first to desire the reconciliation; the first was -my wife, Therese. She has a good sterling heart and the very brains of a -mule, in such wise that whenever she is determined on anything I always -have to do it in the end. Well, yesterday evening we had a bit of a -quarrel, for she had heard, I don’t know how, that mamma was ill with -grief. And this pained her, and she tried to prove to me how stupid the -quarrel was, for we should all of us lose by it. This morning she began -again, and of course she convinced me, more particularly as, with the -thought of poor mamma lying ill through our fault, I had hardly slept -all night. But father Lepailleur still had to be convinced, and Therese -undertook to do that also. She even hit upon something extraordinary, so -that the old man might imagine that he was the conqueror of conquerors. -She persuaded him at last to sell you that terrible enclosure at such -an insane price that he will be able to shout ‘victory!’ over all the -house-tops.” - -Then turning to his brother and sister, Gregoire added, in a jocular -tone; “My dear Gervais, my dear Claire, let yourselves be robbed, I beg -of you. The peace of my home is at stake. Give my father-in-law the last -joy of believing that he alone has always been in the right, and that we -have never been anything but fools.” - -“Oh! as much money as he likes,” replied Gervais, laughing. “Besides, -that enclosure has always been a dishonor for the estate, streaking -it with stones and brambles, like a nasty sore. We have long dreamt -of seeing the property spotless, with its crops waving without a break -under the sun. And Chantebled is rich enough to pay for its glory.” - -Thus the affair was settled. The wheat of the farm would return to the -mill to be ground, and the mother would get well again. It was the force -of life, the need of love, the union necessary for the whole family if -it were to continue victorious, that had imposed true brotherliness -on the sons, who for a moment had been foolish enough to destroy their -power by assailing one another. - -The delight of finding themselves once more together there, Denis, -Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, the four big brothers, and Claire, the big -sister, all reconciled and again invincible, increased when Charlotte -arrived, bringing with her the other three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, -and Marthe, who had married and settled in the district. Louise, having -heard that her mother was ill, had gone to fetch her sisters, in order -that they might repair to Chantebled together. And what a hearty laugh -there was when the procession entered! - -“Let them all come!” cried Ambroise, in a jocular way. “Let’s have the -family complete, a real meeting of the great privy council. You see, -mamma, you must get well at once; the whole of your court is at your -knees, and unanimously decides that it can no longer allow you to have -even a headache.” - -Then, as Benjamin put in an appearance the very last, behind the three -sisters, the laughter broke out afresh. - -“And to think that we were forgetting Benjamin!” Mathieu exclaimed. - -“Come, little one, come and kiss me in your turn,” said Marianne -affectionately, in a low voice. “The others jest because you are the -last of the brood. But if I spoil you that only concerns ourselves, does -it not? Tell them that you spent the morning with me, and that if you -went out for a walk it was because I wished you to do so.” - -Benjamin smiled with a gentle and rather sad expression. “But I was -downstairs, mamma; I saw them go up one after the other. I waited for -them all to kiss, before coming up in my turn.” - -He was already one-and-twenty and extremely handsome, with a bright -face, large brown eyes, long curly hair, and a frizzy, downy beard. -Though he had never been ill, his mother would have it that he was weak, -and insisted on coddling him. All of them, moreover, were very fond -of him, both for his grace of person and the gentle charm of his -disposition. He had grown up in a kind of dream, full of a desire which -he could not put into words, ever seeking the unknown, something which -he knew not, did not possess. And when his parents saw that he had no -taste for any profession, and that even the idea of marrying did -not appeal to him, they evinced no anger, but, on the contrary, they -secretly plotted to keep this son, their last-born, life’s final gift, -to themselves. Had they not surrendered all the others? Would they not -be forgiven for yielding to the egotism of love by reserving one for -themselves, one who would be theirs entirely, who would never marry, or -toil and moil, but would merely live beside them and love them, and be -loved in return? This was the dream of their old age, the share which, -in return for long fruitfulness, they would have liked to snatch -from devouring life, which, though it gives one everything, yet takes -everything away. - -“Oh! just listen, Benjamin,” Ambroise suddenly resumed, “you are -interested in our brave Nicolas, I know. Would you like to have some -news of him? I heard from him only the day before yesterday. And it’s -right that I should speak of him, since he’s the only one of the brood, -as mamma puts it, who cannot be here.” - -Benjamin at once became quite excited, asking, “Is it true? Has he -written to you? What does he say? What is he doing?” - -He could never think without emotion of Nicolas’s departure for Senegal. -He was twelve years old at that time, and nearly nine years had gone by -since then, yet the scene, with that eternal farewell, that flight, as -it were, into the infinite of time and hope, was ever present in his -mind. - -“You know that I have business relations with Nicolas,” resumed -Ambroise. “Oh! if we had but a few fellows as intelligent and courageous -as he is in our colonies, we should soon rake in all the scattered -wealth of those virgin lands. Well, Nicolas, as you are aware, went to -Senegal with Lisbeth, who was the very companion and helpmate he needed. -Thanks to the few thousand francs which they possessed between them, -they soon established a prosperous business; but I divined that the -field was still too small for them, and that they dreamt of clearing and -conquering a larger expanse. And now, all at once, Nicolas writes to me -that he is starting for the Soudan, the valley of the Niger, which has -only lately been opened. He is taking his wife and his four children -with him, and they are all going off to conquer as fortune may will -it, like valiant pioneers beset by the idea of founding a new world. I -confess that it amazes me, for it is a very hazardous enterprise. But -all the same one must admit that our Nicolas is a very plucky fellow, -and one can’t help admiring his great energy and faith in thus setting -out for an almost unknown region, fully convinced that he will subject -and populate it.” - -Silence fell. A great gust seemed to have swept by, the gust of the -infinite coming from the far away mysterious virgin plains. And the -family could picture that young fellow, one of themselves, going off -through the deserts, carrying the good seed of humanity under the -spreading sky into unknown climes. - -“Ah!” said Benjamin softly, his eyes dilating and gazing far, far away -as if to the world’s end; “ah! he’s happy, for he sees other rivers, and -other forests, and other suns than ours!” - -But Marianne shuddered. “No, no, my boy,” said she; “there are no other -rivers than the Yeuse, no other forests but our woods of Lillebonne, -no other sun but that of Chantebled. Come and kiss me again--let us -all kiss once more, and I shall get well, and we shall never be parted -again.” - -The laughter began afresh with the embraces. It was a great day, a day -of victory, the most decisive victory which the family had ever won by -refusing to let discord destroy it. Henceforth it would be invincible. - -At twilight, on the evening of that day, Mathieu and Marianne again -found themselves, as on the previous evening, hand in hand near the -window whence they could see the estate stretching to the horizon; that -horizon behind which arose the breath of Paris, the tawny cloud of its -gigantic forge. But how little did that serene evening resemble the -other, and how great was their present felicity, their trust in the -goodness of their work. - -“Do you feel better?” Mathieu asked his wife; “do you feel your strength -returning; does your heart beat more freely?” - -“Oh! my friend, I feel cured; I was only pining with grief. To-morrow I -shall be strong.” - -Then Mathieu sank into a deep reverie, as he sat there face to face with -his conquest--that estate which spread out under the setting sun. -And again, as in the morning, did recollections crowd upon him; he -remembered a morning more than forty years previously when he had -left Marianne, with thirty sous in her purse, in the little tumbledown -shooting-box on the verge of the woods. They lived there on next to -nothing; they owed money, they typified gay improvidence with the four -little mouths which they already had to feed, those children who had -sprung from their love, their faith in life. - -Then he recalled his return home at night time, the three hundred -francs, a month’s salary, which he had carried in his pocket, the -calculations which he had made, the cowardly anxiety which he had felt, -disturbed as he was by the poisonous egotism which he had encountered -in Paris. There were the Beauchenes, with their factory, and their only -son, Maurice, whom they were bringing up to be a future prince, the -Beauchenes, who had prophesied to him that he and his wife and their -troop of children could only expect a life of black misery, and death in -a garret. There were also the Seguins, then his landlords, who had shown -him their millions, and their magnificent mansion, full of treasures, -crushing him the while, treating him with derisive pity because he did -not behave sensibly like themselves, who were content with having but -two children, a boy and a girl. And even those poor Moranges had talked -to him of giving a royal dowry to their one daughter Reine, dreaming at -that time of an appointment that would bring in twelve thousand francs -a year, and full of contempt for the misery which a numerous family -entails. And then the very Lepailleurs, the people of the mill, had -evinced distrust because there were twelve francs owing to them for milk -and eggs; for it had seemed to them doubtful whether a bourgeois, insane -enough to have so many children, could possibly pay his debts. Ah! the -views of the others had then appeared to be correct; he had repeated to -himself that he would never have a factory, nor a mansion, nor even a -mill, and that in all probability he would never earn twelve thousand -francs a year. The others had everything and he nothing. The others, the -rich, behaved sensibly, and did not burden themselves with offspring; -whereas, he, the poor man, already had more children than he could -provide for. What madness it had seemed to be! - -But forty years had rolled away, and behold his madness was wisdom! He -had conquered by his divine improvidence; the poor man had vanquished -the wealthy. He had placed his trust in the future, and now the whole -harvest was garnered. The Beauchene factory was his through his son -Denis; the Seguins’ mansion was his through his son Ambroise; the -Lepailleurs’ mill was his through his son Gregoire. Tragical, even -excessive punishment, had blown those sorry Moranges away in a tempest -of blood and insanity. And other social wastage had swept by and rolled -into the gutter; Seraphine, the useless creature, had succumbed to -her passions; the Moineauds had been dispersed, annihilated by their -poisonous environment. And he, Mathieu, and Marianne alone remained -erect, face to face with that estate of Chantebled, which they had -conquered from the Seguins, and where their children, Gervais and -Claire, at present reigned, prolonging the dynasty of their race. This -was their kingdom; as far as the eye could see the fields spread out -with wondrous fertility under the sun’s farewell, proclaiming the -battles, the heroic creative labor of their lives. There was their work, -there was what they had produced, whether in the realm of animate or -inanimate nature, thanks to the power of love within them, and their -energy of will. By love, and resolution, and action, they had created a -world. - -“Look, look!” murmured Mathieu, waving his arm, “all that has sprung -from us, and we must continue to love, we must continue to be happy, in -order that it may all live.” - -“Ah!” Marianne gayly replied, “it will live forever now, since we have -all become reconciled and united amid our victory.” - -Victory! yes, it was the natural, necessary victory that is reaped by -the numerous family! Thanks to numbers they had ended by invading every -sphere and possessing everything. Fruitfulness was the invincible, -sovereign conqueress. Yet their conquest had not been meditated and -planned; ever serenely loyal in their dealings with others, they owed -it simply to the fulfilment of duty throughout their long years of toil. -And they now stood before it hand in hand, like heroic figures, glorious -because they had ever been good and strong, because they had created -abundantly, because they had given abundance of joy, and health, and -hope to the world amid all the everlasting struggles and the everlasting -tears. - - - - -XXIII - -AND Mathieu and Marianne lived more than a score of years longer, and -Mathieu was ninety years old and Marianne eighty-seven, when their -three eldest sons, Denis, Ambroise, and Gervais, ever erect beside them, -planned that they would celebrate their diamond wedding, the seventieth -anniversary of their marriage, by a fete at which they would assemble -all the members of the family at Chantebled. - -It was no little affair. When they had drawn up a complete list, they -found that one hundred and fifty-eight children, grandchildren, and -great-grandchildren had sprung from Mathieu and Marianne, without -counting a few little ones of a fourth generation. By adding to the -above those who had married into the family as husbands and wives they -would be three hundred in number. And where at the farm could they find -a room large enough for the huge table of the patriarchal feast that -they dreamt of? The anniversary fell on June 2, and the spring that year -was one of incomparable mildness and beauty. So they decided that they -would lunch out of doors, and place the tables in front of the old -pavilion, on the large lawn, enclosed by curtains of superb elms and -hornbeams, which gave the spot the aspect of a huge hall of verdure. -There they would be at home, on the very breast of the beneficent earth, -under the central and now gigantic oak, planted by the two ancestors, -whose blessed fruitfulness the whole swarming progeny was about to -celebrate. - -Thus the festival was settled and organized amid a great impulse of -love and joy. All were eager to take part in it, all hastened to the -triumphal gathering, from the white-haired old men to the urchins who -still sucked their thumbs. And the broad blue sky and the flaming sun -were bent on participating in it also, as well as the whole estate, the -streaming springs and the fields in flower, giving promise of bounteous -harvests. Magnificent looked the huge horseshoe table set out amid the -grass, with handsome china and snowy cloths which the sunbeams flecked -athwart the foliage. The august pair, the father and mother, were to -sit side by side, in the centre, under the oak tree. It was decided -also that the other couples should not be separated, that it would be -charming to place them side by side according to the generation they -belonged to. But as for the young folks, the youths and maidens, the -urchins and the little girls, they, it was thought, might well be left -to seat themselves as their fancy listed. - -Early in the morning those bidden to the feast began to arrive in bands; -the dispersed family returned to the common nest, swooping down upon it -from the four points of the compass. But alas! death’s scythe had been -at work, and there were many who could not come. Departed ones slept, -each year more numerous, in the peaceful, flowery, Janville cemetery. -Near Rose and Blaise, who had been the first to depart, others had gone -thither to sleep the eternal sleep, each time carrying away a little -more of the family’s heart, and making of that sacred spot a place of -worship and eternal souvenir. First Charlotte, after long illness, had -joined Blaise, happy in leaving Berthe to replace her beside Mathieu and -Marianne, who were heart-stricken by her death, as if indeed they were -for the second time losing their dear son. Afterwards their daughter -Claire had likewise departed from them, leaving the farm to her husband -Frederic and her brother Gervais, who likewise had become a widower -during the ensuing year. Then, too, Mathieu and Marianne had lost their -son Gregoire, the master of the mill, whose widow Therese still ruled -there amid a numerous progeny. And again they had to mourn another of -their daughters, the kind-hearted Marguerite, Dr. Chambouvet’s wife, -who sickened and died, through having sheltered a poor workman’s little -children, who were affected with croup. And the other losses could no -longer be counted among them were some who had married into the family, -wives and husbands, and there were in particular many children, the -tithe that death always exacts, those who are struck down by the storms -which sweep over the human crop, all the dear little ones for whom the -living weep, and who sanctify the ground in which they rest. - -But if the dear departed yonder slept in deepest silence, how gay was -the uproar and how great the victory of life that morning along the -roads which led to Chantebled! The number of those who were born -surpassed that of those who died. From each that departed, a whole -florescence of living beings seemed to blossom forth. They sprang up in -dozens from the ground where their forerunners had laid themselves to -sleep when weary of their work. And they flocked to Chantebled from -every side, even as swallows return at spring to revivify their old -nests, filling the blue sky with the joy of their return. Outside the -farm, vehicles were ever setting down fresh families with troops -of children, whose sea of fair heads was always expanding. -Great-grandfathers with snowy hair came leading little ones who could -scarcely toddle. There were very nice-looking old ladies whom young -girls of dazzling freshness assisted to alight. There were mothers -expecting the arrival of other babes, and fathers to whom the charming -idea had occurred of inviting their daughters’ affianced lovers. And -they were all related, they had all sprung from a common ancestry, they -were all mingled in an inextricable tangle, fathers, mothers, -brothers, sisters, fathers-in-law, mothers-in-law, brothers-in-law, -sisters-in-law, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, and cousins, of every -possible degree, down to the fourth generation. And they were all one -family; one sole little nation, assembling in joy and pride to celebrate -that diamond wedding, the rare prodigious nuptials of two heroic -creatures whom life had glorified and from whom all had sprung! And what -an epic, what a Biblical numbering of that people suggested itself! How -even name all those who entered the farm, how simply set forth their -names, their ages, their degree of relationship, the health, the -strength, and the hope that they had brought into the world! - -Before everybody else there were those of the farm itself, all those who -had been born and who had grown up there. Gervais, now sixty-two, was -helped by his two eldest sons, Leon and Henri, who between them had ten -children; while his three daughters, Mathilde, Leontine, and Julienne, -who were married in the district, in like way numbered between them -twelve. Then Frederic, Claire’s husband, who was five years older than -Gervais, had surrendered his post as a faithful lieutenant to his son -Joseph, while his daughters Angele and Lucille, as well as a second son -Jules, also helped on the farm, the four supplying a troop of fifteen -children, some of them boys and some girls. - -Then, of all those who came from without, the mill claimed the first -place. Therese, Gregoire’s widow, arrived with her offspring, her -son Robert, who now managed the mill under her control, and her three -daughters, Genevieve, Aline, and Natalie, followed by quite a train of -children, ten belonging to the daughters and four to Robert. Next came -Louise, notary Mazaud’s wife, and Madeleine, architect Herbette’s wife, -followed by Dr. Chambouvet, who had lost his wife, the good Marguerite. -And here again were three valiant companies; in the first, four -daughters, of whom Colette was the eldest; in the second, five sons with -Hilary at the head of them; and in the third, a son and daughter only, -Sebastien and Christine; the whole, however, forming quite an army, for -there were twenty of Mathieu’s great-grandchildren in the rear. - -But Paris arrived on the scene with Denis and his wife Marthe, -who headed a grand cortege. Denis, now nearly seventy, and a -great-grandfather through his daughters Hortense and Marcelle, had -enjoyed the happy rest which follows accomplished labor ever since he -had handed his works over to his eldest sons Lucien and Paul, who were -both men of more than forty, and whose own sons were already on the road -to every sort of fortune. And what with the mother and father, the four -children, the fifteen grandchildren, and the three great-grandchildren, -two of whom were yet in swaddling clothes, this was really an invading -tribe packed into five vehicles. - -Then the final entry was that of the little nation which had sprung from -Ambroise, who to his great grief had early lost his wife Andree. His was -such a green old age that at sixty-seven he still directed his business, -in which his sons Leonce and Charles remained simple _employes_ like -his sons-in-law--the husbands of his daughters, Pauline and Sophie--who -trembled before him, uncontested king that he remained, obeyed by one -and all, grandfather of seven big bearded young men and nine strong -young women, through four of whom he had become a great-grandfather -even before his elder, the wise Denis. For this troop six carriages were -required. And the defile lasted two hours, and the farm was soon full of -a happy, laughing throng, holiday-making in the bright June sunlight. - -Mathieu and Marianne had not yet put in an appearance. Ambroise, who was -the grand master of the ceremonies that day, had made them promise to -remain in their room, like sovereigns hidden from their people, until -he should go to fetch them. He desired that they should appear in all -solemnity. And when he made up his mind to summon them, the whole nation -being assembled together, he found his brother Benjamin on the threshold -of the house defending the door like a bodyguard. - -He, Benjamin, had remained the one idler, the one unfruitful scion of -that swarming tribe, which had toiled and multiplied so prodigiously. -Now three-and-forty years of age, without a wife and without children, -he lived, it seemed, solely for the joy of the old home, as a companion -to his father and a passionate worshipper of his mother, who with the -egotism of love had set themselves upon keeping him for themselves -alone. At first they had not been opposed to his marrying, but when -they had seen him refuse one match after another, they had secretly felt -great delight. Nevertheless, as years rolled by, some unacknowledged -remorse had come to them amid their happiness at having him beside -them like some hoarded treasure, the delight of an avaricious old age, -following a life of prodigality. Did not their Benjamin suffer at having -been thus monopolized, shut up for their sole pleasure within the -four walls of their house? He had at all times displayed an anxious -dreaminess, his eyes had ever sought far-away things, the unknown land -where perfect satisfaction dwelt, yonder, behind the horizon. And now -that age was stealing upon him his torment seemed to increase, as if he -were in despair at finding himself unable to try the possibilities of -the unknown, before he ended a useless life devoid of happiness. - -However, Benjamin moved away from the door, Ambroise gave his orders, -and Mathieu and Marianne appeared upon the verdant lawn in the sunlight. -An acclamation, merry laughter, affectionate clapping of hands greeted -them. The gay excited throng, the whole swarming family cried aloud: -“Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to the -Father and the Mother!” - -At ninety years of age Mathieu was still very upright and slim, closely -buttoned in a black frock-coat like a young bridegroom. Over his bare -head fell a snowy fleece, for after long wearing his hair cut short he -had now in a final impulse of coquetry allowed it to grow, so that it -seemed liked the _renouveau_ of an old but vigorous tree. Age might have -withered and worn and wrinkled his face, but he still retained the eyes -of his young days, large lustrous eyes, at once smiling and pensive, -which still bespoke a man of thought and action, one who was very -simple, very gay, and very good-hearted. And Marianne at eighty-seven -years of age also held herself very upright in her light bridal gown, -still strong and still showing some of the healthy beauty of other days. -With hair white like Mathieu’s, and softened face, illumined as by a -last glow under her silky tresses, she resembled one of those sacred -marbles whose features time has ravined, without, however, being able to -efface from them the tranquil splendor of life. She seemed, indeed, like -some fruitful Cybele, retaining all firmness of contour, and living -anew in the broad daylight with gentle good humor sparkling in her large -black eyes. - -Arm-in-arm close to one another, like a worthy couple who had come from -afar, who had walked on side by side without ever parting for seventy -long years, Mathieu and Marianne smiled with tears of joy in their eyes -at the whole swarming family which had sprung from their love, and which -still acclaimed them: - -“Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to the -Father and the Mother!” - -Then came the ceremony of reciting a compliment and offering a bouquet. -A fair-haired little girl named Rose, five years of age, had been -intrusted with this duty. She had been chosen because she was the eldest -child of the fourth generation. She was the daughter of Angeline, who -was the daughter of Berthe, who was the daughter of Charlotte, wife of -Blaise. And when the two ancestors saw her approach them with her big -bouquet, their emotion increased, happy tears again gathered in their -eyes, and recollections faltered on their lips: “Oh! our little Rose! -Our Blaise, our Charlotte!” - -All the past revived before them. The name of Rose had been given to the -child in memory of the other long-mourned Rose, who had been the first -to leave them, and who slept yonder in the little cemetery. There in his -turn had Blaise been laid, and thither Charlotte had followed them. Then -Berthe, Blaise’s daughter, who had married Philippe Havard, had given -birth to Angeline. And, later, Angeline, having married Georges Delmas, -had given birth to Rose. Berthe and Philippe Havard, Angeline and -Georges Delmas stood behind the child. And she represented one and all, -the dead, the living, the whole flourishing line, its many griefs, its -many joys, all the valiant toil of creation, all the river of life -that it typified, for everything ended in her, dear, frail, fair-haired -angel, with eyes bright like the dawn, in whose depths the future -sparkled. - -“Oh! our Rose! our Rose!” - -With a big bouquet between her little hands Rose had stepped forward. -She had been learning a very fine compliment for a fortnight past, and -that very morning she had recited it to her mother without making a -single mistake. But when she found herself there among all these people -she could not recollect a word of it. Still that did not trouble her, -she was already a very bold little damsel, and she frankly dropped her -bouquet and sprang at the necks of Mathieu and Marianne, exclaiming in -her shrill, flute-like voice: “Grandpapa, grandmamma, it’s your fete, -and I kiss you with all my heart!” - -And that suited everybody remarkably well. They even found it far better -than any compliment. Laughter and clapping of hands and acclamations -again arose. Then they forthwith began to take their seats at table. - -This, however, was quite an affair, so large was the horse-shoe table -spread out under the oak on the short, freshly cut grass. First Mathieu -and Marianne, still arm in arm, went ceremoniously to seat themselves -in the centre with their backs towards the trunk of the great tree. On -Mathieu’s left, Marthe and Denis, Louise and her husband, notary Mazaud, -took their places, since it had been fittingly decided that the husbands -and wives should not be separated. On the right of Marianne came -Ambroise, Therese, Gervais, Dr. Chambouvet, three widowers and a widow, -then another married couple, Madeleine and her husband, architect -Herbette, and then Benjamin alone. The other married folks afterwards -installed themselves according to the generation they belonged to; and -then, as had been decided, youth and childhood, the whole troop of -young people and little ones took seats as they pleased amid no little -turbulence. - -What a moment of sovereign glory it was for Mathieu and Marianne! They -found themselves there in a triumph of which they would never have dared -to dream. Life, as if to reward them for having shown faith in her, -for having increased her sway with all bravery, seemed to have taken -pleasure in prolonging their existences beyond the usual limits so that -their eyes might behold the marvellous blossoming of their work. The -whole of their dear Chantebled, everything good and beautiful that they -had there begotten and established, participated in the festival. From -the cultivated fields that they had set in the place of marshes came the -broad quiver of great coming harvests; from the pasture lands amid the -distant woods came the warm breath of cattle and innumerable flocks -which ever increased the ark of life; and they heard, too, the loud -babble of the captured springs with which they had fertilized the now -fruitful moorlands, the flow of that water which is like the very blood -of our mother earth. The social task was accomplished, bread was won, -subsistence had been created, drawn from the nothingness of barren soil. - -And on what a lovely and well-loved spot did their happy, grateful race -offer them that festival! Those elms and hornbeams, which made the lawn -a great hall of greenery, had been planted by themselves; they had seen -them growing day by day like the most peaceable and most sturdy of their -children. And in particular that oak, now so gigantic, thanks to the -clear waters of the adjoining basin through which one of the sources -ever streamed, was their own big son, one that dated from the day when -they had founded Chantebled, he, Mathieu, digging the hole and she, -Marianne, holding the sapling erect. And now, as that tree stood there, -shading them with its expanse of verdure, was it not like some royal -symbol of the whole family? Like that oak the family had grown and -multiplied, ever throwing out fresh branches which spread far over -the ground; and like that oak it now formed by itself a perfect forest -sprung from a single trunk, vivified by the same sap, strong in the same -health, and full of song, and breeziness, and sunlight. - -Leaning against that giant tree Mathieu and Marianne became merged in -its sovereign glory and majesty, and was not their royalty akin to -its own? Had they not begotten as many beings as the tree had begotten -branches? Did they not reign there over a nation of their children, who -lived by them, even as the leaves above lived by the tree? The three -hundred big and little ones seated around them were but a prolongation -of themselves; they belonged to the same tree of life, they had sprung -from their love and still clung to them by every fibre. Mathieu and -Marianne divined how joyous they all were at glorifying themselves in -making much of them; how moved the elder ones, how turbulently merry the -younger felt. They could hear their own hearts beating in the breasts of -the fair-haired urchins who already laughed with ecstasy at the sight of -the cakes and pastry on the table. And their work of human creation was -assembled in front of them and within them, in the same way as the -oak’s huge dome spread out above it; and all around they were likewise -encompassed by the fruitfulness of their other work, the fertility and -growth of nature which had increased even as they themselves multiplied. - -Then was the true beauty which had its abode in Mathieu and Marianne -made manifest, that beauty of having loved one another for seventy years -and of still worshipping one another now even as on the first day. For -seventy years had they trod life’s pathway side by side and arm in arm, -without a quarrel, without ever a deed of unfaithfulness. They could -certainly recall great sorrows, but these had always come from without. -And if they had sometimes sobbed they had consoled one another by -mingling their tears. Under their white locks they had retained the -faith of their early days, their hearts remained blended, merged one -into the other, even as on the morrow of their marriage, each having -then been freely given and never taken back. In them the power of love, -the will of action, the divine desire whose flame creates worlds, had -happily met and united. He, adoring his wife, had known no other -joy than the passion of creation, looking on the work that had to -be performed and the work that was accomplished as the sole why and -wherefore of his being, his duty and his reward. She, adoring her -husband, had simply striven to be a true companion, spouse, mother, -and good counsellor, one who was endowed with delicacy of judgment and -helped to overcome all difficulties. Between them they were reason, -and health, and strength. If, too, they had always triumphed athwart -obstacles and tears, it was only by reason of their long agreement, -their common fealty amid an eternal renewal of their love, whose -armor rendered them invincible. They could not be conquered, they had -conquered by the very power of their union without designing it. And -they ended heroically, as conquerors of happiness, hand in hand, pure -as crystal is, very great, very handsome, the more so from their extreme -age, their long, long life, which one love had entirely filled. And the -sole strength of their innumerable offspring now gathered there, the -conquering tribe that had sprung from their loins, was the strength of -union inherited from them: the loyal love transmitted from ancestors to -children, the mutual affection which impelled them to help one another -and ever fight for a better life in all brotherliness. - -But mirthful sounds arose, the banquet was at last being served. All the -servants of the farm had gathered to discharge this duty--they would not -allow a single person from without to help them. Nearly all had grown up -on the estate, and belonged, as it were, to the family. By and by they -would have a table for themselves, and in their turn celebrate the -diamond wedding. And it was amid exclamations and merry laughter that -they brought the first dishes. - -All at once, however, the serving ceased, silence fell, an unexpected -incident attracted all attention. A young man, whom none apparently -could recognize, was stepping across the lawn, between the arms of the -horse-shoe table. He smiled gayly as he walked on, only stopping when -he was face to face with Mathieu and Marianne. Then in a loud voice -he said: “Good day, grandfather! good day, grandmother! You must have -another cover laid, for I have come to celebrate the day with you.” - -The onlookers remained silent, in great astonishment. Who was this young -man whom none had ever seen before? Assuredly he could not belong to the -family, for they would have known his name, have recognized his face? -Why, then, did he address the ancestors by the venerated names of -grandfather and grandmother? And the stupefaction was the greater by -reason of his extraordinary resemblance to Mathieu. Assuredly, he was a -Froment, he had the bright eyes and the lofty tower-like forehead of -the race. Mathieu lived again in him, such as he appeared in -a piously-preserved portrait representing him at the age of -seven-and-twenty when he had begun the conquest of Chantebled. - -Mathieu, for his part, rose, trembling, while Marianne smiled divinely, -for she understood the truth before all the others. - -“Who are you, my child?” asked Mathieu, “you, who call me grandfather, -and who resemble me as if you were my brother?” - -“I am Dominique, the eldest son of your son Nicolas, who lives with my -mother, Lisbeth, in the vast free country yonder, the other France!” - -“And how old are you?” - -“I shall be seven-and-twenty next August, when, yonder, the waters of -the Niger, the good giant, come back to fertilize our spreading fields.” - -“And tell us, are you married, have you any children?” - -“I have taken for my wife a French woman, born in Senegal, and in the -brick house which I have built, four children are already growing up -under the flaming sun of the Soudan.” - -“And tell us also, have you any brothers, any sisters?” - -“My father, Nicolas, and Lisbeth, my mother, have had eighteen children, -two of whom are dead. We are sixteen, nine boys and seven girls.” - -At this Mathieu laughed gayly, as if to say that his son Nicolas at -fifty years of age had already proved a more valiant artisan of life -than himself. - -“Well then, my boy,” he said, “since you are the son of my son Nicolas, -come and embrace us to celebrate our wedding. And a cover shall be -placed for you; you are at home here.” - -In four strides Dominique made the round of the tables, then cast his -strong arms about the old people and embraced them--they the while -feeling faint with happy emotion, so delightful was that surprise, yet -another child falling among them, and on that day, as from some distant -sky, and telling them of the other family, the other nation which -had sprung from them, and which was swarming yonder with increase of -fruitfulness amid the fiery glow of the tropics. - -That surprise was due to the sly craft of Ambroise, who merrily -explained how he had prepared it like a masterly coup de theatre. For -a week past he had been lodging and hiding Dominique in his house in -Paris; the young man having been sent from the Soudan by his father to -negotiate certain business matters, and in particular to order of Denis -a quantity of special agricultural machinery adapted to the soil of -that far-away region. Thus Denis alone had been taken into the other’s -confidence. - -When all those seated at the table saw Dominique in the old people’s -arms, and learnt the whole story, there came an extraordinary outburst -of delight; deafening acclamations arose once more; and what with their -enthusiastic greetings and embraces they almost stifled the messenger -from the sister family, that prince of the second dynasty of the -Froments which ruled in the land of the future France. - -Mathieu gayly gave his orders: “There, place his cover in front of us! -He alone will be in front of us like the ambassador of some powerful -empire. Remember that, apart from his father and mother, he represents -nine brothers and seven sisters, without counting the four children that -he already has himself. There, my boy, sit down; and now let the service -continue.” - -The feast proved a mirthful one under the big oak tree whose shade was -spangled by the sunbeams. Delicious freshness arose from the grass, -friendly nature seemed to contribute its share of caresses. The laughter -never ceased, old folks became playful children once more in presence of -the ninety and the eighty-seven years of the bridegroom and the bride. -Faces beamed softly under white and dark and sunny hair; the whole -assembly was joyful, beautiful with a healthy rapturous beauty; the -children radiant, the youths superb, the maidens adorable, the married -folk united, side by side. And what good appetites there were! What a -gay tumult greeted the advent of each fresh dish! And how the good wine -was honored to celebrate the goodness of life which had granted the two -patriarchs the supreme grace of assembling them all at their table on -such a glorious occasion! At dessert came toasts and health-drinking and -fresh acclamations. But, amid all the chatter which flew from one to -the other end of the table, the conversation invariably reverted to -the surprise at the outset: that triumphal entry of the brotherly -ambassador. It was he, his unexpected presence, all that he had not -yet said, all the adventurous romance which he surely personated, that -fanned the growing fever, the excitement of the family, intoxicated -by that open-air gala. And as soon as the coffee was served no end of -questions arose on every side, and he had to speak out. - -“Well, what can I say?” he replied, laughing, to a question put to him -by Ambroise, who wished to know what he thought of Chantebled, where -he had taken him for a stroll during the morning. “I’m afraid that if -I speak in all frankness, you won’t think me very complimentary. -Cultivation, no doubt, is quite an art here, a splendid effort of will -and science and organization, as is needed to draw from this old soil -such crops as it can still produce. You toil a great deal, and you -effect prodigies. But, good heavens! how small your kingdom is! How can -you live here without hurting yourselves by ever rubbing against other -people’s elbows? You are all heaped up to such a degree that you no -longer have the amount of air needful for a man’s lungs. Your largest -stretches of land, what you call your big estates, are mere clods of -soil where the few cattle that one sees look to me like lost ants. But -ah! the immensity of our Niger; the immensity of the plains it waters; -the immensity of our fields, whose only limit is the distant horizon!” - -Benjamin had listened, quivering. Ever since that son of the great river -had arrived, he had continued gazing at him, with passion rising in his -dreamy eyes. And on hearing him speak in this fashion he could no longer -restrain himself, but rose, went round the table, and sat down beside -him. - -“The Niger--the immense plains--tell us all about them,” he said. - -“The Niger, the good giant, the father of us all over yonder!” responded -Dominique. “I was barely eight years old when my parents quitted -Senegal, yielding to an impulse of reckless bravery and wild hope, -possessed by a craving to plunge into the Soudan and conquer as chance -might will it. There are many days’ march among rocks and scrub and -rivers from St. Louis to our present farm, far beyond Djenny. And I no -longer remember the first journey. It seems to me as if I sprang from -good father Niger himself, from the wondrous fertility of his waters. -He is gentle but immense, rolling countless waves like the sea, and so -broad, so vast, that no bridge can span him as he flows from horizon to -horizon. He carries archipelagoes on his breast, and stretches out arms -covered with herbage like pasture land. And there are the depths where -flotillas of huge fishes roam at their ease. Father Niger has his -tempests, too, and his days of fire, when his waters beget life in the -burning clasp of the sun. And he has his delightful nights, his soft and -rosy nights, when peace descends on earth from the stars.... He is the -ancestor, the founder, the fertilizer of the Western Soudan, which he -has dowered with incalculable wealth, wresting it from the invasion of -neighboring Saharas, building it up of his own fertile ooze. It is he -who every year at regular seasons floods the valley like an ocean and -leaves it rich, pregnant, as it were, with amazing vegetation. Even -like the Nile, he has vanquished the sands; he is the father of untold -generations, the creative deity of a world as yet unknown, which in -later times will enrich old Europe.... And the valley of the Niger, the -good giant’s colossal daughter. Ah! what pure immensity is hers; what -a flight, so to say, into the infinite! The plain opens and expands, -unbroken and limitless. Ever and ever comes the plain, fields are -succeeded by other fields stretching out of sight, whose end a plough -would only reach in months and months. All the food needed for a great -nation will be reaped there when cultivation is practised with a little -courage and a little science, for it is still a virgin kingdom such -as the good river created it, thousands of years ago. To-morrow this -kingdom will belong to the workers who are bold enough to take it, each -carving for himself a domain as large as his strength of toil can dream -of; not an estate of acres, but leagues and leagues of ploughland wavy -with eternal crops.... And what breadth of atmosphere there is in that -immensity! What delight it is to inhale all the air of that space at one -breath, and how healthy and strong the life, for one is no longer piled -one upon the other, but one feels free and powerful, master of that part -of the earth which one has desired under the sun which shines for all.” - -Benjamin listened and questioned, never satisfied. “How are you -installed there?” he asked. “How do you live? What are your habits? What -is your work?” - -Dominique began to laugh again, conscious as he was that he was -astonishing, upsetting all these unknown relatives who pressed so close -to him, aglow with increasing curiosity. Women and old men had in -turn left their places to draw near to him; even children had gathered -around, as if to listen to a fine story. - -“Oh! we live in republican fashion,” said he; “every member of our -community has to help in the common fraternal task. The family counts -more or less expert artisans of all kinds for the rough work. My father -in particular has revealed himself to be a very skilful mason, for -he had to build a place for us when we arrived. He even made his own -bricks, thanks to some deposits of clayey soil which exist near Djenny. -So our farm is now a little village: each married couple will have its -own house. Then, too, we are not only agriculturists, we are fishermen -and hunters also. We have our boats; the Niger abounds in fish to an -extraordinary degree, and there are wonderful hauls at times. And even -the shooting and hunting would suffice to feed us; game is plentiful, -there are partridges and wild guinea-fowl, not to mention the -flamingoes, the pelicans, the egrets, the thousands of creatures who -do not prey on one another. Black lions visit us at times: eagles fly -slowly over our heads; at dusk hippopotami come in parties of three -and four to gambol in the river with the clumsy grace of negro children -bathing. But, after all, we are more particularly cultivators, kings -of the plain, especially when the waters of the Niger withdraw after -fertilizing our fields. Our estate has no limits; it stretches as far as -we can labor. And ah! if you could only see the natives, who do not even -plough, but have few if any appliances beyond sticks, with which they -just scratch the soil before confiding the seed to it! There is no -trouble, no worry; the earth is rich, the sun ardent, and thus the crop -will always be a fine one. When we ourselves employ the plough, when we -bestow a little care on the soil which teems with life, what prodigious -crops there are, an abundance of grain such as your barns could never -hold! As soon as we possess the agricultural machinery, which I have -come to order here in France, we shall need flotillas of boats in order -to send you the overplus of our granaries.... When the river subsides, -when its waters fall, the crop we more particularly grow is rice; there -are, indeed, plains of rice, which occasionally yield two crops. Then -come millet and ground-beans, and by and by will come corn, when we can -grow it on a large scale. Vast cotton fields follow one after the other, -and we also grow manioc and indigo, while in our kitchen gardens we have -onions and pimentoes, and gourds and cucumbers. And I don’t mention the -natural vegetation, the precious gum-trees, of which we possess quite a -forest; the butter-trees, the flour-trees, the silk-trees, which grow -on our ground like briers alongside your roads.... Finally, we are -shepherds; we own ever-increasing flocks, whose numbers we don’t even -know. Our goats, our bearded sheep may be counted by the thousand; our -horses scamper freely through paddocks as large as cities, and when -our hunch-backed cattle come down to the Niger to drink at that hour of -serene splendor the sunset, they cover a league of the river banks.... -And, above everything else, we are free men and joyous men, working for -the delight of living without restraint, and our reward is the thought -that our work is very great and good and beautiful, since it is the -creation of another France, the sovereign France of to-morrow.” - -From that moment Dominique paused no more. There was no longer any need -to question him, he poured forth all the beauty and grandeur in his -mind. He spoke of Djenny, the ancient queen city, whose people and -whose monuments came from Egypt, the city which even yet reigns over -the valley. He spoke of four other centres, Bamakoo, Niamina, Segu, -and Sansandig, big villages which would some day be great towns. And he -spoke particularly of Timbuctoo the glorious, so long unknown, with a -veil of legends cast over it as if it were some forbidden paradise, with -its gold, its ivory, its beautiful women, all rising like a mirage of -inaccessible delight beyond the devouring sands. He spoke of Timbuctoo, -the gate of the Sahara and the Western Soudan, the frontier town where -life ended and met and mingled, whither the camel of the desert -brought the weapons and merchandise of Europe as well as salt, that -indispensable commodity, and where the pirogues of the Niger landed the -precious ivory, the surface gold, the ostrich feathers, the gum, the -crops, all the wealth of the fruitful valley. He spoke of Timbuctoo the -store-place, the metropolis and market of Central Africa, with its -piles of ivory, its piles of virgin gold, its sacks of rice, millet, -and ground-nuts, its cakes of indigo, its tufts of ostrich plumes, its -metals, its dates, its stuffs, its iron-ware, and particularly its slabs -of rock salt, brought on the backs of beasts of burden from Taudeni, the -frightful Saharian city of salt, whose soil is salt for leagues around, -an infernal mine of that salt which is so precious in the Soudan that it -serves as a medium of exchange, as money more precious even than gold. -And finally, he spoke of Timbuctoo impoverished, fallen from its high -estate, the opulent and resplendent city of former times now almost in -ruins, hiding remnants of its treasures behind cracked walls in fear of -the robbers of the desert; but withal apt to become once more a city -of glory and fortune, royally seated as it is between the Soudan, that -granary of abundance, and the Sahara, the road to Europe, as soon as -France shall have opened that road, have connected the provinces of her -new empire, and have founded that huge new France of which the ancient -fatherland will be but the directing mind. - -“That is the dream!” cried Dominique, “that is the gigantic work which -the future will achieve! Algeria, connected with Timbuctoo by the Sahara -railway line, over which electric engines will carry the whole of old -Europe through the far expanse of sand! Timbuctoo connected with Senegal -by flotillas of steam vessels and yet other railways, all intersecting -the vast empire on every side! New France connected with mother France, -the old land, by a wondrous development of the means of communication, -and founded, and got ready for the hundred millions of inhabitants who -will some day spring up there!... Doubtless these things cannot be done -in a night. The trans-Saharian railway is not yet laid down; there are -two thousand five hundred kilometres* of bare desert to be crossed which -can hardly tempt railway companies; and a certain amount of prosperity -must be developed by starting cultivation, seeking and working mines, -and increasing exportations before a pecuniary effort can be possible -on the part of the motherland. Moreover, there is the question of the -natives, mostly of gentle race, though some are ferocious bandits, -whose savagery is increased by religious fanaticism, thus rendering the -difficulties of our conquest all the greater. Until the terrible problem -of Islamism is solved we shall always be coming in conflict with it. And -only life, long years of life, can create a new nation, adapt it to the -new land, blend diverse elements together, and yield normal existence, -homogeneous strength, and genius proper to the clime. But no matter! -From this day a new France is born yonder, a huge empire; and it needs -our blood--and some must be given it, in order that it may be peopled -and be able to draw its incalculable wealth from the soil, and become -the greatest, the strongest, and the mightiest in the world!” - - * About 1,553 English miles. - -Transported with enthusiasm, quivering at the thought of the distant -ideal at last revealed to him, Benjamin sat there with tears in his -eyes. Ah! the healthy life! the noble life! the other life! the whole -mission and work of which he had as yet but confusedly dreamt! Again he -asked a question: “And are there many French families there, colonizing -like yours?” - -Dominique burst into a loud laugh. “Oh, no,” said he, “there are -certainly a few colonists in our old possessions of Senegal, but yonder -in the Niger valley, beyond Djenny, there are, I think, only ourselves. -We are the pioneers, the vanguard, the riskers full of faith and hope. -And there is some merit in it, for to sensible stay-at-home folks it -all seems like defying common sense. Can you picture it? A French family -installed among savages, and unprotected, save for the vicinity of a -little fort, where a French officer commands a dozen native soldiers--a -French family, which is sometimes called upon to fight in person, and -which establishes a farm in a land where the fanaticism of some head -tribesman may any day stir up trouble. It seems so insane that folks -get angry at the mere thought of it, yet it enraptures us and gives us -gayety and health, and the courage to achieve victory. We are opening -the road, we are giving the example, we are carrying our dear old France -yonder, taking to ourselves a huge expanse of virgin land, which will -become a province. We have already founded a village which in a hundred -years will be a great town. In the colonies no race is more fruitful -than the French, though it seems to become barren on its own ancient -soil. Thus we shall swarm and swarm, and fill the world! So come then, -come then, all of you; since here you are set too closely, since you -lack air in your little fields and your overheated, pestilence-breeding -towns. There is room for everybody yonder; there are new lands, there is -open air that none has breathed, and there is a task to be accomplished -which will make all of you heroes, strong, sturdy men, well pleased to -live! Come with me. I will take the men, I will take all the women who -are willing, and you will carve for yourselves other provinces and found -other cities for the future glory and power of the great new France.” - -He laughed so gayly, he was so handsome, so spirited, so robust, that -once again the whole table acclaimed him. They would certainly not -follow him yonder, for all those married couples already had their own -nests; and all those young folks were already too strongly rooted to the -old land by the ties of their race--a race which after displaying such -adventurous instincts has now fallen asleep, as it were, at its own -fireside. But what a marvellous story it all was--a story to which big -and little alike, had listened in rapture, and which to-morrow would, -doubtless, arouse within them a passion for glorious enterprise far -away! The seed of the unknown was sown, and would grow into a crop of -fabulous magnitude. - -For the moment Benjamin was the only one who cried amid the enthusiasm -which drowned his words: “Yes, yes, I want to live. Take me, take me -with you!” - -But Dominique resumed, by way of conclusion: “And there is one thing, -grandfather, which I have not yet told you. My father has given the name -of Chantebled to our farm yonder. He often tells us how you founded your -estate here, in an impulse of far-seeing audacity, although everybody -jeered and shrugged their shoulders and declared that you must be mad. -And, yonder, my father has to put up with the same derision, the same -contemptuous pity, for people declare that the good Niger will some day -sweep away our village, even if a band of prowling natives does not kill -and eat us! But I’m easy in mind about all that, we shall conquer as -you conquered, for what seems to be the folly of action is really divine -wisdom. There will be another kingdom of the Froments yonder, another -huge Chantebled, of which you and my grandmother will be the ancestors, -the distant patriarchs, worshipped like deities.... And I drink to your -health, grandfather, and I drink to yours, grandmother, on behalf of -your other future people, who will grow up full of spirit under the -burning sun of the tropics!” - -Then with great emotion Mathieu, who had risen, replied in a powerful -voice: “To your health! my boy. To the health of my son Nicolas, his -wife, Lisbeth, and all who have been born from them! And to the health -of all who will follow, from generation to generation!” - -And Marianne, who had likewise risen, in her turn said: “To the health -of your wives, and your daughters, your spouses and your mothers! To the -health of those who will love and produce the greatest sum of life, in -order that the greatest possible sum of happiness may follow!” - -Then, the banquet ended, they quitted the table and spread freely over -the lawn. There was a last ovation around Mathieu and Marianne, who were -encompassed by their eager offspring. At one and the same time a score -of arms were outstretched, carrying children, whose fair or dark heads -they were asked to kiss. Aged as they were, returning to a divine -state of childhood, they did not always recognize those little lads and -lasses. They made mistakes, used wrong names, fancied that one child -was another. Laughter thereupon arose, the mistakes were rectified, and -appeals were made to the old people’s memory. They likewise laughed, the -errors were amusing, but it mattered little if they no longer remembered -a name, the child at any rate belonged to the harvest that had sprung -from them. - -Then there were certain granddaughters and great-granddaughters whom -they themselves summoned and kissed by way of bringing good luck to the -babes that were expected, the children of their children’s children, -the race which would ever spread and perpetuate them through the far-off -ages. And there were mothers, also, who were nursing, mothers whose -little ones, after sleeping quietly during the feast, had now awakened, -shrieking their hunger aloud. These had to be fed, and the mothers -merrily seated themselves together under the trees and gave them the -breast in all serenity. Therein lay the royal beauty of woman, wife and -mother; fruitful maternity triumphed over virginity by which life is -slain. Ah! might manners and customs change, might the idea of morality -and the idea of beauty be altered, and the world recast, based on the -triumphant beauty of the mother suckling her babe in all the majesty of -her symbolism! From fresh sowings there ever came fresh harvests, the -sun ever rose anew above the horizon, and milk streamed forth endlessly -like the eternal sap of living humanity. And that river of milk carried -life through the veins of the world, and expanded and overflowed for the -centuries of the future. - -The greatest possible sum of life in order that the greatest possible -happiness might result: that was the act of faith in life, the act of -hope in the justice and goodness of life’s work. Victorious fruitfulness -remained the one true force, the sovereign power which alone moulded -the future. She was the great revolutionary, the incessant artisan of -progress, the mother of every civilization, ever re-creating her army -of innumerable fighters, throwing through the centuries millions after -millions of poor and hungry and rebellious beings into the fight for -truth and justice. Not a single forward step in history has ever been -taken without numerousness having urged humanity forward. To-morrow, -like yesterday, will be won by the swarming of the multitude whose quest -is happiness. And to-morrow will give the benefits which our age has -awaited; economic equality obtained even as political equality has been -obtained; a just apportionment of wealth rendered easy; and compulsory -work re-established as the one glorious and essential need. - -It is not true that labor has been imposed on mankind as punishment -for sin, it is on the contrary an honor, a mark of nobility, the most -precious of boons, the joy, the health, the strength, the very soul of -the world, which itself labors incessantly, ever creating the future. -And misery, the great, abominable social crime, will disappear amid the -glorification of labor, the distribution of the universal task among one -and all, each accepting his legitimate share of duties and rights. And -may children come, they will simply be instruments of wealth, they will -but increase the human capital, the free happiness of a life in which -the children of some will no longer be beasts of burden, or food for -slaughter or for vice, to serve the egotism of the children of others. -And life will then again prove the conqueror; there will come the -renascence of life, honored and worshipped, the religion of life so long -crushed beneath the hateful nightmare of Roman Catholicism, from which -on divers occasions the nations have sought to free themselves by -violence, and which they will drive away at last on the now near -day when cult and power, and sovereign beauty shall be vested in the -fruitful earth and the fruitful spouse. - -In that last resplendent hour of eventide, Mathieu and Marianne reigned -by virtue of their numerous race. They ended as heroes of life, because -of the great creative work which they had accomplished amid battle and -toil and grief. Often had they sobbed, but with extreme old age had come -peace, deep smiling peace, made up of the good labor performed and the -certainty of approaching rest while their children and their children’s -children resumed the fight, labored and suffered, lived in their own -turn. And a part of Mathieu and Marianne’s heroic grandeur sprang from -the divine desire with which they had glowed, the desire which moulds -and regulates the world. They were like a sacred temple in which the -god had fixed his abode, they were animated by the inextinguishable fire -with which the universe ever burns for the work of continual creation. -Their radiant beauty under their white hair came from the light which -yet filled their eyes, the light of love’s power, which age had been -unable to extinguish. Doubtless, as they themselves jestingly remarked -at times, they had been prodigals, their family had been such a large -one. But, after all, had they not been right? Their children had -diminished no other’s share, each had come with his or her own means -of subsistence. And, besides, ‘tis good to garner in excess when the -granaries of a country are empty. Many such improvidents are needed -to combat the egotism of others at times of great dearth. Amid all the -frightful loss and wastage, the race is strengthened, the country is -made afresh, a good civic example is given by such healthy prodigality -as Mathieu and Marianne had shown. - -But a last act of heroism was required of them. A month after the -festival, when Dominique was on the point of returning to the Soudan, -Benjamin one evening told them of his passion, of the irresistible -summons from the unknown distant plains, which he could but obey. - -“Dear father, darling mother, let me go with Dominique! I have -struggled, I feel horrified with myself at quitting you thus, at your -great age. But I suffer too dreadfully; my soul is full of yearnings, -and seems ready to burst; and I shall die of shameful sloth, if I do not -go.” - -They listened with breaking hearts. Their son’s words did not surprise -them; they had heard them coming ever since their diamond wedding. And -they trembled, and felt that they could not refuse; for they knew that -they were guilty in having kept their last-born in the family nest after -surrendering to life all the others. Ah! how insatiable life was--it -would not so much as suffer that tardy avarice of theirs; it demanded -even the precious, discreetly hidden treasure from which, with jealous -egotism, they had dreamt of parting only when they might find themselves -upon the threshold of the grave. - -Deep silence reigned; but at last Mathieu slowly answered: “I cannot -keep you back, my son; go whither life calls you.... If I knew, however, -that I should die to-night, I would ask you to wait till to-morrow.” - -In her turn Marianne gently said: “Why cannot we die at once? We should -then escape this last great pang, and you would only carry our memory -away with you.” - -Once again did the cemetery of Janville appear, the field of peace, -where dear ones already slept, and where they would soon join them. No -sadness tinged that thought, however; they hoped that they would lie -down there together on the same day, for they could not imagine life, -one without the other. And, besides, would they not forever live in -their children; forever be united, immortal, in their race? - -“Dear father, darling mother,” Benjamin repeated; “it is I who will be -dead to-morrow if I do not go. To wait for your death--good God! would -not that be to desire it? You must still live long years, and I wish to -live like you.” - -There came another pause, then Mathieu and Marianne replied together: -“Go then, my boy. You are right, one must live.” - -But on the day of farewell, what a wrench, what a final pang there was -when they had to tear themselves from that flesh of their flesh, all -that remained to them, in order to hand over to life the supreme gift -it demanded! The departure of Nicolas seemed to begin afresh; again -came the “never more” of the migratory child taking wing, given to the -passing wind for the sowing of unknown distant lands, far beyond the -frontiers. - -“Never more!” cried Mathieu in tears. - -And Marianne repeated in a great sob which rose from the very depths of -her being: “Never more! Never more!” - -There was now no longer any mere question of increasing a family, of -building up the country afresh, of re-peopling France for the struggles -of the future, the question was one of the expansion of humanity, of the -reclaiming of deserts, of the peopling of the entire earth. After one’s -country came the earth; after one’s family, one’s nation, and then -mankind. And what an invading flight, what a sudden outlook upon the -world’s immensity! All the freshness of the oceans, all the perfumes -of virgin continents, blended in a mighty gust like a breeze from the -offing. Scarcely fifteen hundred million souls are to-day scattered -through the few cultivated patches of the globe, and is that not indeed -paltry, when the globe, ploughed from end to end, might nourish ten -times that number? What narrowness of mind there is in seeking to limit -mankind to its present figure, in admitting simply the continuance of -exchanges among nations, and of capitals dying where they stand--as -Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis died--while other queens of the earth -arise, inherit, and flourish amid fresh forms of civilization, and this -without population ever more increasing! Such a theory is deadly, for -nothing remains stationary: whatever ceases to increase decreases and -disappears. Life is the rising tide whose waves daily continue the work -of creation, and perfect the work of awaited happiness, which shall come -when the times are accomplished. The flux and reflux of nations are but -periods of the forward march: the great centuries of light, which dark -ages at times replace, simply mark the phases of that march. Another -step forward is ever taken, a little more of the earth is conquered, a -little more life is brought into play. The law seems to lie in a -double phenomenon; fruitfulness creating civilization, and civilization -restraining fruitfulness. And equilibrium will come from it all on the -day when the earth, being entirely inhabited, cleared, and utilized, -shall at last have accomplished its destiny. And the divine dream, the -generous utopian thought soars into the heavens; families blended into -nations, nations blended into mankind, one sole brotherly people making -of the world one sole city of peace and truth and justice! Ah! may -eternal fruitfulness ever expand, may the seed of humanity be carried -over the frontiers, peopling the untilled deserts afar, and increasing -mankind through the coming centuries until dawns the reign of sovereign -life, mistress at last both of time and of space! - -And after the departure of Benjamin, whom Dominique took with him, -Mathieu and Marianne recovered the joyful serenity and peace born of the -work which they had so prodigally accomplished. Nothing more was theirs; -nothing save the happiness of having given all to life. The “Never -more” of separation became the “Still more” of life--life incessantly -increasing, expanding beyond the limitless horizon. Candid and -smiling, those all but centenarian heroes triumphed in the overflowing -florescence of their race. The milk had streamed even athwart the -seas--from the old land of France to the immensity of virgin Africa, the -young and giant France of to-morrow. After the foundation of Chantebled, -on a disdained, neglected spot of the national patrimony, another -Chantebled was rising and becoming a kingdom in the vast deserted -tracts which life yet had to fertilize. And this was the exodus, human -expansion throughout the world, mankind upon the march towards the -Infinite. - - -England.--August 1898-May 1899. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fruitfulness, by Emile Zola - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS *** - -***** This file should be named 10330-0.txt or 10330-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/3/10330/ - -Produced by David Widger and Dagny - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/old/10330-h/10330-h.htm b/old/old/10330-h/10330-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 2ac7766..0000000 --- a/old/old/10330-h/10330-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19399 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <title> - Fruitfulness, by Emile Zola - </title> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; - margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; - text-align: right;} - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fruitfulness, by Emile Zola - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Fruitfulness - Fecondite - -Author: Emile Zola - -Release Date: March 17, 2009 [EBook #10330] -Last Updated: September 5, 2016 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger and Dagny - - - - - -</pre> - - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <h1> - FRUITFULNESS - </h1> - <h3> - (FECONDITE) - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <h2> - By Emile Zola - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <h3> - Translated and edited by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly - </h3> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <blockquote> - <p class="toc"> - <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> - </p> - <p> - <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE </a><br /><br /> <a - href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>FRUITFULNESS</b> </a><br /><br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> I </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> II </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> III </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> V </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> VIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> IX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> X </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XV </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XVIII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XIX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XX </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXII </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXIII </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - </blockquote> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE - </h2> - <p> - “FRUITFULNESS” is the first of a series of four works in which M. Zola - proposes to embody what he considers to be the four cardinal principles of - human life. These works spring from the previous series of The Three - Cities: “Lourdes,” “Rome,” and “Paris,” which dealt with the principles of - Faith, Hope, and Charity. The last scene in “Paris,” when Marie, Pierre - Froment’s wife, takes her boy in her arms and consecrates him, so to say, - to the city of labor and thought, furnishes the necessary transition from - one series to the other. “Fruitfulness,” says M. Zola, “creates the home. - Thence springs the city. From the idea of citizenship comes that of the - fatherland; and love of country, in minds fed by science, leads to the - conception of a wider and vaster fatherland, comprising all the peoples of - the earth. Of these three stages in the progress of mankind, the fourth - still remains to be attained. I have thought then of writing, as it were, - a poem in four volumes, in four chants, in which I shall endeavor to sum - up the philosophy of all my work. The first of these volumes is - ‘Fruitfulness’; the second will be called ‘Work’; the third, ‘Truth’; the - last, ‘Justice.’ In ‘Fruitfulness’ the hero’s name is Matthew. In the next - work it will be Luke; in ‘Truth,’ Mark; and in ‘justice,’ John. The - children of my brain will, like the four Evangelists preaching the gospel, - diffuse the religion of future society, which will be founded on - Fruitfulness, Work, Truth, and Justice.” - </p> - <p> - This, then, is M. Zola’s reply to the cry repeatedly raised by his hero, - Abbe Pierre Froment, in the pages of “Lourdes,” “Paris,” and “Rome”: “A - new religion, a new religion!” Critics of those works were careful to - point out that no real answer was ever returned to the Abbe’s despairing - call; and it must be confessed that one must yet wait for the greater part - of that answer, since “Fruitfulness,” though complete as a narrative, - forms but a portion of the whole. It is only after the publication of the - succeeding volumes that one will be able to judge how far M. Zola’s - doctrines and theories in their ensemble may appeal to the requirements of - the world. - </p> - <p> - While “Fruitfulness,” as I have said, constitutes a first instalment of M. - Zola’s conception of a social religion, it embodies a good deal else. The - idea of writing some such work first occurred to him many years ago. In - 1896 he contributed an article to the Paris <i>Figaro</i>, in which he - said: “For some ten years now I have been haunted by the idea of a novel, - of which I shall, doubtless, never write the first page.... That novel - would have been called ‘Wastage’... and I should have pleaded in it in - favor of all the rights of life, with all the passion which I may have in - my heart.” * M. Zola’s article then proceeds to discuss the various social - problems, theories, and speculations which are set forth here and there in - the present work. Briefly, the genesis of “Fruitfulness” lies in the - article I have quoted. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * See <i>Nouvelle Campagne</i> (1896), par Emile Zola. - Paris, 1897, pp. 217-228. -</pre> - <p> - “Fruitfulness” is a book to be judged from several standpoints. It would - be unjust and absurd to judge it from one alone, such, for instance, as - that of the new social religion to which I have referred. It must be - looked at notably as a tract for the times in relation to certain grievous - evils from which France and other countries—though more particularly - France—are undoubtedly suffering. And it may be said that some such - denunciation of those evils was undoubtedly necessary, and that nobody was - better placed to pen that denunciation than M. Zola, who, alone of all - French writers nowadays, commands universal attention. Whatever opinion - may be held of his writings, they have to be reckoned with. Thus, in - preparing “Fruitfulness,” he was before all else discharging a patriotic - duty, and that duty he took in hand in an hour of cruel adversity, when to - assist a great cause he withdrew from France and sought for a time a - residence in England, where for eleven months I was privileged to help him - in maintaining his incognito. “Fruitfulness” was entirely written in - England, begun in a Surrey country house, and finished at the Queen’s - Hotel, Norwood. - </p> - <p> - It would be superfluous for me to enter here into all the questions which - M. Zola raises in his pages. The evils from which France suffers in - relation to the stagnancy of its population, are well known, and that - their continuance—if continuance there be—will mean the - downfall of the country from its position as one of the world’s great - powers before the close of the twentieth century, is a mathematical - certainty. That M. Zola, in order to combat those evils, and to do his - duty as a good citizen anxious to prevent the decline of his country, - should have dealt with his subject with the greatest frankness and - outspokenness, was only natural. Moreover, absolute freedom of speech - exists in France, which is not the case elsewhere. Thus, when I first - perused the original proofs of M. Zola’s work, I came to the conclusion - that any version of it in the English language would be well-nigh - impossible. For some time I remained of that opinion, and I made a - statement to that effect in a leading literary journal. Subsequently, - however, my views became modified. “The man who is ridiculous,” wrote a - French poet, Barthelemy, “is he whose opinions never change,” and thus I - at last reverted to a task from which I had turned aside almost in - despair. - </p> - <p> - Various considerations influenced me, and among them was the thought that - if “Fruitfulness” were not presented to the public in an English dress, M. - Zola’s new series would remain incomplete, decapitated so far as British - and American readers were concerned. After all, the criticisms dealing - with the French original were solely directed against matters of form, the - mould in which some part of the work was cast. Its high moral purpose was - distinctly recognized by several even of its most bitter detractors. For - me the problem was how to retain the whole ensemble of the narrative and - the essence of the lessons which the work inculcates, while recasting some - portion of it and sacrificing those matters of form to which exception was - taken. It is not for me to say whether I have succeeded in the task; but I - think that nothing in any degree offensive to delicate susceptibilities - will be found in this present version of M. Zola’s book. - </p> - <p> - The English reviews of the French original showed that if certain portions - of it were deemed indiscreet, it none the less teemed with admirable and - even delightful pages. Among the English reviewers were two well-known - lady writers, Madame Darmesteter (formerly Miss Mary Robinson), and Miss - Hannah Lynch. And the former remarked in one part of her critique: “Even - this short review reveals how honest, how moral, how human and comely is - the fable of <i>Fecondite</i>,” * while the latter expressed the view that - the work was “eminently, pugnaciously virtuous in M. Zola’s strictly - material conception of virtue.” And again: “The pages that tell the story - of Mathieu and Marianne, it must be admitted, are as charming as possible. - They have a bloom, a beauty, a fragrance we never expected to find in M. - Zola’s work. The tale is a simple one: the cheerful conquest of fortune - and the continual birth of offspring.” ** - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * <i>Manchester Guardian</i>, October 27, 1899. - - ** <i>Fortnightly Review</i>, January 1900. -</pre> - <p> - Of course, these lady critics did not favor certain features of the - original, and one of them, indeed, referred to the evil denounced by M. - Zola as a mere evil of the hour, whereas it has been growing and spreading - for half a century, gradually sapping all the vitality of France. But - beside that evil, beside the downfall of the families it attacks, M. Zola - portrays the triumph of rectitude, the triumph which follows faith in the - powers of life, and observance of the law of universal labor. - “Fruitfulness” contains charming pictures of homely married life, - delightful glimpses of childhood and youth: the first smile, the first - step, the first word, followed by the playfulness and the flirtations of - boyhood, and the happiness which waits on the espousals of those who truly - love. And the punishment of the guilty is awful, and the triumph of the - righteous is the greatest that can be conceived. All those features have - been retained, so far as my abilities have allowed, in the present - version, which will at the same time, I think, give the reader - unacquainted with the French language a general idea of M. Zola’s views on - one of the great questions of the age, as well as all the essential - portions of a strongly conceived narrative. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - E. A. V. - - MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND: April, 1900. -</pre> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - FRUITFULNESS - </h1> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I - </h2> - <p> - THAT morning, in the little pavilion of Chantebled, on the verge of the - woods, where they had now been installed for nearly a month, Mathieu was - making all haste in order that he might catch the seven-o’clock train - which every day conveyed him from Janville to Paris. It was already - half-past six, and there were fully two thousand paces from the pavilion - to Janville. Afterwards came a railway journey of three-quarters of an - hour, and another journey of at least equal duration through Paris, from - the Northern Railway terminus to the Boulevard de Grenelle. He seldom - reached his office at the factory before half-past eight o’clock. - </p> - <p> - He had just kissed the children. Fortunately they were asleep; otherwise - they would have linked their arms about his neck, laughed and kissed him, - being ever unwilling to let him go. And as he hastily returned to the - principal bedroom, he found his wife, Marianne, in bed there, but awake - and sitting up. She had risen a moment before in order to pull back a - curtain, and all the glow of that radiant May morning swept in, throwing a - flood of gay sunshine over the fresh and healthy beauty of her - four-and-twenty years. He, who was three years the elder, positively - adored her. - </p> - <p> - “You know, my darling,” said he, “I must make haste, for I fear I may miss - the train—and so manage as well as you can. You still have thirty - sous left, haven’t you?” - </p> - <p> - She began to laugh, looking charming with her bare arms and her - loose-flowing dark hair. The ever-recurring pecuniary worries of the - household left her brave and joyous. Yet she had been married at - seventeen, her husband at twenty, and they already had to provide for four - children. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! we shall be all right,” said she. “It’s the end of the month to-day, - and you’ll receive your money to-night. I’ll settle our little debts at - Janville to-morrow. There are only the Lepailleurs, who worry me with - their bill for milk and eggs, for they always look as if they fancied one - meant to rob them. But with thirty sous, my dear! why, we shall have quite - a high time of it!” - </p> - <p> - She was still laughing as she held out her firm white arms for the - customary morning good-by. - </p> - <p> - “Run off, since you are in a hurry. I will go to meet you at the little - bridge to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, I insist on your going to bed! You know very well that even if I - catch the quarter-to-eleven-o’clock train, I cannot reach Janville before - half-past eleven. Ah! what a day I have before me! I had to promise the - Moranges that I would take dejeuner with them; and this evening Beauchene - is entertaining a customer—a business dinner, which I’m obliged to - attend. So go to bed, and have a good sleep while you are waiting for me.” - </p> - <p> - She gently nodded, but would give no positive promise. “Don’t forget to - call on the landlord,” she added, “to tell him that the rain comes into - the children’s bedroom. It’s not right that we should be soaked here as if - we were on the high-way, even if those millionaires, the Seguins du - Hordel, do let us have this place for merely six hundred francs a year.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes! I should have forgotten that. I will call on them, I promise - you.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu took her in his arms, and there was no ending to their - leave-taking. He still lingered. She had begun to laugh again, while - giving him many a kiss in return for his own. There was all the love of - bounding health between them, the joy that springs from the most perfect - union, as when man and wife are but one both in flesh and in soul. - </p> - <p> - “Run off, run off, darling! Remember to tell Constance that, before she - goes into the country, she ought to run down here some Sunday with - Maurice.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, I will tell her—till to-night, darling.” - </p> - <p> - But he came back once more, caught her in a tight embrace, and pressed to - her lips a long, loving kiss, which she returned with her whole heart. And - then he hurried away. - </p> - <p> - He usually took an omnibus on his arrival at the Northern Railway - terminus. But on the days when only thirty sous remained at home he - bravely went through Paris on foot. It was, too, a very fine walk by way - of the Rue la Fayette, the Opera-house, the Boulevards, the Rue Royale, - and then, after the Place de la Concorde, the Cours la Reine, the Alma - bridge, and the Quai d’Orsay. - </p> - <p> - Beauchene’s works were at the very end of the Quai d’Orsay, between the - Rue de la Federation and the Boulevard de Grenelle. There was hereabouts a - large square plot, at one end of which, facing the quay, stood a handsome - private house of brickwork with white stone dressings, that had been - erected by Leon Beauchene, father of Alexandre, the present master of the - works. From the balconies one could perceive the houses which were perched - aloft in the midst of greenery on the height of Passy, beyond the Seine; - whilst on the right arose the campanile of the Trocadero palace. On one - side, skirting the Rue de la Federation, one could still see a garden and - a little house, which had been the modest dwelling of Leon Beauchene in - the heroic days of desperate toil when he had laid the foundations of his - fortune. Then the factory buildings and sheds, quite a mass of grayish - structures, overtopped by two huge chimneys, occupied both the back part - of the ground and that which fringed the Boulevard de Grenelle, the latter - being shut off by long windowless walls. This important and well-known - establishment manufactured chiefly agricultural appliances, from the most - powerful machines to those ingenious and delicate implements on which - particular care must be bestowed if perfection is to be attained. In - addition to the hundreds of men who worked there daily, there were some - fifty women, burnishers and polishers. - </p> - <p> - The entry to the workshops and offices was in the Rue de la Federation, - through a large carriage way, whence one perceived the far-spreading yard, - with its paving stones invariably black and often streaked by rivulets of - steaming water. Dense smoke arose from the high chimneys, strident jets of - steam emerged from the roof, whilst a low rumbling and a shaking of the - ground betokened the activity within, the ceaseless bustle of labor. - </p> - <p> - It was thirty-five minutes past eight by the big clock of the central - building when Mathieu crossed the yard towards the office which he - occupied as chief designer. For eight years he had been employed at the - works where, after a brilliant and special course of study, he had made - his beginning as assistant draughtsman when but nineteen years old, - receiving at that time a salary of one hundred francs a month. His father, - Pierre Froment,* had four sons by Marie his wife—Jean the eldest, - then Mathieu, Marc, and Luc—and while leaving them free to choose a - particular career he had striven to give each of them some manual calling. - Leon Beauchene, the founder of the works, had been dead a year, and his - son Alexandre had succeeded him and married Constance Meunier, daughter of - a very wealthy wall-paper manufacturer of the Marais, at the time when - Mathieu entered the establishment, the master of which was scarcely five - years older than himself. It was there that Mathieu had become acquainted - with a poor cousin of Alexandre’s, Marianne, then sixteen years old, whom - he had married during the following year. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Of <i>Lourdes</i>, <i>Rome</i>, and <i>Paris</i>. -</pre> - <p> - Marianne, when only twelve, had become dependent upon her uncle, Leon - Beauchene. After all sorts of mishaps a brother of the latter, one Felix - Beauchene, a man of adventurous mind but a blunderhead, had gone to - Algeria with his wife and daughter, there to woo fortune afresh; and the - farm he had established was indeed prospering when, during a sudden - revival of Arab brigandage, both he and his wife were murdered and their - home was destroyed. Thus the only place of refuge for the little girl, who - had escaped miraculously, was the home of her uncle, who showed her great - kindness during the two years of life that remained to him. With her, - however, were Alexandre, whose companionship was rather dull, and his - younger sister, Seraphine, a big, vicious, and flighty girl of eighteen, - who, as it happened, soon left the house amid a frightful scandal—an - elopement with a certain Baron Lowicz, a genuine baron, but a swindler and - forger, to whom it became necessary to marry her. She then received a - dowry of 300,000 francs. Alexandre, after his father’s death, made a money - match with Constance, who brought him half a million francs, and Marianne - then found herself still more a stranger, still more isolated beside her - new cousin, a thin, dry, authoritative woman, who ruled the home with - absolute sway. Mathieu was there, however, and a few months sufficed: - fine, powerful, and healthy love sprang up between the young people; there - was no lightning flash such as throws the passion-swayed into each other’s - arms, but esteem, tenderness, faith, and that mutual conviction of - happiness in reciprocal bestowal which tends to indissoluble marriage. And - they were delighted at marrying penniless, at bringing one another but - their full hearts forever and forever. The only change in Mathieu’s - circumstances was an increase of salary to two hundred francs a month. - True, his new cousin by marriage just vaguely hinted at a possible - partnership, but that would not be till some very much later date. - </p> - <p> - As it happened Mathieu Froment gradually became indispensable at the - works. The young master, Alexandre Beauchene, passed through an anxious - crisis. The dowry which his father had been forced to draw from his - coffers in order to get Seraphine married, and other large expenses which - had been occasioned by the girl’s rebellious and perverse conduct, had - left but little working capital in the business. Then, too, on the morrow - of Leon Beauchene’s death it was found that, with the carelessness often - evinced in such matters, he had neglected to leave a will; so that - Seraphine eagerly opposed her brother’s interests, demanding her personal - share of the inheritance, and even suggesting the sale of the works. The - property had narrowly escaped being cut up, annihilated. And Alexandre - Beauchene still shivered with terror and anger at the recollection of that - time, amidst all his delight at having at last rid himself of his sister - by paying her in money the liberally estimated value of her share. It was - in order to fill up the void thus created in his finances that he had - espoused the half-million represented by Constance—an ugly creature, - as he himself bitterly acknowledged, coarse male as he was. Truth to tell, - she was so thin, so scraggy, that before consenting to make her his wife - he had often called her “that bag of bones.” But, on the other hand, - thanks to his marriage with her, all his losses were made good in five or - six years’ time; the business of the works even doubled, and great - prosperity set in. And Mathieu, having become a most active and necessary - coadjutor, ended by taking the post of chief designer, at a salary of four - thousand two hundred francs per annum. - </p> - <p> - Morange, the chief accountant, whose office was near Mathieu’s, thrust his - head through the doorway as soon as he heard the young man installing - himself at his drawing-table. “I say, my dear Froment,” he exclaimed, - “don’t forget that you are to take dejeuner with us.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, my good Morange, it’s understood. I will look in for you at - twelve o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu very carefully scrutinized a wash drawing of a very simple - but powerful steam thresher, an invention of his own, on which he had been - working for some time past, and which a big landowner of Beauce, M. - Firon-Badinier, was to examine during the afternoon. - </p> - <p> - The door of the master’s private room was suddenly thrown wide open and - Beauchene appeared—tall, with a ruddy face, a narrow brow, and big - brown, protruding eyes. He had a rather large nose, thick lips, and a full - black beard, on which he bestowed great care, as he likewise did on his - hair, which was carefully combed over his head in order to conceal the - serious baldness that was already coming upon him, although he was - scarcely two-and-thirty. Frock-coated the first thing in the morning, he - was already smoking a big cigar; and his loud voice, his peals of gayety, - his bustling ways, all betokened an egotist and good liver still in his - prime, a man for whom money—capital increased and increased by the - labor of others—was the one only sovereign power. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! ah! it’s ready, is it not?” said he; “Monsieur Firon-Badinier has - again written me that he will be here at three o’clock. And you know that - I’m going to take you to the restaurant with him this evening; for one can - never induce those fellows to give orders unless one plies them with good - wine. It annoys Constance to have it done here; and, besides, I prefer to - entertain those people in town. You warned Marianne, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly. She knows that I shall return by the quarter-to-eleven-o’clock - train.” - </p> - <p> - Beauchene had sunk upon a chair: “Ah! my dear fellow, I’m worn out,” he - continued; “I dined in town last night; I got to bed only at one o’clock. - And there was a terrible lot of work waiting for me this morning. One - positively needs to be made of iron.” - </p> - <p> - Until a short time before he had shown himself a prodigious worker, - endowed with really marvellous energy and strength. Moreover, he had given - proof of unfailing business instinct with regard to many profitable - undertakings. Invariably the first to appear at the works, he looked after - everything, foresaw everything, filling the place with his bustling zeal, - and doubling his output year by year. Recently, however, fatigue had been - gaining ground on him. He had always sought plenty of amusement, even amid - the hard-working life he led. But nowadays certain “sprees,” as he called - them, left him fairly exhausted. - </p> - <p> - He gazed at Mathieu: “You seem fit enough, you do!” he said. “How is it - that you manage never to look tired?” - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact, the young man who stood there erect before his - drawing-table seemed possessed of the sturdy health of a young oak tree. - Tall and slender, he had the broad, lofty, tower-like brow of the - Froments. He wore his thick hair cut quite short, and his beard, which - curled slightly, in a point. But the chief expression of his face rested - in his eyes, which were at once deep and bright, keen and thoughtful, and - almost invariably illumined by a smile. They showed him to be at once a - man of thought and of action, very simple, very gay, and of a kindly - disposition. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I,” he answered with a laugh, “I behave reasonably.” - </p> - <p> - But Beauchene protested: “No, you don’t! The man who already has four - children when he is only twenty-seven can’t claim to be reasonable. And - twins too—your Blaise and your Denis to begin with! And then your - boy Ambroise and your little girl Rose. Without counting the other little - girl that you lost at her birth. Including her, you would now have had - five youngsters, you wretched fellow! No, no, I’m the one who behaves - reasonably—I, who have but one child, and, like a prudent, sensible - man, desire no others!” - </p> - <p> - He often made such jesting remarks as these, through which filtered his - genuine indignation; for he deemed the young couple to be over-careless of - their interests, and declared that the prolificness of his cousin Marianne - was quite scandalous. - </p> - <p> - Accustomed as Mathieu was to these attacks, which left him perfectly - serene, he went on laughing, without even giving a reply, when a workman - abruptly entered the room—one who was currently called “old - Moineaud,” though he was scarcely three-and-forty years of age. Short and - thick-set, he had a bullet head, a bull’s neck, and face and hands scarred - and dented by more than a quarter of a century of toil. By calling he was - a fitter, and he had come to submit a difficulty which had just arisen in - the piecing together of a reaping machine. But, his employer, who was - still angrily thinking of over-numerous families, did not give him time to - explain his purpose. - </p> - <p> - “And you, old Moineaud, how many children have you?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Seven, Monsieur Beauchene,” the workman replied, somewhat taken aback. - “I’ve lost three.” - </p> - <p> - “So, including them, you would now have ten? Well, that’s a nice state of - things! How can you do otherwise than starve?” - </p> - <p> - Moineaud began to laugh like the gay thriftless Paris workman that he was. - The little ones? Well, they grew up without his even noticing it, and, - indeed, he was really fond of them, so long as they remained at home. And, - besides, they worked as they grew older, and brought a little money in. - However, he preferred to answer his employer with a jest which set them - all laughing. - </p> - <p> - After he had explained the difficulty with the reaper, the others followed - him to examine the work for themselves. They were already turning into a - passage, when Beauchene, seeing the door of the women’s workshop open, - determined to pass that way, so that he might give his customary look - around. It was a long, spacious place, where the polishers, in smocks of - black serge, sat in double rows polishing and grinding their pieces at - little work-boards. Nearly all of them were young, a few were pretty, but - most had low and common faces. An animal odor and a stench of rancid oil - pervaded the place. - </p> - <p> - The regulations required perfect silence there during work. Yet all the - girls were gossiping. As soon, however, as the master’s approach was - signalled the chatter abruptly ceased. There was but one girl who, having - her head turned, and thus seeing nothing of Beauchene, went on furiously - abusing a companion, with whom she had previously started a dispute. She - and the other were sisters, and, as it happened, daughters of old - Moineaud. Euphrasie, the younger one, she who was shouting, was a skinny - creature of seventeen, light-haired, with a long, lean, pointed face, - uncomely and malignant; whereas the elder, Norine, barely nineteen, was a - pretty girl, a blonde like her sister, but having a milky skin, and withal - plump and sturdy, showing real shoulders, arms, and hips, and one of those - bright sunshiny faces, with wild hair and black eyes, all the freshness of - the Parisian hussy, aglow with the fleeting charm of youth. - </p> - <p> - Norine was ever quarrelling with Euphrasie, and was pleased to have her - caught in a misdeed; so she allowed her to rattle on. And it thereupon - became necessary for Beauchene to intervene. He habitually evinced great - severity in the women’s workshop, for he had hitherto held the view that - an employer who jested with his workgirls was a lost man. Thus, in spite - of the low character of which he was said to give proof in his walks - abroad, there had as yet never been the faintest suggestion of scandal in - connection with him and the women in his employ. - </p> - <p> - “Well, now, Mademoiselle Euphrasie!” he exclaimed; “do you intend to be - quiet? This is quite improper. You are fined twenty sous, and if I hear - you again you will be locked out for a week.” - </p> - <p> - The girl had turned round in consternation. Then, stifling her rage, she - cast a terrible glance at her sister, thinking that she might at least - have warned her. But the other, with the discreet air of a pretty wench - conscious of her attractiveness, continued smiling, looking her employer - full in the face, as if certain that she had nothing to fear from him. - Their eyes met, and for a couple of seconds their glances mingled. Then - he, with flushed cheeks and an angry air, resumed, addressing one and all: - “As soon as the superintendent turns her back you chatter away like so - many magpies. Just be careful, or you will have to deal with me!” - </p> - <p> - Moineaud, the father, had witnessed the scene unmoved, as if the two girls—she - whom the master had scolded, and she who slyly gazed at him—were not - his own daughters. And now the round was resumed and the three men quitted - the women’s workshop amidst profound silence, which only the whir of the - little grinders disturbed. - </p> - <p> - When the fitting difficulty had been overcome downstairs and Moineaud had - received his orders, Beauchene returned to his residence accompanied by - Mathieu, who wished to convey Marianne’s invitation to Constance. A - gallery connected the black factory buildings with the luxurious private - house on the quay. And they found Constance in a little drawing-room hung - with yellow satin, a room to which she was very partial. She was seated - near a sofa, on which lay little Maurice, her fondly prized and only - child, who had just completed his seventh year. - </p> - <p> - “Is he ill?” inquired Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - The child seemed sturdily built, and he greatly resembled his father, - though he had a more massive jaw. But he was pale and there was a faint - ring round his heavy eyelids. His mother, that “bag of bones,” a little - dark woman, yellow and withered at six-and-twenty, looked at him with an - expression of egotistical pride. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no! he’s never ill,” she answered. “Only he has been complaining of - his legs. And so I made him lie down, and I wrote last night to ask Dr. - Boutan to call this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Pooh!” exclaimed Beauchene with a hearty laugh, “women are all the same! - A child who is as strong as a Turk! I should just like anybody to tell me - that he isn’t strong.” - </p> - <p> - Precisely at that moment in walked Dr. Boutan, a short, stout man of - forty, with very keen eyes set in a clean-shaven, heavy, but extremely - good-natured face. He at once examined the child, felt and sounded him; - then with his kindly yet serious air he said: “No, no, there’s nothing. It - is the mere effect of growth. The lad has become rather pale through - spending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in the - country, will set him right again.” - </p> - <p> - “I told you so!” cried Beauchene. - </p> - <p> - Constance had kept her son’s little hand in her own. He had again - stretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, in - her happiness, continued smiling. Whenever she chose she could appear - quite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features. The - doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chatting in - the houses of friends. A general practitioner, and one who more - particularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturally a - confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in family - circles. It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of that - much-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four children she - already had. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver his - invitation. “Well,” said he, “if you are soon leaving for the country, you - must come one Sunday to Janville. My wife would be so delighted to see you - there, to show you our encampment.” - </p> - <p> - Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they - occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and - five egg-cups. But Beauchene knew the pavilion, for he went shooting in - the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some - extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out by - the owner. - </p> - <p> - “Seguin,” said he, “is a friend of mine. I have lunched at your pavilion. - It’s a perfect hovel!” - </p> - <p> - Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled what - Madame Seguin—to whom she referred as Valentine—had told her - of the dilapidated condition of the old shooting-box. But the doctor, - after listening with a smile, broke in: - </p> - <p> - “Mme. Seguin is a patient of mine. At the time when her last child was - born I advised her to stay at that pavilion. The atmosphere is wholesome, - and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchene began to jest in his habitual - way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there would probably be no - end to Mathieu’s progeny, numerous as it already was. But this elicited an - angry protest from Constance, who on the subject of children held the same - views as her husband himself professed in his more serious moments. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant. They regarded him and - his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger. - </p> - <p> - The advent of the young couple’s last child, little Rose, had already - increased their expenses to such a point that they had been obliged to - seek refuge in the country, in a mere pauper’s hovel. And yet, in spite of - Beauchene’s sneers and Constance’s angry remarks, Mathieu outwardly - remained very calm. Constance and Marianne had never been able to agree; - they differed too much in all respects; and for his part he laughed off - every attack, unwilling as he was to let anger master him, lest a rupture - should ensue. - </p> - <p> - But Beauchene waxed passionate on the subject. That question of the - birth-rate and the present-day falling off in population was one which he - thought he had completely mastered, and on which he held forth at length - authoritatively. He began by challenging the impartiality of Boutan, whom - he knew to be a fervent partisan of large families. He made merry with - him, declaring that no medical man could possibly have a disinterested - opinion on the subject. Then he brought out all that he vaguely knew of - Malthusianism, the geometrical increase of births, and the arithmetical - increase of food-substances, the earth becoming so populous as to be - reduced to a state of famine within two centuries. It was the poor’s own - fault, said he, if they led a life of starvation; they had only to limit - themselves to as many children as they could provide for. The rich were - falsely accused of social wrong-doing; they were by no means responsible - for poverty. Indeed, they were the only reasonable people; they alone, by - limiting their families, acted as good citizens should act. And he became - quite triumphant, repeating that he knew of no cause for self-reproach, - and that his ever-growing fortune left him with an easy conscience. It was - so much the worse for the poor, if they were bent on remaining poor. In - vain did the doctor urge that the Malthusian theories were shattered, that - the calculations had been based on a possible, not a real, increase of - population; in vain too did he prove that the present-day economic crisis, - the evil distribution of wealth under the capitalist system, was the one - hateful cause of poverty, and that whenever labor should be justly - apportioned among one and all the fruitful earth would easily provide - sustenance for happy men ten times more numerous than they are now. The - other refused to listen to anything, took refuge in his egotism, declared - that all those matters were no concern of his, that he felt no remorse at - being rich, and that those who wished to become rich had, in the main, - simply to do as he had done. - </p> - <p> - “Then, logically, this is the end of France, eh?” Boutan remarked - maliciously. “The number of births ever increases in Germany, Russia, and - elsewhere, while it decreases in a terrible way among us. Numerically the - rank we occupy in Europe is already very inferior to what it formerly was; - and yet number means power more than ever nowadays. It has been calculated - that an average of four children per family is necessary in order that - population may increase and the strength of a nation be maintained. You - have but one child; you are a bad patriot.” - </p> - <p> - At this Beauchene flew into a tantrum, quite beside himself, and gasped: - “I a bad patriot! I, who kill myself with hard work! I, who even export - French machinery!... Yes, certainly I see families, acquaintances around - me who may well allow themselves four children; and I grant that they - deserve censure when they have no families. But as for me, my dear doctor, - it is impossible. You know very well that in my position I absolutely - can’t.” - </p> - <p> - Then, for the hundredth time, he gave his reasons, relating how the works - had narrowly escaped being cut into pieces, annihilated, simply because he - had unfortunately been burdened with a sister. Seraphine had behaved - abominably. There had been first her dowry; next her demands for the - division of the property on their father’s death; and the works had been - saved only by means of a large pecuniary sacrifice which had long crippled - their prosperity. And people imagined that he would be as imprudent as his - father! Why, if Maurice should have a brother or a sister, he might - hereafter find himself in the same dire embarrassment, in which the family - property might already have been destroyed. No, no! He would not expose - the boy to the necessity of dividing the inheritance in accordance with - badly framed laws. He was resolved that Maurice should be the sole master - of the fortune which he himself had derived from his father, and which he - would transmit to his heir increased tenfold. For his son he dreamt of - supreme wealth, a colossal fortune, such as nowadays alone ensures power. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, refraining from any intervention, listened and remained grave; - for this question of the birth-rate seemed to him a frightful one, the - foremost of all questions, deciding the destiny of mankind and the world. - There has never been any progress but such as has been determined by - increase of births. If nations have accomplished evolutions, if - civilization has advanced, it is because the nations have multiplied and - subsequently spread through all the countries of the earth. And will not - to-morrow’s evolution, the advent of truth and justice, be brought about - by the constant onslaught of the greater number, the revolutionary - fruitfulness of the toilers and the poor? - </p> - <p> - It is quite true that Mathieu did not plainly say all these things to - himself; indeed, he felt slightly ashamed of the four children that he - already had, and was disturbed by the counsels of prudence addressed to - him by the Beauchenes. But within him there struggled his faith in life, - his belief that the greatest possible sum of life must bring about the - greatest sum of happiness. - </p> - <p> - At last, wishing to change the subject, he bethought himself of Marianne’s - commission, and at the first favorable opportunity exclaimed: “Well, we - shall rely on you, Marianne and I, for Sunday after next, at Janville.” - </p> - <p> - But there was still no answer, for just then a servant came to say that a - woman with an infant in her arms desired to see Madame. And Beauchene, - having recognized the wife of Moineaud, the fitter, bade her come in. - Boutan, who had now risen, was prompted by curiosity to remain a little - longer. - </p> - <p> - La Moineaude, short and fat like her husband, was a woman of about forty, - worn out before her time, with ashen face, pale eyes, thin faded hair, and - a weak mouth which already lacked many teeth. A large family had been too - much for her; and, moreover, she took no care of herself. - </p> - <p> - “Well, my good woman,” Constance inquired, “what do you wish with me?” - </p> - <p> - But La Moineaude remained quite scared by the sight of all those people - whom she had not expected to find there. She said nothing. She had hoped - to speak to the lady privately. - </p> - <p> - “Is this your last-born?” Beauchene asked her as he looked at the pale, - puny child on her arm. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, monsieur, it’s my little Alfred; he’s ten months old and I’ve had to - wean him, for I couldn’t feed him any longer. I had nine others before - this one, but three are dead. My eldest son, Eugene, is a soldier in - Tonquin. You have my two big girls, Euphrasie and Norine, at the works. - And I have three left at home—Victor, who is now fifteen, then - Cecile and Irma, who are ten and seven. After Irma I thought I had done - with children for good, and I was well pleased. But, you see, this urchin - came! And I, forty too—it’s not just! The good Lord must surely have - abandoned us.” - </p> - <p> - Then Dr. Boutan began to question her. He avoided looking at the - Beauchenes, but there was a malicious twinkle in his little eyes, and it - was evident that he took pleasure in recapitulating the employer’s - arguments against excessive prolificness. He pretended to get angry and to - reproach the Moineauds for their ten wretched children—the boys - fated to become food for powder, the girls always liable to misfortune. - And he gave the woman to understand that it was her own fault if she was - in distress; for people with a tribe of children about them could never - become rich. And the poor creature sadly answered that he was quite right, - but that no idea of becoming rich could ever have entered their heads. - Moineaud knew well enough that he would never be a cabinet minister, and - so it was all the same to them how many children they might have on their - hands. Indeed, a number proved a help when the youngsters grew old enough - to go out to work. - </p> - <p> - Beauchene had become silent and slowly paced the room. A slight chill, a - feeling of uneasiness was springing up, and so Constance made haste to - inquire: “Well, my good woman, what is it I can do for you?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Mon Dieu</i>, madame, it worries me; it’s something which Moineaud - didn’t dare to ask of Monsieur Beauchene. For my part I hoped to find you - alone and beg you to intercede for us. The fact is we should be very, very - grateful if our little Victor could only be taken on at the works.” - </p> - <p> - “But he is only fifteen,” exclaimed Beauchene. “You must wait till he’s - sixteen. The law is strict.” - </p> - <p> - “No doubt. Only one might perhaps just tell a little fib. It would be - rendering us such a service—” - </p> - <p> - “No, it is impossible.” - </p> - <p> - Big tears welled into La Moineaude’s eyes. And Mathieu, who had listened - with passionate interest, felt quite upset. Ah! that wretched toil-doomed - flesh that hastened to offer itself without waiting until it was even ripe - for work! Ah! the laborer who is prepared to lie, whom hunger sets against - the very law designed for his own protection! - </p> - <p> - When La Moineaude had gone off in despair the doctor continued speaking of - juvenile and female labor. As soon as a woman first finds herself a mother - she can no longer continue toiling at a factory. Her lying-in and the - nursing of her babe force her to remain at home, or else grievous - infirmities may ensue for her and her offspring. As for the child, it - becomes anemic, sometimes crippled; besides, it helps to keep wages down - by being taken to work at a low scale of remuneration. Then the doctor - went on to speak of the prolificness of wretchedness, the swarming of the - lower classes. Was not the most hateful natality of all that which meant - the endless increase of starvelings and social rebels? - </p> - <p> - “I perfectly understand you,” Beauchene ended by saying, without any show - of anger, as he abruptly brought his perambulations to an end. “You want - to place me in contradiction with myself, and make me confess that I - accept Moineaud’s seven children and need them, whereas I, with my fixed - determination to rest content with an only son, suppress, as it were, a - family in order that I may not have to subdivide my estate. France, ‘the - country of only sons,’ as folks say nowadays—that’s it, eh? But, my - dear fellow, the question is so intricate, and at bottom I am altogether - in the right!” - </p> - <p> - Then he wished to explain things, and clapped his hand to his breast, - exclaiming that he was a liberal, a democrat, ready to demand all really - progressive measures. He willingly recognized that children were - necessary, that the army required soldiers, and the factories workmen. - Only he also invoked the prudential duties of the higher classes, and - reasoned after the fashion of a man of wealth, a conservative clinging to - the fortune he has acquired. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu meanwhile ended by understanding the brutal truth: Capital is - compelled to favor the multiplication of lives foredoomed to wretchedness; - in spite of everything it must stimulate the prolificness of the - wage-earning classes, in order that its profits may continue. The law is - that there must always be an excess of children in order that there may be - enough cheap workers. Then also speculation on the wages’ ratio wrests all - nobility from labor, which is regarded as the worst misfortune a man can - be condemned to, when in reality it is the most precious of boons. Such, - then, is the cancer preying upon mankind. In countries of political - equality and economical inequality the capitalist regime, the faulty - distribution of wealth, at once restrains and precipitates the birth-rate - by perpetually increasing the wrongful apportionment of means. On one side - are the rich folk with “only” sons, who continually increase their - fortunes; on the other, the poor folk, who, by reason of their - unrestrained prolificness, see the little they possess crumble yet more - and more. If labor be honored to-morrow, if a just apportionment of wealth - be arrived at, equilibrium will be restored. Otherwise social revolution - lies at the end of the road. - </p> - <p> - But Beauchene, in his triumphant manner, tried to show that he possessed - great breadth of mind; he admitted the disquieting strides of a decrease - of population, and denounced the causes of it—alcoholism, - militarism, excessive mortality among infants, and other numerous matters. - Then he indicated remedies; first, reductions in taxation, fiscal means in - which he had little faith; then freedom to will one’s estate as one - pleased, which seemed to him more efficacious; a change, too, in the - marriage laws, without forgetting the granting of affiliation rights. - </p> - <p> - However, Boutan ended by interrupting him. “All the legislative measures - in the world will do nothing,” said the doctor. “Manners and customs, our - notions of what is moral and what is not, our very conceptions of the - beautiful in life—all must be changed. If France is becoming - depopulated, it is because she so chooses. It is simply necessary then for - her to choose so no longer. But what a task—a whole world to create - anew!” - </p> - <p> - At this Mathieu raised a superb cry: “Well! we’ll create it. I’ve begun - well enough, surely!” - </p> - <p> - But Constance, after laughing in a constrained way, in her turn thought it - as well to change the subject. And so she at last replied to his - invitation, saying that she would do her best to go to Janville, though - she feared she might not be able to dispose of a Sunday to do so. - </p> - <p> - Dr. Boutan then took his leave, and was escorted to the door by Beauchene, - who still went on jesting, like a man well pleased with life, one who was - satisfied with himself and others, and who felt certain of being able to - arrange things as might best suit his pleasure and his interests. - </p> - <p> - An hour later, a few minutes after midday, as Mathieu, who had been - delayed in the works, went up to the offices to fetch Morange as he had - promised to do, it occurred to him to take a short cut through the women’s - workshop. And there, in that spacious gallery, already deserted and - silent, he came upon an unexpected scene which utterly amazed him. On some - pretext or other Norine had lingered there the last, and Beauchene was - with her, clasping her around the waist whilst he eagerly pressed his lips - to hers. But all at once they caught sight of Mathieu and remained - thunderstruck. And he, for his part, fled precipitately, deeply annoyed at - having been a surprised witness to such a secret. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II - </h2> - <p> - MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchene’s works, was a man of - thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark, - fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes, - straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his younger - days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He still took - great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and preserved the - correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred clerk. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know our new flat yet, do you?” he asked Mathieu as he led him - away. “Oh! it’s perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and another for - Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in four minutes, - watch in hand.” - </p> - <p> - He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his - stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a - clerk’s daughter, one Valerie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose - parents’ home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful - wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable - incumbrance. Valerie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky - enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working fellow, - Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this accomplished, - she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up the social - ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty clerkdom by - making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or a doctor. - Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and Valerie - trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters on her - hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, and she - resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that she - might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means gain - that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. Her - husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing her - ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her benefit. - But he had now been eight years at the Beauchene works, and he still - earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and his wife to - despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchene’s that he would ever make his - fortune. - </p> - <p> - “You see!” he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with - Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, “it is that new house yonder at - the street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies and - sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor little - houses predominating in the district. - </p> - <p> - “Why, it is a palace!” he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who - thereupon drew himself up quite proudly. - </p> - <p> - “You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is on - the fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so - easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were - ushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was a - carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, on - reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey, - he repeated, with an air of delight: “You will see, you will see!” - </p> - <p> - Valerie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened forward. - At thirty-two Valerie was still young and charming. She was a - pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of - superb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of which - her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a low-necked - dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very portrait of her - mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer, face under - similar black tresses. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! it is very kind of you to accept our invitation,” said Valerie gayly - as she pressed both Mathieu’s hands. “What a pity that Madame Froment - could not come with you! Reine, why don’t you relieve the gentleman of his - hat?” - </p> - <p> - Then she immediately continued: “We have a nice light anteroom, you see. - Would you like to glance over our flat while the eggs are being boiled? - That will always be one thing done, and you will then at least know where - you are lunching.” - </p> - <p> - All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his side smiled - so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to this innocent - display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, the walls of - which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design of golden flowers, - while the furniture consisted of some of those white lacquered Louis XVI. - pieces which makers turn out by the gross. The rosewood piano showed like - a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, overlooking the Boulevard de - Grenelle, came Reine’s bedroom, pale blue, with furniture of polished - pine. Her parents’ room, a very small apartment, was at the other end of - the flat, separated from the parlor by the dining-room. The hangings - adorning it were yellow; and a bedstead, a washstand, and a wardrobe, all - of thuya, had been crowded into it. Finally the classic “old carved oak” - triumphed in the dining-room, where a heavily gilded hanging lamp flashed - like fire above the table, dazzling in its whiteness. - </p> - <p> - “Why, it’s delightful,” Mathieu, repeated, by way of politeness; “why, - it’s a real gem of a place.” - </p> - <p> - In their excitement, father, mother, and daughter never ceased leading him - hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feel the - things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the place recalled - something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with the - arrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which the nicknacks - in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. Influenced - by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despite themselves, no doubt, - had tried to copy the Beauchenes. Always short of money as they were, they - could only and by dint of great sacrifices indulge in a species of - make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they were proud of it, and, by imitating - the envied higher class from afar, they imagined that they drew nearer to - it. - </p> - <p> - “And then,” Morange exclaimed, as he opened the dining-room window, “there - is also this.” - </p> - <p> - Outside, a balcony ran along the house-front, and at that height the view - was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from the Beauchene - mansion but more extensive, the Seine showing in the distance, and the - heights of Passy rising above the nearer and lower house-roofs. - </p> - <p> - Valerie also called attention to the prospect. “It is magnificent, is it - not?” said she; “far better than the few trees that one can see from the - quay.” - </p> - <p> - The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seats at - table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogether cost - him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though the amount - was a heavy charge on Morange’s slender income. Mathieu now began to - understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire the new - flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over it - before him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite. - There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing of the - luxury he brushed against in other people’s homes, and he was quite - satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne and his children. - Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges so desirous of - cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with a somewhat sad - smile. - </p> - <p> - Valerie was wearing a pretty gown of foulard with a pattern of little - yellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck out - coquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather too much - luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then came - cutlets, and afterwards asparagus. - </p> - <p> - The conversation began with some mention of Janville. - </p> - <p> - “And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very fine children - indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I think I should feel - dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lack of amusements. Why, - yes, we shall be delighted to go to see you there, since Madame Froment is - kind enough to invite us.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as was bound to happen, the talk turned on the Beauchenes. This was - a subject which haunted the Moranges, who lived in perpetual admiration of - the Beauchenes, though at times they covertly criticised them. Valerie was - very proud of being privileged to attend Constance’s Saturday “at-homes,” - and of having been twice invited to dinner by her during the previous - winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, Tuesday, and she even - gave little private parties, and half ruined herself in providing - refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, she spoke with profound - respect of Mme. Seguin du Hordel and that lady’s magnificent mansion in - the Avenue d’Antin, for Constance had obligingly obtained her an - invitation to a ball there. But she was particularly vain of the - friendship of Beauchene’s sister, Seraphine, whom she invariably called - “Madame la Baronne de Lowicz.” - </p> - <p> - “The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon,” she said. “She is so very - good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? After her - marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and their wretched - disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has no great - liking for Madame Beauchene, as you must know.” - </p> - <p> - Then she again reverted to the manufacturer’s wife, declared that little - Maurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with bad - flesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parents - if they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thus - started, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges, had - but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to compare him - with M. Beauchene, who was such a wealthy man. Valerie, for her part, - pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with four daughters, who - had been obliged to wait months and months for boots and frocks and hats, - and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest they should never find - husbands. A family was all very well, but when it happened to consist of - daughters the situation became terrible for people of limited means; for - if daughters were to be launched properly into life they must have - dowries. - </p> - <p> - “Besides,” said she, “I am very ambitious for my husband, and I am - convinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will only listen - to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. As things - stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine a suitable - dowry.” - </p> - <p> - Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife’s hand - and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valerie was really the one - with will. It was she who had instilled some ambition into him, and he - esteemed her the more for it. - </p> - <p> - “My wife is a thoroughly good woman, you know, my dear Froment,” said he. - “She has a good head as well as a good heart.” - </p> - <p> - Then, while Valerie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flat - she would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two months which, - like the Beauchenes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, Mathieu - looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Their case was - very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that he would never be - a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wife would indeed - make him a minister some day. Every petty bourgeois in a democratic - community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, there is a - universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the others aside so that - he may the more speedily climb a rung of the social ladder. This general - ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, is possible only in a country - where political equality and economic inequality prevail; for each has the - same right to fortune and has but to conquer it. There is, however, a - struggle of the vilest egotism, if one wishes to taste the pleasures of - the highly placed, pleasures which are displayed to the gaze of all and - are eagerly coveted by nearly everybody in the lower spheres. Under a - democratic constitution a nation cannot live happily if its manners and - customs are not simple, and if the conditions of life are not virtually - equal for one and all. Under other circumstances than these the liberal - professions prove all-devouring: there is a rush for public functions; - manual toil is regarded with contempt; luxury increases and becomes - necessary; and wealth and power are furiously appropriated by assault in - order that one may greedily taste the voluptuousness of enjoyment. And in - such a state of affairs, children, as Valerie put it, were incumbrances, - whereas one needed to be free, absolutely unburdened, if one wished to - climb over all one’s competitors. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even the least - fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happy ones of - the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneath that envied - luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts of useless needs are - created, and production is turned aside from the strictly necessary. One - can no longer express hardship by saying that people lack bread; what they - lack in the majority of cases is the superfluous, which they are unable to - renounce without imagining that they have gone to the dogs and are in - danger of starvation. - </p> - <p> - At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited by - his good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towards - their guest, saying: - </p> - <p> - “Come, he’s a safe friend; one may tell him everything.” - </p> - <p> - And when Valerie had consented with a smile and a nod, he went on: “Well, - this is the matter, my dear fellow: it is possible that I may soon leave - the works. Oh! it’s not decided, but I’m thinking of it. Yes, I’ve been - thinking of it for some months past; for, when all is said, to earn five - thousand francs a year, after eight years’ zeal, and to think that one - will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair of life.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s monstrous,” the young woman interrupted: “it is like breaking one’s - head intentionally against a wall.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to look - out for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom I - had under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligent - fellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left us to - go to the Credit National, and what do you think he is now earning there? - Twelve thousand francs—you hear me—twelve thousand francs!” - </p> - <p> - The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges’ eyes dilated - with ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red. - </p> - <p> - “Last March,” continued Morange, “I happened to meet Michaud, who told me - all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take me with him - and help me on in my turn. Only there’s some risk to run. He explained to - me that I must at first accept three thousand six hundred, so as to rise - gradually to a very big figure. But three thousand six hundred! How can - one live on that in the meantime, especially now that this flat has - increased our expenses?” - </p> - <p> - At this Valerie broke in impetuously: “‘Nothing venture, nothing have!’ - That’s what I keep on repeating to him. Of course I am in favor of - prudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromise - his future. But, at the same time, he can’t moulder away in a situation - unworthy of him.” - </p> - <p> - “And so you have made up your minds?” asked Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “Well, my wife has calculated everything,” Morange replied; “and, yes, we - have made up our minds, provided, of course, that nothing unforeseen - occurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be open at - the Credit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matter entirely - to yourself, for we don’t want to quarrel with the Beauchenes just now.” - </p> - <p> - Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was very punctual, - and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant was hurried, the - coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hot as it was, when - the arrival of a visitor upset the little household and caused everything - to be forgotten. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” exclaimed Valerie, as she hastily rose, flushed with pride, “Madame - la Baronne de Lowicz!” - </p> - <p> - Seraphine, at this time nine-and-twenty, was red-haired, tall and elegant, - with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Her red lips - were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flame ever shone in - her large brown eyes flecked with gold. - </p> - <p> - “Pray don’t disturb yourselves, my friends,” said she. “Your servant - wanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming in here, - because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch your charming - little Reine to take her to a matinee at the Circus.” - </p> - <p> - A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless with - joy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: “Oh! Madame la Baronne, you - are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact is that she - isn’t dressed, and you will have to wait a moment. Come, child, make - haste, I will help you—ten minutes, you understand—I won’t - keep you waiting a moment longer.” - </p> - <p> - Seraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture of - surprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she now - shook. - </p> - <p> - “And you, are you quite well?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Quite well,” he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctively - pushed his chair back. He did not seem at all pleased at having met her. - </p> - <p> - He had been on familiar terms with her during his earlier days at the - Beauchene works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of both - conscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandal - even before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needy - adventurer with a face like an archangel’s and the soul of a swindler. The - result of the union was a stillborn child. Then Seraphine, who was - extremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband and - drove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawl at - a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Seraphine made every use of - her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every fete, took part in - every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were told of her; but - she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus still received - everywhere. - </p> - <p> - “You are living in the country, are you not?” she asked again, turning - towards Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, we have been there for three weeks past.” - </p> - <p> - “Constance told me of it. I met her the other day at Madame Seguin’s. We - are on the best terms possible, you know, now that I give my brother good - advice.” - </p> - <p> - In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with her - usual boldness she treated the matter as a joke. - </p> - <p> - “We talked about Dr. Gaude,” she resumed; “I fancied that she wanted to - ask for his address; but she did not dare.” - </p> - <p> - “Dr. Gaude!” interrupted Morange. “Ah! yes, a friend of my wife’s spoke to - her about him. He’s a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of his - operations are like miracles.” - </p> - <p> - Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude’s clinic at the Hopital Marbeuf, a - clinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, just as - they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, and who - bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, was likewise - partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerous experiments - on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. The newspapers were - always talking about him, his cures were constantly puffed and advertised - by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselves to his skill. And he - certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carving his patients in the - quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with never a scruple, never a - doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right or not. - </p> - <p> - Seraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth between her - blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which had - appeared on Mathieu’s face since Gaude had been spoken of. “Ah!” said she; - “there’s a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr. Boutan, - who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can’t understand why - Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the views she does. - She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully share them.” - </p> - <p> - Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinions - were the same. However, as Valerie did not return with Reine, he grew - impatient, and asked permission to go and see what they were about. - Perhaps he himself might be able to help in getting the child ready. - </p> - <p> - As soon as Seraphine was alone with Mathieu she turned her big, ardent, - gold-flecked eyes upon him. She no longer laughed with the same laugh as a - moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on her bold - bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, “And is my good cousin - Marianne quite well?” - </p> - <p> - “Quite well,” replied Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “And the children are still growing?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, still growing.” - </p> - <p> - “So you are happy, like a good paterfamilias, in your little nook?” - </p> - <p> - “Perfectly happy.” - </p> - <p> - Again she lapsed into silence, but she did not cease to look at him, more - provoking, more radiant than ever, with the charm of a young sorceress - whose eyes burn and poison men’s hearts. And at last she slowly resumed: - “And so it is all over between us?” - </p> - <p> - He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been a passing - fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and she - two-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was already - married. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, and - had then entirely freed himself from her. - </p> - <p> - “All over—really?” she again inquired, smiling but aggressive. - </p> - <p> - She was looking very beautiful and bold, seeking to tempt him and carry - him off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simply - have made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her any answer, - even by a wave of the hand, she went on: “I prefer that: don’t reply: - don’t say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, you know.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment Mathieu’s eyes flashed, then he closed them in order that he - might no longer see Seraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemed as - if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to his as - she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, full of - mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to his mouth as - if she feared that he was again going to say no. - </p> - <p> - “Be quiet,” said she; “they are coming.” - </p> - <p> - The Moranges were now indeed returning with Reine, whose hair had been - curled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silk decked - with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dress - material. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rose - silk. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, what a love!” exclaimed Seraphine by way of pleasing the parents. - “Somebody will be stealing her from me, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Then it occurred to her to kiss the child in passionate fashion, feigning - the emotion of a woman who regrets that she is childless. “Yes; indeed one - regrets it very much when one sees such a treasure as this sweet girl of - yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would give one such a - charming child—well, at all events, I shall steal her from you; you - need not expect me to bring her back again.” - </p> - <p> - The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew her - well, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short and - passionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In her - estimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of her - in the eyes of man. - </p> - <p> - The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they could not - find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing such coveted - wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door of the flat - was closed Valerie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, “Let us see them - drive off.” - </p> - <p> - Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a position - near her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean over and - look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with a - superb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put a - finishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Seraphine had - installed the little girl beside her, they laughed aloud. - </p> - <p> - “How pretty she looks! How happy she must feel!” - </p> - <p> - Reine must have been conscious that they were looking at her, for she - raised her head, smiled and bowed. And Seraphine did the same, while the - horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came a - final explosion— - </p> - <p> - “Look at her!” repeated Valerie; “she is so candid! At twelve years old - she is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trust - her to nobody. Wouldn’t one think her a little duchess who has always had - a carriage of her own?” - </p> - <p> - Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. “Well,” said he, “I hope - that she <i>will</i> have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me - get into the Credit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled.” - </p> - <p> - And turning towards Mathieu he added, “There are three of us, and, as I - have said before, that is quite enough for a man to provide for, - especially as money is so hard to earn.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III - </h2> - <p> - AT the works during the afternoon Mathieu, who wished to be free earlier - than usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon his - landlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself so - busy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchene. This was a relief, for - the secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he feared - lest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, when they - exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even that there - was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shown himself - more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had felt in the - morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one who finds life - very pleasant, and has no fear whatever of hard work. - </p> - <p> - As a rule Mathieu left at six o’clock; but that day he went into Morange’s - office at half-past five to receive his month’s salary. This rightly - amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundred had been - advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalments of fifty, he - now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed with such an air of - satisfaction that the accountant commented on it. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said the young fellow, “the money’s welcome, for I left my wife - with just thirty sous this morning.” - </p> - <p> - It was already more than six o’clock when he found himself outside the - superb house which the Seguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenue - d’Antin. Seguin’s grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil at - Janville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made a - considerable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of a rich, - elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, while - passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art and literature, - going for fashion’s sake to extreme opinions. He had proudly married an - almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race, the last of - the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was narrow. Her - mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of her one who, - while following religious practices, was eager for the joys of the world. - Seguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised religion, because it - was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfather had had ten children; - his father, the army contractor, had been content with six; and he himself - had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that number more than was - right. - </p> - <p> - One part of Seguin’s fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve hundred - acres—woods and heaths—above Janville, which his father had - purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. The - old man’s long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his native - village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the point of - there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a vast park - when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estate had come to - Seguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had turned the - shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares of five - hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. The income - derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apart from the - woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, patches of - sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the opinion of the - district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn the expanse to - good account. The defunct army contractor alone had been able to picture - there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating around his regal - abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained an authorization to add to - the name of Seguin that of Du Hordel—taken from a ruined tower - called the Hordel which stood on the estate. - </p> - <p> - It was through Beauchene, one of the shareholders of the shooting rights, - that Mathieu had made Seguin’s acquaintance, and had discovered the old - hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him so much - that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treated Marianne as a - poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her there, and had - declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, laughing the - while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had known nothing of - her property. In reality she herself would not have lived there for an - hour. Her husband had launched her into the feverish life of literary, - artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her to gatherings, studios, - exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure resorts—all those - brasier-like places where weak heads and wavering hearts are lost. He - himself, amid all his passion for show, felt bored to death everywhere, - and was at ease only among his horses; and this despite his pretensions - with respect to advanced literature and philosophy, his collections of - curios, such as the bourgeois of to-day does not yet understand, his - furniture, his pottery, his pewter-work, and particularly his - bookbindings, of which he was very proud. And he was turning his wife into - a copy of himself, perverting her by his extravagant opinions and his - promiscuous friendships, so that the little devotee who had been confided - to his keeping was now on the high road to every kind of folly. She still - went to mass and partook of the holy communion; but she was each day - growing more and more familiar with wrong-doing. A disaster must surely be - at the end of it all, particularly as he foolishly behaved to her in a - rough, jeering way, which greatly hurt her feelings, and led her to dream - of being loved with gentleness. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows on - each of the stories of its ornate Renaissance facade, he laughed lightly - as he thought: “These folks don’t have to wait for a monthly pittance of - three hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand.” - </p> - <p> - The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right hand were - the dining-room and two drawing-rooms; on the left a billiard-room, a - smoking-room, and a winter garden. On the first floor, in front of the - broad staircase, was Seguin’s so-called “cabinet,” a vast apartment, - sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, which - occupied all the central part of the house; while the husband’s bed and - dressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and children on - the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites of rooms - were kept in reserve for the time when the children should have grown up. - </p> - <p> - A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinet and - begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For a moment - the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spacious room, - feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of old stained - glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, the oak - bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes they - contained; the tables laden with bibelots, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith’s - work, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. Then - Eastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats and - couches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one could hide - oneself behind fringes of lofty plants. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! so it’s you, Monsieur Froment,” suddenly exclaimed somebody in the - direction of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupon a tall - young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden from Mathieu’s - view, came forward with outstretched hand. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Mathieu, after a moment’s hesitation, “Monsieur Charles - Santerre.” - </p> - <p> - This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together once - before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a novelist, - a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine brow, - caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache and beard, - cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to conceal. He had - made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought under pretext of - studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as instruments of fortune. - As a matter of calculation and principle he had remained a bachelor and - generally installed himself in the nests of others. In literature feminine - frailty was his stock subject he had made it his specialty to depict - scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined surroundings. At first he had - no illusions as to the literary value of his works; he had simply chosen, - in a deliberate way, what he deemed to be a pleasant and lucrative trade. - But, duped by his successes, he had allowed pride to persuade him that he - was really a writer. And nowadays he posed as the painter of an expiring - society, professing the greatest pessimism, and basing a new religion on - the annihilation of human passion, which annihilation would insure the - final happiness of the world. - </p> - <p> - “Seguin will be here in a moment,” he resumed in an amiable way. “It - occurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant this - evening, before going to a certain first performance where there will - probably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in evening - dress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist called - attention to a new pewter treasure among Seguin’s collection. It - represented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hair - streaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, and - Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figure - symbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when man - should finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do with - her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped on - the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Seguins’ home. - </p> - <p> - However, Seguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age as - Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline nose, - gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was in - evening dress. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! well, my dear fellow,” said he with the slight lisp which he - affected, “Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be - patient; we shall have an hour to wait.” - </p> - <p> - Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much - politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. When - the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted him with - the motive of his visit—the leak in the zinc roof of the little - pavilion at Janville—he at once consented to let the local plumber - do any necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, he - understood that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required to be - changed entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability and began - to protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in such repairs a - sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six hundred francs. - </p> - <p> - “Some soldering,” he repeated; “some soldering; it’s understood. I will - write to the plumber.” And wishing to change the subject he added: “Oh! - wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I - want to show you a marvel.” - </p> - <p> - He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow - possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly - yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart - that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of a - new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which - Seguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On - the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily, - intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work, - “Beauty Imperishable,” was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!” declared - Mathieu, who was really charmed. “Some bindings nowadays are perfect - gems.” Then he noticed the title: “Why, it’s Monsieur Santerre’s last - novel!” said he. - </p> - <p> - Seguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when he - saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment paid - to it, he exclaimed: “My dear fellow, the binder brought it here this - morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. It is - the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea—that lily - which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants which - spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the world, at - last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? All your work - lies in those symbols, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had read Santerre’s novel, having borrowed a copy of it from Mme. - Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book that - everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated him. - Forsaking the customary bachelor’s flat where in previous works he had - been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time tried - to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story he told - was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a rough-mannered - husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge in Brittany in the - company of a young painter endowed with divine inspiration, one Norbert, - who had undertaken to decorate a convent chapel with paintings that - depicted his various visions. And for thirty years he went on painting - there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and ever having Anne-Marie beside - him. And during those thirty years of love the Countess’s beauty remained - unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh at the finish as at the outset; - whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the story, wives and - mothers of a neighboring little town, sank into physical and mental decay, - and monstrous decrepitude. Mathieu considered the author’s theory that all - physical beauty and moral nobility belonged to virgins only, to be - thoroughly imbecile, and he could not restrain himself from hinting his - disapproval of it. - </p> - <p> - Both Santerre and Seguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite a - discussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religious - standpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, “Increase and - multiply,” were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the true - basis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, had - held marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become the - ideal of womanhood. Seguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded to give - his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the taste of - Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty had often - varied. - </p> - <p> - “To-day,” said he, “you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim, - attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissance the - type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, take - even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robust build. - Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, moreover, if - we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if women were not - encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figures so that - their very nature, their very organism is changed, there would perhaps be - some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which is talked about so - much nowadays.” - </p> - <p> - The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionate - superiority. “Depopulation an evil!” exclaimed Seguin; “can you, my dear - sir, intelligent as you are, still believe in that hackneyed old story? - Come, reflect and reason a little.” - </p> - <p> - Then Santerre chimed in, and they went on talking one after the other and - at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche were - passed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But all - this literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his belief in - fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer had faith - in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when he doubted - the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if ten thousand - happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappy ones; in - which connection political and economic conditions had to be taken into - account. But when all was said, he remained almost convinced that the - Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future as they had - proved false in the past. - </p> - <p> - “Moreover,” said he, “even if the world should become densely populated, - even if food supplies, such as we know them, should fall short, chemistry - would extract other means of subsistence from inorganic matter. And, - besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it is impossible to - make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. In France, too, - instead of contributing to any such danger, we are going backward, we are - marching towards annihilation. The population of France was once a fourth - of the population of Europe, but now it is only one-eighth. In a century - or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens and ancient Rome, and we - shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now occupies. Paris seems - determined to die.” - </p> - <p> - But Santerre protested: “No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain stationary, - and it wishes this precisely because it is the most intelligent, most - highly civilized city in the world. The more nations advance in - civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We are simply giving - the world an example of high culture, superior intelligence, and other - nations will certainly follow that example when in turn they also attain - to our state of perfection. There are signs of this already on every - side.” - </p> - <p> - “Quite so!” exclaimed Seguin, backing up his friend. “The phenomenon is - general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in - numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is - affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as - Europe forces open the door there.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated - before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The pale, - slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer in - question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if - communing with himself, he said: “So you do not fear the Yellow Peril, - that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would at - some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it - afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the - sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to - endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence - civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How was - it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their - populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens and - Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes and - renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has - already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but the - capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you - please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is - dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is none - the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide which - will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of - equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to - grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will - die, and the country with her.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, for my part,” declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant - pessimist, “if she wishes to die, I shan’t oppose her. In fact, I’m fully - determined to help her.” - </p> - <p> - “It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any - increase of population,” added Seguin. - </p> - <p> - But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: “I know Herbert - Spencer’s law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is certain - that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may picture a - series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now to increase - of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by the very effect - of culture’s victory when the world shall be entirely populated and - civilized. But who can foretell what road will be followed, through what - disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More and more nations may - disappear, and others may replace them; and how many thousands of years - may not be needed before the final adjustment, compounded of truth, - justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought of this the mind - trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a pang.” - </p> - <p> - Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith in - the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right—he or - those two men so languidly stretched out before him. - </p> - <p> - But Valentine, Seguin’s wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition - of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl - Celeste takes such a time over everything!” - </p> - <p> - At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair, - with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she - could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very - free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about - with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite - familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it - was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again - showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw - herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! it’s you, Monsieur Froment,” she said amiably, stepping towards - Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. “Is Madame Froment in - good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?” - </p> - <p> - Seguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with - unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly rude - fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of - politeness. “What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that rag - on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!” - </p> - <p> - And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She made - an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and assumed an - expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly turned her eyes - towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing at her with - ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness of his - attitude. - </p> - <p> - “You look delicious!” he murmured; “that gown is a marvel.” - </p> - <p> - Seguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women. - Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike - gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that - Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone - off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a - promise to repair the pavilion properly. - </p> - <p> - “Wait another moment,” Valentine at last said to her husband; “I told - Celeste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before - starting.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his - request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining at - the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first - performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors which - had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She appeared like - a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even went further in - her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest pessimism, and such - extreme views on literature and art that they themselves could not forbear - laughing. Wagner was greatly over-estimated, in her opinion; she asked for - invertebrate music, the free harmony of the passing wind. As for her moral - views, they were enough to make one shudder. She had got past the - argumentative amours of Ibsen’s idiotic, rebellious heroines, and had now - reached the theory of pure intangible beauty. She deemed Santerre’s last - creation, Anne-Marie, to be far too material and degraded, because in one - deplorable passage the author remarked that Norbert’s kisses had left - their trace on the Countess’s brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, - whereupon she rushed upon the volume and sought the page to which she had - referred. - </p> - <p> - “But I never degraded her,” exclaimed the novelist in despair. “She never - has a child.” - </p> - <p> - “Pooh! What of that?” exclaimed Valentine. “If Anne-Marie is to raise our - hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert’s kisses should - leave no mark upon her.” - </p> - <p> - But she was interrupted, for Celeste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an - equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two - children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three. - Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade. Like - their mother, they were fair. The lad’s hair was inclined to be carroty, - while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they also had - their mother’s blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like that of - their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed indeed in - the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls. The parents - were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and insisted on - their playing their parts with due propriety. - </p> - <p> - “Well, don’t you wish anybody good evening?” - </p> - <p> - The children were not timid; they were already used to society and looked - visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was because they - were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at last made up - their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed. - </p> - <p> - “Good evening, good friend Santerre.” - </p> - <p> - Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them of - the gentleman’s name, though they had already seen him on two or three - occasions. - </p> - <p> - “Good evening, Monsieur Froment.” - </p> - <p> - Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them - with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them - down again she forgot all about them. - </p> - <p> - “So you are going out again, mamma?” asked the little boy. - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to - see to.” - </p> - <p> - “So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?” - </p> - <p> - Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting for - orders;— - </p> - <p> - “You are not to leave them for a moment, Celeste—you hear? And, - above all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come - home without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them - have their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they - go to sleep.” - </p> - <p> - The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful - obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman peasant - who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to service, and - well knew what was done with children when the master and mistress were - absent. - </p> - <p> - “Madame,” she said in a simple way, “Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. She has - been sick again.” - </p> - <p> - “What? sick again!” cried the father in a fury. “I am always hearing of - that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we are going - out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; you ought not - to let our children have papier-mache stomachs!” - </p> - <p> - The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could not help it. - As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They had experienced - every childish ailment, they were always catching cold or getting - feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhat anxious - demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants. - </p> - <p> - “Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?” asked Valentine, stooping - down to the child. “You aren’t poorly now, are you? No, no, it’s nothing, - nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night very prettily, so - that he may not feel worried in leaving you.” - </p> - <p> - She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing that - Mathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed: - </p> - <p> - “Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves them - dearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, it - would perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, my duty - to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl as I - have.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with a - laugh: - </p> - <p> - “Well, that isn’t the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. He declares - that to make the country prosperous every married couple ought to have - four children.” - </p> - <p> - “Four children! He’s mad!” cried Seguin. And again with the greatest - freedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There was a world - of meaning in his wife’s laughter while Celeste stood there unmoved and - the children listened without understanding. But at last Santerre led the - Seguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieu obtained from his - landlord a promise that he would write to the plumber at Janville and that - the roof of the pavilion should be entirely renovated, since the rain came - into the bedrooms. - </p> - <p> - The Seguins’ landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into it - with their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at one of - the windows he perceived Celeste standing between the two children, - intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame were really - going. The young man recalled Reine’s departure from her parents; but here - both Lucie and Gaston remained motionless, gravely mournful, and neither - their father nor their mother once thought of looking up at them. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IV - </h2> - <p> - AT half-past seven o’clock, when Mathieu arrived at the restaurant on the - Place de la Madeleine where he was to meet his employer, he found him - already there, drinking a glass of madeira with his customer, M. - Firon-Badinier. The dinner was a remarkable one; choice viands and the - best wines were served in abundance. But Mathieu was struck less by the - appetite which the others displayed than by Beauchene’s activity and - skill. Glass in hand, never losing a bite, he had already persuaded his - customer, by the time the roast arrived, to order not only the new - thresher but also a mowing machine. M. Firon-Badinier was to take the - train for Evreux at nine-twenty, and when nine o’clock struck, the other, - now eager to be rid of him, contrived to pack him off in a cab to the - St.-Lazare railway station. - </p> - <p> - For a moment Beauchene remained standing on the pavement with Mathieu, and - took off his hat in order that the mild breezes of that delightful May - evening might cool his burning head. - </p> - <p> - “Well, that’s settled,” he said with a laugh. “But it wasn’t so easily - managed. It was the Pommard which induced the beggar to make up his mind. - All the same, I was dreadfully afraid he would make me miss my - appointment.” - </p> - <p> - These remarks, which escaped him amid his semi-intoxication, led him to - more confidential talk. He put on his hat again, lighted a fresh cigar, - and took Mathieu’s arm. Then they walked on slowly through the - passion-stirred throng and the nightly blaze of the Boulevards. - </p> - <p> - “There’s plenty of time,” said Beauchene. “I’m not expected till half-past - nine, and it’s close by. Will you have a cigar? No? You never smoke?” - </p> - <p> - “Never.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, my dear fellow, it would be ridiculous to feign with you, since you - happened to see me this morning. Oh, it’s a stupid affair! I’m quite of - that opinion; but, then, what would you have?” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his marital - life and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and that - girl Norine, old Moineaud’s daughter. He professed the greatest respect - for his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance was now - beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyes when it - would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. She knew very well - that it was essential that the business should be kept together and pass - intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe of children would have - meant the ruin of all their plans. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began to ask - questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchene laughed gayly, - like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extreme - volubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming a - semi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with an air - of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of the Rue - Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a little - bachelor’s lodging, which was kept in order by the concierge of the house, - who, being very well paid, proved an extremely discreet domestic. - </p> - <p> - As he hurried off, Mathieu, still standing at the corner of the street, - could not help thinking of the scenes which he had witnessed at the - Beauchene works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whom he - again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women’s workroom while his - daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchene, and while Norine, - the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler’s children - have grown up and gone to join, the lads the army of slaughter, and the - girls the army of vice, the father, degraded by the ills of life, pays - little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter of indifference to - what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings who fall from the nest. - </p> - <p> - It was now half-past nine o’clock, and Mathieu had more than an hour - before him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry, but - strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunk far more - than usual, and Beauchene’s insidious confidential talk, still buzzing in - his ears, helped on his intoxication. His hands were hot, and now and - again a sudden glow passed over his face. And what a warm evening it was, - too, on those Boulevards, blazing with electric lights, fevered by a - swarming, jostling throng, amid a ceaseless rumble of cabs and omnibuses! - It was all like a stream of ardent life flowing away into the night, and - Mathieu allowed himself to be carried on by the torrent, whose hot breath, - whose glow of passion, he ever felt sweeping over him. - </p> - <p> - Then, in a reverie, he pictured the day he had just spent. First he was at - the Beauchenes’ in the morning, and saw the father and mother standing, - like accomplices who fully shared one another’s views, beside the sofa on - which Maurice, their only son, lay dozing with a pale and waxen face. The - works must never be exposed to the danger of being subdivided. Maurice - alone must inherit all the millions which the business might yield, so - that he might become one of the princes of industry. And therefore the - husband hurried off to sin while the wife closed her eyes. In this sense, - in defiance of morality and health, did the capitalist bourgeoisie, which - had replaced the old nobility, virtually re-establish the law of - primogeniture. That law had been abolished at the Revolution for the - bourgeoisie’s benefit; but now, also for its own purposes, it revived it. - Each family must have but one son. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had reached this stage in his reflections when his thoughts were - diverted by several street hawkers who, in selling the last edition of an - evening print, announced a “drawing” of the lottery stock of some - enterprise launched by the Credit National. And then he suddenly recalled - the Moranges in their dining-room, and heard them recapitulate their dream - of making a big fortune as soon as the accountant should have secured a - post in one of the big banking establishments, where the principals raise - men of value to the highest posts. Those Moranges lived in everlasting - dread of seeing their daughter marry a needy petty clerk; succumbing to - that irresistible fever which, in a democracy ravaged by political - equality and economic inequality, impels every one to climb higher up the - social ladder. Envy consumed them at the thought of the luxury of others; - they plunged into debt in order that they might imitate from afar the - elegance of the upper class, and all their natural honesty and good nature - was poisoned by the insanity born of ambitious pride. And here again but - one child was permissible, lest they should be embarrassed, delayed, - forever impeded in the attainment of the future they coveted. - </p> - <p> - A crowd of people now barred Mathieu’s way, and he perceived that he was - near the theatre, where a first performance was taking place that evening. - It was a theatre where free farcical pieces were produced, and on its - walls were posted huge portraits of its “star,” a carroty wench with a - long flat figure, destitute of all womanliness, and seemingly symbolical - of perversity. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the bills, the vilest remarks - were heard, and Mathieu remembered that the Seguins and Santerre were - inside the house, laughing at the piece, which was of so filthy a nature - that the spectators at the dress rehearsal, though they were by no means - over-nice in such matters, had expressed their disgust by almost wrecking - the auditorium. And while the Seguins were gloating over this horror, - yonder, at their house in the Avenue d’Antin, Celeste had just put the - children, Gaston and Lucie, to bed, and had then hastily returned to the - kitchen, where a friend, Madame Menoux, who kept a little haberdasher’s - shop in the neighborhood, awaited her. Gaston, having been given some wine - to drink, was already asleep; but Lucie, who again felt sick, lay - shivering in her bed, not daring to call Celeste, lest the servant, who - did not like to be disturbed, should ill-treat her. And, at two o’clock in - the morning, after offering Santerre an oyster supper at a night - restaurant, the Seguins would come home, their minds unhinged by the - imbecile literature and art to which they had taken for fashion’s sake, - vitiated yet more by the ignoble performance they had witnessed, and the - base society they had elbowed at supper. They seemed to typify vice for - vice’s sake, elegant vice and pessimism as a principle. - </p> - <p> - Indeed, when Mathieu tried to sum up his day, he found vice on every side, - in each of the spheres with which he had come in contact. And now the - examples he had witnessed filled him no longer with mere surprise; they - disturbed him, they shook his beliefs, they made him doubt whether his - notions of life, duty, and happiness might not after all be inaccurate. - </p> - <p> - He stopped short and drew a long breath, seeking to drive away his growing - intoxication. He had passed the Grand Opera and was reaching the crossway - of the Rue Drouot. Perhaps his increase of fever was due to those glowing - Boulevards. The private rooms of the restaurants were still ablaze, the - cafes threw bright radiance across the road, the pavement was blocked by - their tables and chairs and customers. All Paris seemed to have come down - thither to enjoy that delightful evening. There was endless elbowing, - endless mingling of breath as the swelling crowd sauntered along. Couples - lingered before the sparkling displays of jewellers’ shops. Middle-class - families swept under dazzling arches of electric lamps into cafes - concerts, whose huge posters promised the grossest amusements. Hundreds - and hundreds of women went by with trailing skirts, and whispered and - jested and laughed; while men darted in pursuit, now of a fair chignon, - now of a dark one. In the open cabs men and women sat side by side, now - husbands and wives long since married, now chance couples who had met but - an hour ago. But Mathieu went on again, yielding to the force of the - current, carried along like all the others, a prey to the same fever which - sprang from the surroundings, from the excitement of the day, from the - customs of the age. And he no longer took the Beauchenes, the Moranges, - the Seguins as isolated types; it was all Paris that symbolized vice, all - Paris that yielded to debauchery and sank into degradation. There were the - folks of high culture, the folks suffering from literary neurosis; there - were the merchant princes; there were the men of liberal professions, the - lawyers, the doctors, the engineers; there were the people of the lower - middle-class, the petty tradesmen, the petty clerks; there were even the - manual workers, poisoned by the example of the upper spheres—all - practising the doctrines of egotism as vanity and the passion for money - grew more and more intense.. .. No more children! Paris was bent on dying. - And Mathieu recalled how Napoleon I., one evening after battle, on - beholding a plain strewn with the corpses of his soldiers, had put his - trust in Paris to repair the carnage of that day. But times had changed. - Paris would no longer supply life, whether it were for slaughter or for - toil. - </p> - <p> - And as Mathieu thought of it all a sudden weakness came upon him. Again he - asked himself whether the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins, and all - those thousands and thousands around him were not right, and whether he - were not the fool, the dupe, the criminal, with his belief in life ever - renascent, ever growing and spreading throughout the world. And before him - arose, too, the image of Seraphine, the temptress, opening her perfumed - arms to him and carrying him off to the same existence of pleasure and - baseness which the others led. - </p> - <p> - Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in his - pocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, though - out of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. The - remainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jam for - the youngsters’ bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, the others, - the Beauchenes and the Seguins, were rich. He bitterly recalled their - wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildings covering - a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmen ever increasing - the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomely appointed pavilion - and whose only son was growing up for future sovereignty, under his - mother’s vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, the Seguins’ luxurious mansion - in the Avenue d’Antin, the great hall, the magnificent staircase, the vast - room above, crowded with marvels; he pictured all the refinement, all the - train of wealth, all the tokens of lavish life, the big dowry which would - be given to the little girl, the high position which would be purchased - for the son. And he, bare and empty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not - even a stone at the edge of a field, would doubtless always possess - nothing, neither factory buzzing with workmen, nor mansion rearing its - proud front aloft. And he was the imprudent one, and the others were the - sensible, the wise. What would ever become of himself and his troop of - children? Would he not die in some garret? would they not lead lives of - abject wretchedness? Ah! it was evident the others were right, the others - were sensible. And he felt unhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, - like a fool who has allowed himself to be duped. - </p> - <p> - Then once more the image of Seraphine arose before his eyes, more tempting - than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blaze of the - Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic around it. Wild - fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchene. Why should he - not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding to sudden madness, - turned his back upon the station and retraced his steps towards the - Boulevards. Seraphine, he said to himself, was doubtless waiting for him; - she had told him that he would always be welcome. As for his wife, he - would tell her he had missed his train. - </p> - <p> - At last a block in the traffic made him pause, and on raising his eyes he - saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still streamed - along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu’s temples were beating, - and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the same life as - the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it. But the block in - the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and while he stood - there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that increasing - obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all at once the - image of Seraphine faded from before his mind’s eye and he beheld another, - his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all smiles and - trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could he deceive her? - ... Then all at once he again rushed off towards the railway station, in - fear lest he should lose his train. He was determined that he would listen - to no further promptings, that he would cast no further glance upon - glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reached the station just in time to climb - into a car. The train started and he journeyed on, leaning out of his - compartment and offering his face to the cool night breeze in order that - it might calm and carry off the evil fever that had possessed him. - </p> - <p> - The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowing stars - that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a soft bluish - radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Marianne found herself on - the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway between Chantebled, the - pavilion where she and her husband lived, and the station of Janville. The - children were fast asleep; she had left them in the charge of Zoe, the - servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, the light of which could be seen - from afar, showing like a bright spark amid the black line of the woods. - </p> - <p> - Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o’clock train, as was his - wont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she brought - her two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legs moved - but slowly on the return journey when, in retracing their steps, a - thousand yards or more, they had to climb a rather steep hillside. And - that evening, late though the hour was, Marianne had yielded to that - pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forward through - the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never went further - than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seated herself on - its broad, low parapet, as on some rustic bench, and thence she overlooked - the whole plain as far as the houses of Janville, before which passed the - railway line. And from afar she could see her husband approaching along - the road which wound between the cornfields. - </p> - <p> - That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety sky spangled - with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitude she turned - towards the bright little light shining on the verge of the sombre woods, - a light telling of the quietude of the room in which it burnt, the - servant’s tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of the children in the - adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wander all around her, over - the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to the Seguins. The dilapidated - pavilion stood at the extreme edge of the woods whose copses, intersected - by patches of heath, spread over a lofty plateau to the distant farms of - Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was not all, for to the west of the - plateau lay more than two hundred and fifty acres of land, a marshy - expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, vast uncultivated tracts, - where one went duck-shooting in winter. And there was yet a third part of - the estate, acres upon acres of equally sterile soil, all sand and gravel, - descending in a gentle slope to the embankment of the railway line. It was - indeed a stretch of country lost to culture, where the few good patches of - loam remained unproductive, inclosed within the waste land. But the spot - had all the beauty and exquisite wildness of solitude, and was one that - appealed to healthy minds fond of seeing nature in freedom. And on that - lovely night one could nowhere have found more perfect and more balmy - quiet. - </p> - <p> - Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded the - woodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, and - descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over the expanse, - divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though the darkness now - prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woods an owl raised - its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the right ascended a faint - croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like the vibration of - crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, there came a growing - rumble which, little by little, rose above all the other sounds of the - night. She heard it, and at last lent ear to nothing else. It was the - train, for whose familiar roar she waited every evening. As soon as it - left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token of its coming, - but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguish its rumble amid - the other sounds rising from the country side. For her part, she heard it - immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancy through every phase of its - journey. And never had she been better able to do so than on that splendid - night, amid the profound quietude of the earth’s slumber. It had left - Monval, it was turning beside the brickworks, it was skirting St. George’s - fields. In another two minutes it would be at Janville. Then all at once - its white light shone out beyond the poplar trees of Le Mesnil Rouge, and - the panting of the engine grew louder, like that of some giant racer - drawing near. On that side the plain spread far away into a dark, unknown - region, beneath the star-spangled sky, which on the very horizon showed a - ruddy reflection like that of some brasier, the reflection of nocturnal - Paris, blazing and smoking in the darkness like a volcano. - </p> - <p> - Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then its - rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of - Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes and - ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the dark - patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover the - thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little - bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but on - that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could - distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim - figure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erect under - the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. The milky - whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her beautiful black hair, caught - up in a huge coil, and her big black eyes, which beamed with all the - gentleness of spouse and mother. Her straight brow, her nose, her mouth, - her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed like savory - fruit, her delightful little ears—the whole of her face, full of - love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety which comes - from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that by loving - life she would live as she ought to live. - </p> - <p> - “What! so you’ve come then!” Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was near - her. “But I begged you not to come out so late. Are you not afraid at - being alone on the roads at this time of night?” - </p> - <p> - She began to laugh. “Afraid,” said she, “when the night is so mild and - healthful? Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me here to kiss you ten - minutes sooner?” - </p> - <p> - Those simple words brought tears to Mathieu’s eyes. All the murkiness, all - the shame through which he had passed in Paris horrified him. He tenderly - took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, the most human - of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields. After the scorching - pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the day and the degrading - spectacles of the night, how reposeful was that far-spreading silence, - that faint bluish radiance, that endless unrolling of plains, steeped in - refreshing gloom and dreaming of fructification by the morrow’s sun! And - what suggestions of health, and rectitude, and felicity rose from - productive Nature, who fell asleep beneath the dew of night solely that - she might reawaken in triumph, ever and ever rejuvenated by life’s - torrent, which streams even through the dust of her paths. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more. He kept - her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neither could - forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them from the - stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields. - </p> - <p> - “What a splendid night!” murmured Mathieu. “How beautiful and how pleasant - to live in it!” - </p> - <p> - Then, after a moment’s rapture, during which they both heard their hearts - beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him with loving - interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie. - </p> - <p> - “No, the Beauchenes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never cared much - for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in the legs; Dr. - Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed again. I will - tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Moranges have promised to - come. You can’t have an idea of the delight and vanity they displayed in - showing me their new flat. What with their eagerness to make a big fortune - I’m much afraid that those worthy folks will do something very foolish. - Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord, and though I had a good - deal of difficulty over it, he ended by consenting to have the roof - entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, those Seguins have! I came away - feeling quite scared. But I will tell you all about it by and by with the - rest.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited his - confidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and the - children. - </p> - <p> - “You received your salary, didn’t you?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, you need not be afraid about that.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I’m not afraid, it’s only our little debts which worry me.” - </p> - <p> - Then she asked again: “And did your business dinner go off all right? I - was afraid that Beauchene might detain you and make you miss your train.” - </p> - <p> - He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke he - flushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion he - affected sudden gayety. - </p> - <p> - “Well, and you, my dear,” he asked, “how did you manage with your thirty - sous?” - </p> - <p> - “My thirty sous!” she gayly responded, “why, I was much too rich; we fared - like princes, all five of us, and I have six sous left.” - </p> - <p> - Then, in her turn, she gave an account of her day, her daily life, pure as - crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; she - related how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutest - details respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day was - like another; each morning she set herself to live the same life afresh, - with never-failing happiness. - </p> - <p> - “To-day, though, we had a visit,” said she; “Madame Lepailleur, the woman - from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some fine chickens - for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, I believe that - she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told her that I would go - to her place to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a big black - pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill which was - still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it for three - generations. The last of them, Francois Lepailleur, who considered himself - to be no fool, had come back from his military service with little - inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrich him, any - more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It then occurred to - him to marry a peasant farmer’s daughter, Victoire Cornu, whose dowry - consisted of some neighboring fields skirting the Yeuse. And the young - couple then lived fairly at their ease, on the produce of those fields and - such small quantities of corn as the peasants of the district still - brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquated and badly repaired - mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modern appliances, and if the - land, instead of being impoverished by adherence to old-fashioned - practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligent man who believed in - progress, there would no doubt have been a fortune in it all. But - Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treated the soil with - contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grown weary of his - eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers loved too much. - Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilize the soil, it - had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hating it. All his - faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of having lost its - fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some old cow which one - sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, everything went - wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, the weather was never - such as it should be, the seasons no longer came in their proper order. - Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster brought about by some evil - power which had a spite against the peasantry, who were foolish to give - their sweat and their blood to such a thankless creature. - </p> - <p> - “Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow three years - old, called Antonin,” resumed Marianne, “and we fell to talking of - children together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, used - to have such large families. But she declared that one child was quite - enough. Yet she’s only twenty-four, and her husband not yet twenty-seven.” - </p> - <p> - These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu’s mind all - day. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, “She gave you her - reasons, no doubt?” - </p> - <p> - “Give reasons—she, with her head like a horse’s, her long freckled - face, pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth—I think she’s simply a - fool, ever in admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa - and reads the newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that - children cost one a good deal more than they bring in. But the husband, no - doubt, has ideas of his own. You have seen him, haven’t you? A tall, slim - fellow, as carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, green - eyes, and prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had never felt in a - good humor in his life. And I understand that he is always complaining of - his father-in-law, because the other had three daughters and a son. Of - course that cut down his wife’s dowry; she inherited only a part of her - father’s property. And, besides, as the trade of a miller never enriched - his father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning till night, and - declares that he won’t prevent his boy Antonin from going to eat white - bread in Paris, if he can find a good berth there when he grows up.” - </p> - <p> - Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small family the rule. - Among the causes were the fear of having to split up an inheritance, the - desire to rise in the social system, the disgust of manual toil, and the - thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since the soil was becoming - bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when one knew that one would - never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on the point of explaining these - things to his wife, but he hesitated, and then simply said: “Lepailleur - does wrong to complain; he has two cows and a horse, and when there is - urgent work he can take an assistant. We, this morning, had just thirty - sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, no scrap of land. For my part I - think his mill superb; I envy him every time I cross this bridge. Just - fancy! we two being the millers—why, we should be very rich and very - happy!” - </p> - <p> - This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seated - there, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between the - willows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully, - scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made it - ripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed sheltering the - wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, and - creepers, the whole forming a spot of romantic prettiness. And at night, - especially when the mill slept, without a light at any of its windows, - there was nothing of more dreamy, more gentle charm. - </p> - <p> - “Why!” remarked Mathieu, lowering his voice, “there is somebody under the - willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know,” replied Marianne with tender gayety. “It must be the young - couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder a fortnight ago. - You know whom I mean—Madame Angelin, that schoolmate of - Constance’s.” - </p> - <p> - The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments. The - wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hair and fine - eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And the husband - was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much in love, with - moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of a musketeer. They - had married with sudden passion for one another, having between them an - income of some ten thousand francs a year, which the husband, a fan - painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had it not been for the - spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage had thrown him. And - that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desert of Janville, that - they might love freely, passionately, in the midst of nature. They were - always to be met, holding each other by the waist, on the secluded paths - in the woods; and at night they loved to stroll across the fields, beside - the hedges, along the shady banks of the Yeuse, delighted when they could - linger till very late near the murmuring water, in the thick shade of the - willows. - </p> - <p> - But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentioned it - to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appeared that - the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, and did - not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu’s worrying thoughts - once more came back to him, and again at this fresh example he wondered - who was right—he who stood alone in his belief, or all the others. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he muttered at last, “we all live according to our fancy. But - come, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them.” - </p> - <p> - They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where the lamp - shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front door they - groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little house - comprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of the hall, - and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there were four - bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those big rooms; - but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed at this. By way - of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains of red stuff at the - windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangings seemed to them to - impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home. - </p> - <p> - They found Zoe, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting beside the - lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her as - quietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp and entered the - children’s room to kiss them and make sure that they were comfortable. It - was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placed the lamp on the - mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the three little beds when - Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at one end of the room - lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellows six years of age; - while in the second bed against the opposite wall was Ambroise, now nearly - four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, a cradle, was occupied - by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age and weaned for three weeks - past. She lay there half naked, showing her white flowerlike skin, and her - mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, which she had thrust aside - with her self-willed little fists. Meantime the father busied himself with - Ambroise’s pillow, which had slipped aside. Both husband and wife came and - went very gently, and bent again and again over the children’s faces to - make sure that they were sleeping peacefully. They kissed them and - lingered yet a little longer, fancying that they had heard Blaise and - Denis stirring. At last the mother took up the lamp and they went off, one - after the other, on tiptoe. - </p> - <p> - When they were in their room again Marianne exclaimed: “I didn’t want to - worry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I did - not find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at ease - about her.” Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she went - on: “Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt the - least fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free from - anxiety.” - </p> - <p> - She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu, - instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, and - drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket. When he had counted - those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a bitter, - jesting way, “The money hasn’t grown on the road. Here it is; you can pay - our debts to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - This remark gave him a fresh idea. Taking his pencil he began to jot down - the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary. “We say - twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk. How much do you owe - the butcher?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “The butcher,” replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes; - “well, say twenty francs.” - </p> - <p> - “And the grocer and the baker?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether. There is nobody - else.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu added up the items: “That makes sixty-two francs,” said he. - “Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and - thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a nice - month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if little - Rose should fall ill.” - </p> - <p> - The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, saying: - “Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to be almost - in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as full of - promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life if one - wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the little ones - I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!” - </p> - <p> - At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and - mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great - length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty - and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges, - the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they had - said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident - starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never have - factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand francs a - year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had been their own - work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, improvident. And he - went on with his recollections, telling Marianne that he feared nothing - for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn her and the little ones - to want and poverty. She was surprised at first, and by degrees became - colder, more constrained, as he told her all that he had upon his mind. - Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, however lovingly he spoke, - she could no longer restrain herself, but burst into sobs. She did not - question what he said, she spoke no words of revolt, but it was evident - that her whole being rebelled, and that her heart was sorely grieved. - </p> - <p> - He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to her - own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with - himself. “Do not weep, my darling!” he exclaimed as he pressed her to him: - “it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that way. Don’t - distress yourself, I beg you; we’ll think it all over and talk about it - some other time.” - </p> - <p> - She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her - head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving, - trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and more - confused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heed - to the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basis of - their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which had - possessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have been - instilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honor and - rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fast returning. - Through the window, which had remained open, all the sounds of the lovely - spring night poured into the room. It was spring, the season of love, and - beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, from fields and - forests and waters came the murmur of germinating life. And never had - Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss may result, whatever - difficulty may arise, whatever fate may be in store, all the creative - powers of the world, whether of the animal order, whether of the order of - the plants, for ever and ever wage life’s great incessant battle against - death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased among all the other denizens of - the world, all the healthful forces of nature, seeks death for death’s - sake, the annihilation of his species. Then Mathieu again caught his wife - in a close embrace, printing on her lips a long, ardent kiss. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would be impossible - for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let the others hold - us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us love and live as nature - tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdom and true courage.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - V - </h2> - <p> - MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside the - large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at her, and - saw that she was awake and smiling. - </p> - <p> - “What! you are not asleep?” said he. “I hardly dared to stir for fear of - waking you. It is nearly nine o’clock, you know.” - </p> - <p> - It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris. - During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful at - Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This - rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was - again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to accept - Beauchene’s amiable offer to place at his disposal the little pavilion in - the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of the works had lived before - building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who had occupied - this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture of former days, - had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be near their friend, - worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, and did not intend to - return to Chantebled until the first fine days in April. - </p> - <p> - “Wait a moment,” resumed Mathieu; “I will let the light in.” - </p> - <p> - He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow, - wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. “Ah! there’s the sun! And it’s - splendid weather—and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for - a little while with the children this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the - bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: “Well, I hadn’t been sleeping - either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn’t move because I wanted you - to lie in bed a little late, as it’s Sunday. How amusing to think that we - were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide open!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said he, “I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one delight - on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and spend the - whole day with you and the children.” Then he uttered a cry of surprise - and remorse: “Why! I haven’t kissed you yet.” - </p> - <p> - She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. In - the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked - radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown - tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with - gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face all - kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of - Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of - sovereign dignity. - </p> - <p> - They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which - enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne’s pillows, - set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had tidied - the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up the sheets, - the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped a cover. She - vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoe, the servant whom they - had brought from the country, could very well do all those things. But he - persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, and that he preferred to - be alone to attend her and do all that there was to do. Then, as he - suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the room was cold, and blamed - himself for not having already lighted the fire. Some logs and some small - wood were piled in a corner, near the chimney-piece. - </p> - <p> - “How stupid of me!” he exclaimed; “here am I leaving you to freeze.” - </p> - <p> - Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: “What an - idea! Leave all that, and call Zoe.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, she doesn’t know how to light the fire properly, and besides, it - amuses me.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle, filling - the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a little - paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and dressing when - the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous thumping. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! the rascals,” he gayly exclaimed. “They are awake, you see! Oh! well, - we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday.” - </p> - <p> - For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion in - the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts of - laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters - flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition as - if it were a drum. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes,” said the mother, smiling and anxious, “answer them; tell them - to come. They will be breaking everything if you don’t.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious - outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And Mathieu - scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling could be - heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of them wore - long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they trotted - along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their faces - quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise, though - he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the boldest - and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and Denis, who - were less turbulent—the latter especially. He taught the others to - read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the dreamer of - them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose, who looked - like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left amid bursts of - laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily erect. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! mamma,” cried Ambroise, “it’s dreadfully cold, you know; do make me a - little room.” - </p> - <p> - Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and nestled - close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine curly hair - could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of war, and - rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel. - </p> - <p> - “Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back, - mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!” - </p> - <p> - Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and indignant. - She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back. “And me, mamma, - and me,” she pleaded. - </p> - <p> - It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with her - little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that she might - have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat anxious at - seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him not to - trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled there was - so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled. - </p> - <p> - “It’s very nice, it’s so warm,” said Ambroise, who was fond of taking his - ease. - </p> - <p> - But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it was - they had made so much noise “Blaise said that he had seen a spider. And - then he felt frightened.” - </p> - <p> - This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: “It isn’t - true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it.” - </p> - <p> - “So did I! so did I!” stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. “I threw my - pillow like that—houp! houp!” - </p> - <p> - They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. The - truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence of - killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This - unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole brood - looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their father - could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here and there, - wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into perfect - rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! what fun! what fun!” - </p> - <p> - “All the same,” Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herself - somewhat from the embraces of the children, “all the same, you know, I - want to get up. I mustn’t idle, for it does me no good. And besides, you - little ones need to be washed and dressed.” - </p> - <p> - They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly ten - o’clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where the - earthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamed upon - the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-room and a - drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a study on the - left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlooked the Rue - de la Federation, and was filled every morning with cheerfulness by the - rising sun. - </p> - <p> - The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, when a - ring at the street door was heard. And it was Dr. Boutan who came in. His - arrival brought a renewal of noisy mirth, for the youngsters were fond of - his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at their births, - and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity is allowable. - And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to dart towards the - doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them. - </p> - <p> - “Now, please just leave the doctor quiet,” said she, adding gayly, “Good - morning, doctor. I’m much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, for I’m - sure you ordered it so that I might go for a walk this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes, of course I ordered it—I was passing this way, and - thought I would look in to see how you were getting on.” - </p> - <p> - Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieu - explained to him that they had remained late in bed. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as much - exercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see that she - has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to be a - doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call.” - </p> - <p> - Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busy - breakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in the - conversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, some - train of thought which he did not explain: “I hear that you are to lunch - with the Seguins next Thursday,” said he. “Ah! poor little woman! That is - a terrible affair of hers.” - </p> - <p> - With a gesture he expressed his feelings concerning the drama that had - just upset the Seguins’ household. Valentine, like Marianne, was to become - a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husband had given - way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, they had - continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spent her days - on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor’s life. It - was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes that Marianne, on - the occasion of her visit to the Seguins, might bring some good influence - to bear on them. - </p> - <p> - He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack which had - all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedly rising - from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, and now they - opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found the twins upon - his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round the waist and the - little girl clung to his legs. - </p> - <p> - “Puff! puff! do the railway train, do the railway train, please do.” - </p> - <p> - They pushed and shook him, amid peal after peal of flute-like laughter, - while their father and mother rushed to his assistance, scolding and - angry. But he calmed the parents by saying: “Let them be! they are simply - wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, you know, since, - as our friend Beauchene says, it is a little bit my fault if they are in - the world. What charms me with your children is that they enjoy such good - health, just like their mother. For the present, at all events, one can - ask nothing more of them.” - </p> - <p> - When he had set them down on the floor, and given each a smacking kiss, he - took hold of Marianne’s hands and said to her that everything was going on - beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off, escorted to - the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting and laughing gayly. - </p> - <p> - Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order that - Marianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had been - dressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcely - more than one o’clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de la - Federation and found itself upon the quays. - </p> - <p> - This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and the densely - populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspect all its - own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almost deserted - streets running at right angles and fringed by factories with lofty, - interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes along these - streets, and on raising one’s head one sees only lofty chimneys belching - forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings with dusty window - panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be open one may espy deep - yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. The only sounds are the - strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumbling of machinery, and the - sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the carts to the pavement. But on - Sundays the factories do not work, and the district then falls into - death-like silence. In summer time there is but bright sunshine heating - the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden wind rushing down the lonely - streets. The population of Grenelle is said to be the worst of Paris, both - the most vicious and the most wretched. The neighborhood of the Ecole - Militaire attracts thither a swarm of worthless women, who bring in their - train all the scum of the populace. In contrast to all this the gay - bourgeois district of Passy rises up across the Seine; while the rich - aristocratic quarters of the Invalides and the Faubourg St. Germain spread - out close by. Thus the Beauchene works on the quay, as their owner - laughingly said, turned their back upon misery and looked towards all the - prosperity and gayety of this world. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu was very partial to the avenues, planted with fine trees, which - radiate from the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides, supplying - great gaps for air and sunlight. But he was particularly fond of that long - diversified Quai d’Orsay, which starts from the Rue du Bac in the very - centre of the city, passes before the Palais Bourbon, crosses first the - Esplanade des Invalides, and then the Champ de Mars, to end at the - Boulevard de Grenelle, in the black factory region. How majestically it - spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were round that bend of the - Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden of the Eiffel Tower! The - river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; the avenue stretches out - under superb foliage. You can really saunter there amid delicious - quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm and power of Paris. - </p> - <p> - It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little ones - that Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety was felt - respecting Rose’s little legs. She was intrusted to Ambroise, who, - although the youngest of the boys, was already energetic and determined. - These two opened the march; then came Blaise and Denis, the twins, the - parents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well: - they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winter - afternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very cold in - the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of bright light. - There were a great many people out of doors—all the idle folks, clad - in their Sunday best, whom the faintest sunshine draws in crowds to the - promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herself up as - if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed the whole - extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And her three - brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneath their - steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In other cities - of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by four children - would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectacle was so - unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and even compassion were - exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if they did not actually - hear, these comments, but they cared nothing for them. They bravely went - their way, smiling at one another, and feeling convinced that the course - they had taken in life was the right one, whatever other folks might think - or say. - </p> - <p> - It was three o’clock when they turned their steps homeward; and Marianne, - feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa in the - drawing-room, where Zoe had previously lighted a good fire. The children, - quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, listening to a tale - which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitor was announced. This - proved to be Constance, who, after driving out with Maurice, had thought - of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom she saw only once or twice a - week, although the little pavilion was merely separated by a garden from - the large house on the quay. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! are you poorly, my dear?” she inquired as she entered the room and - perceived Marianne on the sofa. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! dear, no,” replied the other, “but I have been out walking for the - last two hours and am now taking some rest.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife’s rich, vain cousin, - who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appear amiable. She - apologized for not being able to call more frequently, and explained what - a number of duties she had to discharge as mistress of her home. Meantime - Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round her petticoats, gazing from a - distance at the other children, who one and all returned his scrutiny. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Maurice,” exclaimed his mother, “don’t you wish your little cousins - good-day?” - </p> - <p> - He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all five remained - embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunity to - quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost out of - their element in the presence of this young Parisian with bourgeois - manners. - </p> - <p> - “And are all your little folks quite well?” resumed Constance, who, with - her sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. “Ambroise has - grown; his elder brothers also look very strong.” - </p> - <p> - Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice’s advantage. The - latter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion. - Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full of irony, - disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Marianne was - likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of her - disapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever. - </p> - <p> - Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussed the - subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. She inquired - after Beauchene. “And Alexandre,” said she, “why did you not bring him - with you? I haven’t seen him for a week!” - </p> - <p> - “Why,” broke in Mathieu, “I told you he had gone shooting yesterday - evening. He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled, - so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won’t - be home till to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! yes, I remember now. Well, it’s nice weather to be in the woods.” - </p> - <p> - This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted having - broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchene might - really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availed himself so - often of this pretext to absent himself from home that Constance was - doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of that household, whose - union was so perfect, she was determined to show a brave front. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you know,” said she, “it is I who compel him to go about and take - as much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the open - air. Shooting is very good for him.” - </p> - <p> - At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing - another visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the room, - with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight of Madame - Beauchene, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model of wealth and - distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance, however, profited - by the diversion of Valerie’s arrival to declare that she unfortunately - could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be waiting for her at - home. - </p> - <p> - “Well, at all events, leave us Maurice,” suggested Mathieu. “Here’s Reine - here now, and all six children can play a little while together. I will - bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack.” - </p> - <p> - But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother’s skirts. - And she refused the invitation. “Oh! no, no!” said she. “He has to keep to - a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away from home. - Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after you all in passing. - Keep well; good-by.” - </p> - <p> - Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valerie, but simply shaking - hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other - considered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiled - at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful that day - in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy black - tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed to be - the latter’s younger sister. - </p> - <p> - Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: “Come and kiss me, my - dear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautiful - and tall. How old is she?” - </p> - <p> - “Nearly thirteen,” Valerie replied. - </p> - <p> - She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu - noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes. - After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries, - and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, she - relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who thanked - her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave her with - his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on her mind, and - perhaps she wished to make a confidante of Marianne. - </p> - <p> - “My dear Reine,” said he, “come with these little ones into the - dining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay the - cloth.” - </p> - <p> - This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the children - trooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later, - when everything was ready there, and Valerie came in, the latter’s eyes - looked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, when - Mathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was. Morange’s - scheme of leaving the Beauchene works and entering the service of the - Credit National, where he would speedily rise to a high and lucrative - position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry and marrying her off to - advantage—all the ambitious dreams of rank and wealth in which his - wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihood of fulfilment, since it - seemed probable that Valerie might again have a child. Both she and her - husband were in despair over it, and though Marianne had done her utmost - to pacify her friend and reconcile her to circumstances, there were - reasons to fear that in her distracted condition she might do something - desperate. - </p> - <p> - Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Seguins du Hordel at - the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d’Antin, they came upon similar - trouble there. Seguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple to - accuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite a - bachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had never - fully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like a - fire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night at - his club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ring at - every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society and - appeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite and - jealousy upon his ailing wife. - </p> - <p> - She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferred against - her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part to give up - her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as long as possible. - And now she was really very ill, haunted too by an unreasoning, - irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. Mathieu, who had seen - her but a few months previously looking so fair and fresh, was amazed to - find her such a wreck. And on her side Valentine gazed, all astonishment, - at Marianne, noticing with surprise how calm and strong the young woman - seemed, and how limpid her clear and smiling eyes remained. - </p> - <p> - On the day of the Froments’ visit Seguin had gone out early in the - morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch was - for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Celeste, the maid, - entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was - stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine - turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied: - </p> - <p> - “No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my village - is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, Sophie Couteau, - La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings nurses to Paris?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what of it?” exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering Celeste - to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be disturbed - in this manner. - </p> - <p> - “Well, madame, she’s here; and as I told you before, if you would intrust - her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for you in - the country, and bring her here whenever she’s wanted.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained ajar, and - scarcely had Celeste finished than, without waiting for an invitation, she - boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened woman, with - certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her frequent journeys - to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed nose went her long - face was not unpleasant, but its expression of good nature was marred by - her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of artfulness and cupidity. Her - gown of dark woollen stuff, her black cape, black mittens, and black cap - with yellow ribbons, gave her the appearance of a respectable countrywoman - going to mass in her Sunday best. - </p> - <p> - “Have you been a nurse?” Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, madame,” replied La Couteau, “but that was ten years ago, when I was - only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn’t likely to make much money by - remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring - others to Paris.” - </p> - <p> - As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those - who give their services as wet nurses to bourgeois families are simply - fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much on - the point, and so she added: “But one does what one can, eh, madame? The - doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so I thought - that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another manner.” - </p> - <p> - “And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more - particularly Madame Broquette’s office in the Rue Roquepine. It’s a very - respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived—And so, - if you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you—the - pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you can - rely on me.” - </p> - <p> - As her mistress did not immediately reply, Celeste ventured to intervene, - and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had called that - day. - </p> - <p> - “When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes a - baby with her, sometimes a nurse’s child, and sometimes the child of - people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she - takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now - came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby - she is to take away with her.” - </p> - <p> - Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the - neighborhood and a great friend of Celeste’s. She had married a former - soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty francs - a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, and had - bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled their income, - in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at their ease. - Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to spend hours - gossiping in Madame Menoux’s little shop, was forever being scolded for - this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full of anxiety and - curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud at being - questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux’s baby was a fine - little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a certain Madame - Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher. - </p> - <p> - “It was I who recommended her,” continued the servant, “for a friend of - mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt - she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome a - place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very - kind and obliging.” - </p> - <p> - Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu’s eyes - were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself, made her - feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no confidence in this - big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who, it seemed to him, - knew far too much. - </p> - <p> - Marianne joined in the conversation. “But why,” asked she, “why does not - this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor, - who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to - prevent others from doing business. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! it’s impossible,” exclaimed Celeste, well pleased with the diversion. - “Madame Menoux’s shop is no bigger than my pocket-handkerchief, and at the - back of it there is only one little room where she and her husband take - their meals and sleep. And that room, too, overlooks a tiny courtyard - where one can neither see nor breathe. The baby would not live a week in - such a place. And, besides, Madame Menoux would not have time to attend to - the child. She has never had a servant, and what with waiting on customers - and having to cook meals in time for her husband’s return from the museum, - she never has a moment to spare. Oh! if she could, she would be very happy - to keep the little fellow with her.” - </p> - <p> - “It is true,” said Marianne sadly; “there are some poor mothers whom I - pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and - yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be able - to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown spot - and given to another woman.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. Assuming - the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which she always - put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: “Oh, Rougemont is - such a very pretty place. And then it’s not far from Bayeux, so that folks - are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, too, that people come - there to recruit their health. And, besides, the little ones who are - confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. One would have to be - heartless to do otherwise than love such little angels.” - </p> - <p> - However, like Celeste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how - significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her rustic - ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. Besides, of - what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the region, since - that lady, Madame Seguin, wished to have a nurse at her house? So she - resumed: “Then it’s understood, madame, I will bring you the best we have, - a real treasure.” - </p> - <p> - Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found - strength to speak out. “No, no, I won’t pledge myself in advance. I will - send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if there - is one to suit me.” - </p> - <p> - Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to - Marianne, and asked: “Shall you nurse your baby yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on - that point, my husband and I.” - </p> - <p> - “No doubt. I understand you: I should much like to do the same myself; but - it is impossible.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau had remained there motionless, vexed at having come on a - fruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she would - have earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all her - spite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, was - evidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, at a - sign which Celeste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in the - company of the maid. - </p> - <p> - A few minutes afterwards, Seguin arrived, and, repairing to the - dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious - meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and white - Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and Marianne - would never have met with Dr. Boutan’s approval; but Seguin declared the - doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could ever please. - </p> - <p> - He, Seguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day to - be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and even - galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at times that - tears came to the unfortunate woman’s eyes. Now that he scarcely set foot - in the house he complained that everything was going wrong there. If he - spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him, entirely his wife’s - fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon earth. And in - everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place remark, he found - an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu and Marianne - extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a harsh expression - that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to apologize. At heart he - feared her, especially when the blood of the Vaugelades arose within her, - and she gave him to understand, in her haughty disdainful way, that she - would some day revenge herself on him for his treatment. - </p> - <p> - However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last - turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the game - in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such wise - that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that his - income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret of - the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could he - possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile - plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel? - </p> - <p> - Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks in the - summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. “Are you really of - opinion that it cannot be cultivated?” he asked. “It’s pitiful to see all - that land lying waste and idle.” - </p> - <p> - “Cultivate it!” cried Seguin. “Ah! I should like to see such a miracle! - The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs.” - </p> - <p> - They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table - Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss - her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on - account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors arrived - in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the novelist, - who of late had seldom called on the Seguins, and the other, much to - Mathieu’s dislike, proved to be Beauchene’s sister, Seraphine, the - Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, provoking, - significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly glance of mocking - contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the novelist between them soon - turned the conversation on to subjects that appealed to their vicious - tastes. And Santerre related that he had lately seen Doctor Gaude perform - several operations at the Marbeuf Hospital. He had found there the usual - set of society men who attend first performances at the theatres, and - indeed there were also some women present. - </p> - <p> - And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most precise - particulars, much to the delight of Seguin, who every now and again - interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne grew - more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with amazement at - Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to the evident - enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last book, that - love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with its theories - of the annihilation of the human species. And she at last glanced at - Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the semi-society and - semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would like to go off - home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the sunlit quays. He, - for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity rife amid those - wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it was indeed time to - take leave. - </p> - <p> - “What! are you going already!” Valentine then exclaimed. “Well, I dare not - detain you if you feel tired.” However, when Marianne begged her to kiss - the children for her, she added: “Why, yes, it’s true you have not seen - them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself.” - </p> - <p> - But when Celeste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced that - Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their governess. - And this made Seguin explode once more. All his rancor against his wife - revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She spent her days lying on - a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave to go out with the - children without saying anything? One could not even see the children now - in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of things. They were left to - the servants; in fact, it was the servants now who controlled the house. - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Valentine began to cry. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself - out of doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was - leaning on his arm; “why, they are quite mad, the people in that house.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” Mathieu responded, “they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity them, - for they know not what happiness is.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VI - </h2> - <p> - ABOUT nine o’clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as - Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered near - his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated the - pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, clad in - furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchene, who was - accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and - victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife: - </p> - <p> - “Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the fresh - air he can. There’s nothing like that and good food to make a man.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. “Has Maurice been poorly again?” - he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no!” hastily replied the boy’s mother, with an appearance of great - gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain covert - fears. “Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so fine this - morning that we are going off on quite an expedition.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t go along the quays,” said Beauchene again. “Go up towards the - Invalides. He’ll have much stiffer marching to do when he’s a soldier.” - </p> - <p> - Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went back - into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: “That - youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so - nervous. For my part, I’m quite easy in mind about him, as you can see.” - And with a laugh he concluded: “When one has but one son, he keeps him.” - </p> - <p> - That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke out - between old Moineaud’s daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the factory - into a state of commotion. Norine’s intrigue with Beauchene had ended in - the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken himself to some - other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her shame, and all the - consequences of her fault; for although it had hitherto been possible for - her to conceal her condition from her parents, she was unable to deceive - her sister, who was her constant companion. The two girls were always - bickering, and Norine had for some time lived in dread of scandal and - exposure. And that day the trouble came to a climax, beginning with a - trivial dispute about a bit of glass-paper in the workroom, then - developing into a furious exchange of coarse, insulting language, and - culminating in a frantic outburst from Euphrasie, who shrieked to the - assembled work-girls all that she knew about her sister. - </p> - <p> - There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and scratching - one another desperately, and could not be separated until Beauchene, - Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, rushed into - the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for Beauchene, - Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after giving her - employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old Moineaud was - present, and the public revelation of his daughter’s shame sent him into a - fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and threatened to - throw her out of window should he find her at home when he returned there - in the evening. And Beauchene, both annoyed at the scandal and ashamed at - being the primary cause of it, did not venture to interfere. It was only - after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing that he found strength of - mind to attempt to pacify the father, and assert his authority in the - workroom by threatening to dismiss one and all of the girls if the - slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should ever occur there again. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What - most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchene regained his - self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which he - withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring order. - Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom Mathieu, - to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, as if indeed he - had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy business. But - Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for other reasons. The - scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine’s condition, the fate - awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, icy streets, had revived all - his own poignant worries with respect to Valerie. Mathieu had already - heard of the latter’s trouble from his wife, and he speedily grasped the - accountant’s meaning. It vaguely seemed to him also that Morange was - yielding to the same unreasoning despair as Valerie, and was almost - willing that she should take the desperate course which she had hinted to - Marianne. But it was a very serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to be - in any way mixed up in it. Having tried his best to pacify the cashier, he - sought forgetfulness of these painful incidents in his work. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cecile Moineaud, the old fitter’s - youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from her - mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood that the - woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual compassionate - way he consented to go. The interview took place in one of the adjacent - streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La Moineaude was - there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, a child eight - years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly while begging - Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and was in a position - to approach Beauchene on the subject. La Moineaude was firmly determined - to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his future and that of her - son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; for there was no telling - what might happen if Beauchene’s name should be mentioned. Life was indeed - hard enough already, and what would become of them all should the family - bread-winners be turned away from the factory? Norine certainly had no - legal claim on Beauchene, the law being peremptory on that point; but, now - that she had lost her employment, and was driven from home by her father, - could he leave her to die of want in the streets? The girl tried to - enforce her moral claim by asserting that she had always been virtuous - before meeting Beauchene. In any case, her lot remained a very hard one. - That Beauchene was the father of her child there could be no doubt; and at - last Mathieu, without promising success, told the mother that he would do - all he could in the matter. - </p> - <p> - He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of difficulty - he succeeded. At first Beauchene fumed, stormed, denied, equivocated, - almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of blackmail, and put on - all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart the matter greatly worried - him. What if Norine or her mother should go to his wife? Constance might - close her eyes as long as she simply suspected things, but if complaints - were formally, openly made to her, there would be a terrible scandal. On - the other hand, however, should he do anything for the girl, it would - become known, and everybody would regard him as responsible. And then - there would be no end to what he called the blackmailing. - </p> - <p> - However, when Beauchene reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle - was gained. He smiled and answered: “Of course, one can never tell—the - girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond - endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that she - made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; she - simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak - weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my - opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at a - proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before she - is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred francs - in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after.” - </p> - <p> - Beauchene walked nervously up and down, and then replied: “Well, I haven’t - a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will not - inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because the mere - idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. But if it’s a - question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must be understood, - however, that I won’t mix myself up in anything; I wish even to remain - ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl where you please, - and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor less.” - </p> - <p> - Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from - this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge. And - once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who is - certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even jested - about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions: “See that - my conditions are fully understood. I don’t want to know anything about - any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear another word of - the matter.” - </p> - <p> - That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening there - was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they were about - to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon the floor. - Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could be revived, and - meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted, accusing one - another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that morning in such - cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish outing which had - chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one another by way of - quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her boy in her arms, - pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first time that she might - possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a terrible heart-pang, and - a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so acute that it was like a - revelation. The ambitious woman that was in her, she who dreamt of royalty - for that only son, the future princely owner of the ever-growing family - fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If she was to lose that son she would - have no child left. Why had she none other? Was it not she who had willed - it thus? At this thought a feeling of desperate regret shot through her - like a red-hot blade, burning her cruelly to the very depths of her being. - Maurice, however, at last recovered consciousness, and even sat down to - the table and ate with a fair appetite. Then Beauchene immediately - shrugged his shoulders, and began to jest about the unreasoning fears of - women. And as time went by Constance herself ceased to think of the - incident. - </p> - <p> - On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which he - had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Celeste, the maid, had - spoken on the day of his visit to the Seguins. He at first dismissed all - idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken so strangely, but - he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame Bourdieu, who - accommodated boarders at the little house where she resided in the Rue de - Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this woman had attended Madame - Morange at the time of Reine’s birth, a circumstance which induced him to - question the cashier. - </p> - <p> - At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. “Yes, a lady - friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife,” said he; “but why do you - ask me?” - </p> - <p> - And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, as if - that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu’s name signified that the young - fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he had been - abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim, haunting - thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his mind, without - as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at that moment. At all - events, he turned pale and his lips trembled. - </p> - <p> - Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of placing - Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him. - </p> - <p> - “My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning,” he - began. “Oh! I don’t know how it happened, but, as you are aware, Reine was - born so many years ago that I can’t give you any precise information. It - seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the head of a - first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no doubt you - will find what you want there.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been warned - that Madame Bourdieu’s terms were rather high, he stifled his prejudices - and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to reconnoitre Madame - Rouche’s establishment and make some inquiries of her. The mere aspect of - the place chilled him. It was one of the black houses of old Paris, with a - dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into a small yard which the nurse’s - few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the passage entrance was a yellow - signboard which simply bore the name of Madame Rouche in big letters. She - herself proved to be a person of five- or six-and-thirty, gowned in black - and spare of figure, with a leaden complexion, scanty hair of no precise - color, and a big nose of unusual prominence. With her low, drawling - speech, her prudent, cat-like gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her - to be a dangerous, unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the - accommodation at her disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a - limited time, and this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. - Glad to have done with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and - vaguely frightened by what he had seen of the place. - </p> - <p> - On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu’s establishment, a little three-storied - house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boetie and the Rue de - Penthievre, offered an engaging aspect, with its bright facade and - muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then two-and-thirty, rather - short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white face, which had greatly - helped her on the road to success. She expatiated to Mathieu on the - preliminary training that was required by one of her profession, the cost - of it, the efforts needed to make a position, the responsibilities, the - inspections, the worries of all sorts that she had to face; and she - plainly told the young man that her charge for a boarder would be two - hundred francs a month. This was far more than he was empowered to give; - however, after some further conversation, when Madame Bourdieu learnt that - it was a question of four months’ board, she became more accommodating, - and agreed to accept a round sum of six hundred francs for the entire - period, provided that the person for whom Mathieu was acting would consent - to occupy a three-bedded room with two other boarders. - </p> - <p> - Altogether there were about a dozen boarders’ rooms in the house, some of - these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for which - were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could - accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some - five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the - regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say - who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely - known by some Christian name which they chose to give. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu’s terms, and that same - evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble ensued - with Beauchene, who protested when he learnt that five hundred francs - would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu managed affairs - so diplomatically that at last the other not only became reconciled to the - terms, but provided the money to purchase a little linen, and even agreed - to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten francs a month. Thus, five - days after Norine had entered Madame Bourdieu’s establishment, Mathieu - decided to return thither to hand the girl her first ten francs and tell - her that he had settled everything. - </p> - <p> - He found her there in the boarders’ refectory with some of her companions - in the house—a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with - lifeless eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale - red-haired girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as - Victoire. Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering to - the name of Rosine, a jeweller’s daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, whose - story was at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while waiting to - see Madame Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a time answering Norine’s - questions, and listening to the others, who conversed before him in a free - and open way. His heart was wrung by much that he heard, and as soon as he - could rid himself of Norine he returned to the waiting-room, eager to - complete his business. There, however, two women who wished to consult - Madame Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by side on a sofa, told him - that she was still engaged, so that he was compelled to tarry a little - longer. He ensconced himself in a large armchair, and taking a newspaper - from his pocket, began to read it. But he had not been thus occupied for - many minutes before the door opened and a servant entered, ushering in a - lady dressed in black and thickly veiled, whom she asked to be good enough - to wait her turn. Mathieu was on the point of rising, for, though his back - was turned to the door, he could see, in a looking-glass, that the new - arrival was none other than Morange’s wife, Valerie. After a moment’s - hesitation, however, the sight of her black gown and thick veil, which - seemed to indicate that she desired to escape recognition, induced him to - dive back into his armchair and feign extreme attention to his newspaper. - She, on her side, had certainly not noticed him, but by glancing slantwise - towards the looking-glass he could observe all her movements. - </p> - <p> - Meantime the conversation between the other women on the sofa continued, - and to Mathieu’s surprise it suddenly turned on Madame Rouche, concerning - whom one of them began telling the most horrible stories, which fully - confirmed the young man’s previous suspicions. These stories seemed to - have a powerful fascination for Valerie, who sat in a corner, never - stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her head towards - the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect her big eyes - glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one of the others - inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Rouche resided, and - the other replied, “At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.” - </p> - <p> - Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made her - appearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchanged - only a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in his armchair, - the high back of which concealed him from view, Valerie rose from her seat - and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room. - </p> - <p> - As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon his - knees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he had heard, - both there and in Norine’s company, and shuddering at the thought of the - dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long an interval - elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly roused by a sound - of voices. - </p> - <p> - Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door. She had the same - plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the - other was quivering, as with distress and grief. “You are not sensible, my - dear child,” said Madame Bourdieu to her. “It is simply foolish of you. - Come, go home and be good.” - </p> - <p> - Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu - was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. And - she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken in - his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival of - Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly settled - his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would return - some day to see her. - </p> - <p> - To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La Boetie, - when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of that - street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none other than - her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her in the - street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they both stood - there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress. It was - plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them. They - stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then halted - once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At one moment the - young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue La Boetie, - they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in the direction of - Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more and exchanged a few words; - and then Mathieu’s heart contracted as he saw them retrace their steps - along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue de la Pepiniere as far as the - Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whither they were going, but some - irresistible force impelled him to follow them; and before long, from an - open doorway, in which he prudently concealed himself, he saw them look - round to ascertain whether they were observed, and then slink, first the - wife and afterwards the husband, into the dark passage of La Rouche’s - house. For a moment Mathieu lingered in his hiding-place, quivering, full - of dread and horror; and when at last he turned his steps homeward it was - with a heavy heart indeed. - </p> - <p> - The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round, - when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that day—things - which he had vainly striven to forget—was revived in the most - startling fashion. One morning at eight o’clock Morange abruptly called at - the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompanied by his - daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and as soon as - Reine had joined Mathieu’s children, and could not hear what he said, he - implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he told the dreadful - truth—Valerie was dying. Her daughter believed her to be in the - country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl. Valerie was - elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting below, but lacked - the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was his grief, so great - his dread. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first told - the cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he had - informed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happened to - the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And then the two - men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, and there - found the hapless Valerie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icy cold. - Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell upon his knees - at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also felt death’s heavy - hand upon him. - </p> - <p> - For a moment, indeed, the young man anticipated exposure and scandal. But - when he hinted this to La Rouche she faintly smiled. She had friends on - many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valerie’s death at the - municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify the demise, - would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usual practice! - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu bethought himself of leading Morange away; but the other, - still plunged in painful stupor, did not heed him. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, my friend, I pray you, say nothing,” he at last replied, in a - very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate - woman who had fallen asleep forever. “I know what I have done; I shall - never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet I - adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too - much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness came - upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and dissuaded - her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as for me, it is - all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself.” - </p> - <p> - All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this confession - of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation, never rose in - a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being, which would - evermore be void. “She wished to be gay, and rich, and happy,” he - continued. “It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she was so - intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to content - her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat. We spent far - too much money on it. Then came that story of the Credit National and the - hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the trouble came, and I - saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce all her dreams, I - became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her will. We thought that - our only means of escaping from everlasting penury and drudgery was to - evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there.” - </p> - <p> - Morange’s lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to - violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent - Mathieu’s heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes!” said the other, “I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her - mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won’t you? Tell - her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful - misfortune. And don’t worry me, I beg you, don’t take me away. I promise - you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her. - Nobody will even hear me; I shan’t disturb any one.” - </p> - <p> - Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases as - he sank into a dream of his wrecked life. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him - there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was - indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and to - breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle. - Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast sky, - all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose before him - like a consolatory promise of life’s coming victory, an atonement for - every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting hope kept full - of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her pangs, love would - triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness for to-morrow’s - allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that Mathieu almost - despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little house, that he might - once more take part in life’s poem, that august festival instinct with so - much suffering and so much joy, humanity’s everlasting hymn, the coming of - a new being into the world. - </p> - <p> - That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose, - and Reine were sent round to the Beauchenes’, where they filled the house - with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, and had to - lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in the play of - the others. “He has pains in his legs,” said his father to Mathieu, when - he came round to inquire after Marianne; “he’s growing so fast, and - getting such a big fellow, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face - remained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt the - passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had made - Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in her - arms. - </p> - <p> - But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne’s room to answer - Beauchene’s inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now found the - sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new life. - While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to him: “It - is a boy.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautiful - eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already - smiling with happiness. - </p> - <p> - “Dear, dear wife,” said Mathieu, “how good and brave you are, and how I - love you!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, I am very happy,” she faltered, “and I must try to give you - back all the love that you give me.” - </p> - <p> - Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant - glory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy - suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming - future. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the faint - cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life’s immense treasure was increased and - eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring night when, - yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature had streamed - into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around him amid equal - rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting the poem of - eternal life that sprang from love the eternal. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VII - </h2> - <p> - “I TELL you that I don’t need Zoe to give the child a bath,” exclaimed - Mathieu half in anger. “Stay in bed, and rest yourself!” - </p> - <p> - “But the servant must get the bath ready,” replied Marianne, “and bring - you some warm water.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed as if amused by the dispute, and he ended by laughing also. - </p> - <p> - Two days previously they had re-installed themselves in the little - pavilion on the verge of the woods near Janville which they rented from - the Seguins. So impatient, indeed, were they to find themselves once more - among the fields that in spite of the doctor’s advice Marianne had made - the journey but fifteen days after giving birth to her little boy. - However, a precocious springtide brought with it that March such balmy - warmth and sunshine that the only ill-effect she experienced was a little - fatigue. And so, on the day after their arrival—Sunday—Mathieu, - glad at being able to remain with her, insisted that she should rest in - bed, and only rise about noon, in time for dejeuner. - </p> - <p> - “Why,” he repeated, “I can very well attend to the child while you rest. - You have him in your arms from morning till night. And, besides, if you - only knew how pleased I am to be here again with you and the dear little - fellow.” - </p> - <p> - He approached her to kiss her gently, and with a fresh laugh she returned - his kiss. It was quite true: they were both delighted to be back at - Chantebled, which recalled to them such loving memories. That room, - looking towards the far expanse of sky and all the countryside, renascent, - quivering with sap, was gilded with gayety by the early springtide. - </p> - <p> - Marianne leant over the cradle which was near her, beside the bed. “The - fact is,” said she, “Master Gervais is sound asleep. Just look at him. You - will never have the heart to wake him.” - </p> - <p> - Then both father and mother remained for a moment gazing at their sleeping - child. Marianne had passed her arm round her husband’s neck and was - clinging to him, as they laughed delightedly over the cradle in which the - little one slumbered. He was a fine child, pink and white already; but - only a father and mother could thus contemplate their offspring. As the - baby opened his eyes, which were still full of all the mystery whence he - had come, they raised exclamations full of emotion. - </p> - <p> - “You know, he saw me!” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, and me too. He looked at me: he turned his head.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the cherub!” - </p> - <p> - It was but an illusion, but that dear little face, still so soft and - silent, told them so many things which none other would have heard! They - found themselves repeated in the child, mingled as it were together; and - detected extraordinary likenesses, which for hours and for days kept them - discussing the question as to which of them he most resembled. Moreover, - each proved very obstinate, declaring that he was the living portrait of - the other. - </p> - <p> - As a matter of course, Master Gervais had no sooner opened his eyes than - he began to shriek. But Marianne was pitiless: her rule was the bath first - and milk afterwards. Zoe brought up a big jug of hot water, and then set - out the little bath near the window in the sunlight. And Mathieu, all - obstinacy, bathed the child, washing him with a soft sponge for some three - minutes, while Marianne, from her bed, watched over the operation, jesting - about the delicacy of touch that he displayed, as if the child were some - fragile new-born divinity whom he feared to bruise with his big hands. At - the same time they continued marvelling at the delightful scene. How - pretty he looked in the water, his pink skin shining in the sunlight! And - how well-behaved he was, for it was wonderful to see how quickly he ceased - wailing and gave signs of satisfaction when he felt the all-enveloping - caress of the warm water. Never had father and mother possessed such a - little treasure. - </p> - <p> - “And now,” said Mathieu, when Zoe had helped him to wipe the boy with a - fine cloth, “and now we will weigh Master Gervais.” - </p> - <p> - This was a complicated operation, which was rendered the more difficult by - the extreme repugnance that the child displayed. He struggled and wriggled - on the platform of the weighing scales to such a degree that it was - impossible to arrive at his correct weight, in order to ascertain how much - this had increased since the previous occasion. As a rule, the increase - varied from six to seven ounces a week. The father generally lost patience - over the operation, and the mother had to intervene. - </p> - <p> - “Here! put the scales on the table near my bed, and give me the little one - in his napkin. We will see what the napkin weighs afterwards.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment, however, the customary morning invasion took place. The - other four children, who were beginning to know how to dress themselves, - the elder ones helping the younger, and Zoe lending a hand at times, - darted in at a gallop, like frolicsome escaped colts. Having thrown - themselves on papa’s neck and rushed upon mamma’s bed to say good-morning, - the boys stopped short, full of admiration and interest at the sight of - Gervais in the scales. Rose, however, still rather uncertain on her legs, - caught hold of the scales in her impatient efforts to climb upon the bed, - and almost toppled everything over. “I want to see! I want to see!” she - cried in her shrill voice. - </p> - <p> - At this the others likewise wished to meddle, and already stretched out - their little hands, so that it became necessary to turn them out of doors. - </p> - <p> - “Now kindly oblige me by going to play outside,” said Mathieu. “Take your - hats and remain under the window, so that we may hear you.” - </p> - <p> - Then, in spite of the complaints and leaps of Master Gervais, Marianne was - at last able to obtain his correct weight. And what delight there was, for - he had gained more than seven ounces during the week. After losing weight - during the first three days, like all new-born children, he was now - growing and filling out like a strong, healthy human plant. They could - already picture him walking, sturdy and handsome. His mother, sitting up - in bed, wrapped his swaddling clothes around him with her deft, nimble - hands, jesting the while and answering each of his plaintive wails. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, I know, we are very, very hungry. But it is all right; the soup - is on the fire, and will be served to Monsieur smoking hot.” - </p> - <p> - On awakening that morning she had made a real Sunday toilette: her superb - hair was caught up in a huge chignon which disclosed the whiteness of her - neck, and she wore a white flannel lace-trimmed dressing-jacket, which - allowed but a little of her bare arms to be seen. Propped up by two - pillows, she laughingly offered her breast to the child, who was already - protruding his lips and groping with his hands. And when he found what he - wanted he eagerly began to suck. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, seeing that both mother and babe were steeped in sunshine, then - went to draw one of the curtains, but Marianne exclaimed: “No, no, leave - us the sun; it doesn’t inconvenience us at all, it fills our veins with - springtide.” - </p> - <p> - He came back and lingered near the bed. The sun’s rays poured over it, and - life blazed there in a florescence of health and beauty. There is no more - glorious blossoming, no more sacred symbol of living eternity than an - infant at its mother’s breast. It is like a prolongation of maternity’s - travail, when the mother continues giving herself to her babe, offering - him the fountain of life that shall make him a man. - </p> - <p> - Scarce is he born to the world than she takes him back and clasps him to - her bosom, that he may there again have warmth and nourishment. And - nothing could be more simple or more necessary. Marianne, both for her own - sake and that of her boy, in order that beauty and health might remain - their portion, was naturally his nurse. - </p> - <p> - Little Gervais was still sucking when Zoe, after tidying the room, came up - again with a big bunch of lilac, and announced that Monsieur and Madame - Angelin had called, on their way back from an early walk, to inquire after - Madame. - </p> - <p> - “Show them up,” said Marianne gayly; “I can well receive them.” - </p> - <p> - The Angelins were the young couple who, having installed themselves in a - little house at Janville, ever roamed the lonely paths, absorbed in their - mutual passion. She was delicious—dark, tall, admirably formed, - always joyous and fond of pleasure. He, a handsome fellow, fair and square - shouldered, had the gallant mien of a musketeer with his streaming - moustache. In addition to their ten thousand francs a year, which enabled - them to live as they liked, he earned a little money by painting pretty - fans, flowery with roses and little women deftly postured. And so their - life had hitherto been a game of love, an everlasting billing and cooing. - Towards the close of the previous summer they had become quite intimate - with the Froments, through meeting them well-nigh every day. - </p> - <p> - “Can we come in? Are we not intruding?” called Angelin, in his sonorous - voice, from the landing. - </p> - <p> - Then Claire, his wife, as soon as she had kissed Marianne, apologized for - having called so early. - </p> - <p> - “We only learnt last night, my dear,” said she, “that you had arrived the - day before. We didn’t expect you for another eight or ten days. And so, as - we passed the house just now, we couldn’t resist calling. You will forgive - us, won’t you?” Then, never waiting for an answer, she added with the - petulant vivacity of a tom-tit whom the open air had intoxicated: “Oh! so - there is the new little gentleman—a boy, am I not right? And your - health is good? But really I need not ask it. <i>Mon Dieu</i>, what a - pretty little fellow he is! Look at him, Robert; how pretty he is! A real - little doll! Isn’t he funny now, isn’t he funny! He is quite amusing.” - </p> - <p> - Her husband, observing her gayety, drew near and began to admire the child - by way of following her example. “Ah yes, he is really a pretty baby. But - I have seen so many frightful ones—thin, puny, bluish little things, - looking like little plucked chickens. When they are white and plump they - are quite nice.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu began to laugh, and twitted the Angelins on having no child of - their own. But on this point they held very decided opinions. They wished - to enjoy life, unburdened by offspring, while they were young. As for what - might happen in five or six years’ time, that, of course, was another - matter. Nevertheless, Madame Angelin could not help being struck by the - delightful picture which Marianne, so fresh and gay, presented with her - plump little babe at her breast in that white bed amid the bright - sunshine. - </p> - <p> - At last she remarked: “There’s one thing. I certainly could not feed a - child. I should have to engage a nurse for any baby of mine.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course!” her husband replied. “I would never allow you to feed it. It - would be idiotic.” - </p> - <p> - These words had scarcely passed his lips when he regretted them and - apologized to Marianne, explaining that no mother possessed of means was - nowadays willing to face the trouble and worry of nursing. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! for my part,” Marianne responded, with her quiet smile, “if I had a - hundred thousand francs a year I should nurse all my children, even were - there a dozen of them. To begin with, it is so healthful, you know, both - for mother and child: and if I didn’t do my duty to the little one I - should look on myself as a criminal, as a mother who grudged her offspring - health and life.” - </p> - <p> - Lowering her beautiful soft eyes towards her boy, she watched him with a - look of infinite love, while he continued nursing gluttonously. And in a - dreamy voice she continued: “To give a child of mine to another—oh - no, never! I should feel too jealous. I want my children to be entirely my - own. And it isn’t merely a question of a child’s physical health. I speak - of his whole being, of the intelligence and heart that will come to him, - and which he ought to derive from me alone. If I should find him foolish - or malicious later on, I should think that his nurse had poisoned him. - Dear little fellow! when he pulls like that it is as if he were drinking - me up entirely.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu, deeply moved, turned towards the others, saying: “Ah! she is - quite right. I only wish that every mother could hear her, and make it the - fashion in France once more to suckle their infants. It would be - sufficient if it became an ideal of beauty. And, indeed, is it not of the - loftiest and brightest beauty?” - </p> - <p> - The Angelins complaisantly began to laugh, but they did not seem - convinced. Just as they rose to take their leave an extraordinary uproar - burst forth beneath the window, the piercing clamor of little wildings, - freely romping in the fields. And it was all caused by Ambroise throwing a - ball, which had lodged itself on a tree. Blaise and Denis were flinging - stones at it to bring it down, and Rose called and jumped and stretched - out her arms as if she hoped to be able to reach the ball. The Angelins - stopped short, surprised and almost nervous. - </p> - <p> - “Good heavens!” murmured Claire, “what will it be when you have a dozen?” - </p> - <p> - “But the house would seem quite dead if they did not romp and shout,” said - Marianne, much amused. “Good-by, my dear. I will go to see you when I can - get about.” - </p> - <p> - The months of March and April proved superb, and all went well with - Marianne. Thus the lonely little house, nestling amid foliage, was ever - joyous. Each Sunday in particular proved a joy, for the father did not - then have to go to his office. On the other days he started off early in - the morning, and returned about seven o’clock, ever busily laden with work - in the interval. And if his constant perambulations did not affect his - good-humor, he was nevertheless often haunted by thoughts of the future. - Formerly he had never been alarmed by the penury of his little home. Never - had he indulged in any dream of ambition or wealth. Besides, he knew that - his wife’s only idea of happiness, like his own, was to live there in very - simple fashion, leading a brave life of health, peacefulness, and love. - But while he did not desire the power procured by a high position and the - enjoyment offered by a large fortune, he could not help asking himself how - he was to provide, were it ever so modestly, for his increasing family. - What would he be able to do, should he have other children; how would he - procure the necessaries of life each time that a fresh birth might impose - fresh requirements upon him? One situated as he was must create resources, - draw food from the earth step by step, each time a little mouth opened and - cried its hunger aloud. Otherwise he would be guilty of criminal - improvidence. And such reflections as these came upon him the more - strongly as his penury had increased since the birth of Gervais—to - such a point, indeed, that Marianne, despite prodigies of economy, no - longer knew how to make her money last her till the end of the month. The - slightest expenditure had to be debated; the very butter had to be spread - thinly on the children’s bread; and they had to continue wearing their - blouses till they were well-nigh threadbare. To increase the embarrassment - they grew every year, and cost more money. It had been necessary to send - the three boys to a little school at Janville, which was as yet but a - small expense. But would it not be necessary to send them the following - year to a college, and where was the money for this to come from? A grave - problem, a worry which grew from hour to hour, and which for Mathieu - somewhat spoilt that charming spring whose advent was flowering the - countryside. - </p> - <p> - The worst was that Mathieu deemed himself immured, as it were, in his - position as designer at the Beauchene works. Even admitting that his - salary should some day be doubled, it was not seven or eight thousand - francs a year which would enable him to realize his dream of a numerous - family freely and proudly growing and spreading like some happy forest, - indebted solely for strength, health, and beauty to the good common mother - of all, the earth, which gave to all its sap. And this was why, since his - return to Janville, the earth, the soil had attracted him, detained him - during his frequent walks, while he revolved vague but ever-expanding - thoughts in his mind. He would pause for long minutes, now before a field - of wheat, now on the verge of a leafy wood, now on the margin of a river - whose waters glistened in the sunshine, and now amid the nettles of some - stony moorland. All sorts of vague plans then rose within him, uncertain - reveries of such vast scope, such singularity, that he had as yet spoken - of them to nobody, not even his wife. Others would doubtless have mocked - at him, for he had as yet but reached that dim, quivering hour when - inventors feel the gust of their discovery sweep over them, before the - idea that they are revolving presents itself with full precision to their - minds. Yet why did he not address himself to the soil, man’s everlasting - provider and nurse? Why did he not clear and fertilize those far-spreading - lands, those woods, those heaths, those stretches of stony ground which - were left sterile around him? Since it was just that each man should bring - his contribution to the common weal, create subsistence for himself and - his offspring, why should not he, at the advent of each new child, supply - a new field of fertile earth which would give that child food, without - cost to the community? That was his sole idea; it took no more precise - shape; at the thought of realizing it he was carried off into splendid - dreams. - </p> - <p> - The Froments had been in the country fully a month when one evening - Marianne, wheeling Gervais’s little carriage in front of her, came as far - as the bridge over the Yeuse to await Mathieu, who had promised to return - early. Indeed, he got there before six o’clock. And as the evening was - fine, it occurred to Marianne to go as far as the Lepailleurs’ mill down - the river, and buy some new-laid eggs there. - </p> - <p> - “I’m willing,” said Mathieu. “I’m very fond of their romantic old mill, - you know; though if it were mine I should pull it down and build another - one with proper appliances.” - </p> - <p> - In the yard of the picturesque old building, half covered with ivy, with - its mossy wheel slumbering amid water-lilies, they found the Lepailleurs, - the man tall, dry, and carroty, the woman as carroty and as dry as - himself, but both of them young and hardy. Their child Antonin was sitting - on the ground, digging a hole with his little hands. - </p> - <p> - “Eggs?” La Lepailleur exclaimed; “yes, certainly, madame, there must be - some.” - </p> - <p> - She made no haste to fetch them, however, but stood looking at Gervais, - who was asleep in his little vehicle. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! so that’s your last. He’s plump and pretty enough, I must say,” she - remarked. - </p> - <p> - But Lepailleur raised a derisive laugh, and with the familiarity which the - peasant displays towards the bourgeois whom he knows to be hard up, he - said: “And so that makes you five, monsieur. Ah, well! that would be a - deal too many for poor folks like us.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” Mathieu quietly inquired. “Haven’t you got this mill, and don’t you - own fields, to give labor to the arms that would come and whose labor - would double and treble your produce?” - </p> - <p> - These simple words were like a whipstroke that made Lepailleur rear. And - once again he poured forth all his spite. Ah! surely now, it wasn’t his - tumble-down old mill that would ever enrich him, since it had enriched - neither his father nor his grandfather. And as for his fields, well, that - was a pretty dowry that his wife had brought him, land in which nothing - more would grow, and which, however much one might water it with one’s - sweat, did not even pay for manuring and sowing. - </p> - <p> - “But in the first place,” resumed Mathieu, “your mill ought to be repaired - and its old mechanism replaced, or, better still, you should buy a good - steam-engine.” - </p> - <p> - “Repair the mill! Buy an engine! Why, that’s madness,” the other replied. - “What would be the use of it? As it is, people hereabouts have almost - renounced growing corn, and I remain idle every other month.” - </p> - <p> - “And then,” continued Mathieu, “if your fields yield less, it is because - you cultivate them badly, following the old routine, without proper care - or appliances or artificial manure.” - </p> - <p> - “Appliances! Artificial manure! All that humbug which has only sent poor - folks to rack and ruin! Ah! I should just like to see you trying to - cultivate the land better, and make it yield what it’ll never yield any - more.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon he quite lost his temper, became violent and brutal, launching - against the ungrateful earth all the charges which his love of idleness - and his obstinacy suggested. He had travelled, he had fought in Africa as - a soldier, folks could not say that he had always lived in his hole like - an ignorant beast. But, none the less, on leaving his regiment he had lost - all taste for work and come to the conclusion that agriculture was doomed, - and would never give him aught but dry bread to eat. The land would soon - be bankrupt, and the peasantry no longer believed in it, so old and empty - and worn out had it become. And even the sun got out of order nowadays; - they had snow in July and thunderstorms in December, a perfect upsetting - of seasons, which wrecked the crops almost before they were out of the - ground. - </p> - <p> - “No, monsieur,” said Lepailleur, “what you say is impossible; it’s all - past. The soil and work, there’s nothing left of either. It’s barefaced - robbery, and though the peasant may kill himself with labor, he will soon - be left without even water to drink. Children indeed! No, no! There’s - Antonin, of course, and for him we may just be able to provide. But I - assure you that I won’t even make Antonin a peasant against his will! If - he takes to schooling and wishes to go to Paris, I shall tell him that - he’s quite right, for Paris is nowadays the only chance for sturdy chaps - who want to make a fortune. So he will be at liberty to sell everything, - if he chooses, and try his luck there. The only thing that I regret is - that I didn’t make the venture myself when there was still time.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu began to laugh. Was it not singular that he, a bourgeois with a - bachelor’s degree and scientific attainments, should dream of coming back - to the soil, to the common mother of all labor and wealth, when this - peasant, sprung from peasants, cursed and insulted the earth, and hoped - that his son would altogether renounce it? Never had anything struck him - as more significant. It symbolized that disastrous exodus from the rural - districts towards the towns, an exodus which year by year increased, - unhinging the nation and reducing it to anaemia. - </p> - <p> - “You are wrong,” he said in a jovial way so as to drive all bitterness - from the discussion. “Don’t be unfaithful to the earth; she’s an old - mistress who would revenge herself. In your place I would lay myself out - to obtain from her, by increase of care, all that I might want. As in the - world’s early days, she is still the great fruitful spouse, and she yields - abundantly when she is loved in proper fashion.” - </p> - <p> - But Lepailleur, raising his fists, retorted: “No, no; I’ve had enough of - her!” - </p> - <p> - “And, by the way,” continued Mathieu, “one thing which astonishes me is - that no courageous, intelligent man has ever yet come forward to do - something with all that vast abandoned estate yonder—that Chantebled—which - old Seguin, formerly, dreamt of turning into a princely domain. There are - great stretches of waste land, woods which one might partly fell, heaths - and moorland which might easily be restored to cultivation. What a - splendid task! What a work of creation for a bold man to undertake!” - </p> - <p> - This so amazed Lepailleur that he stood there openmouthed. Then his - jeering spirit asserted itself: “But, my dear sir—excuse my saying - it—you must be mad! Cultivate Chantebled, clear those stony tracts, - wade about in those marshes! Why, one might bury millions there without - reaping a single bushel of oats! It’s a cursed spot, which my - grandfather’s father saw such as it is now, and which my grandson’s son - will see just the same. Ah! well, I’m not inquisitive, but it would really - amuse me to meet the fool who might attempt such madness.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Mon Dieu</i>, who knows?” Mathieu quietly concluded. “When one only - loves strongly one may work miracles.” - </p> - <p> - La Lepailleur, after going to fetch a dozen eggs, now stood erect before - her husband in admiration at hearing him talk so eloquently to a - bourgeois. They agreed very well together in their avaricious rage at - being unable to amass money by the handful without any great exertion, and - in their ambition to make their son a gentleman, since only a gentleman - could become wealthy. And thus, as Marianne was going off after placing - the eggs under a cushion in Gervais’ little carriage, the other - complacently called her attention to Antonin, who, having made a hole in - the ground, was now spitting into it. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! he’s smart,” said she; “he knows his alphabet already, and we are - going to put him to school. If he takes after his father he will be no - fool, I assure you.” - </p> - <p> - It was on a Sunday, some ten days later, that the supreme revelation, the - great flash of light which was to decide his life and that of those he - loved, fell suddenly upon Mathieu during a walk he took with his wife and - the children. They had gone out for the whole afternoon, taking a little - snack with them in order that they might share it amid the long grass in - the fields. And after scouring the paths, crossing the copses, rambling - over the moorland, they came back to the verge of the woods and sat down - under an oak. Thence the whole expanse spread out before them, from the - little pavilion where they dwelt to the distant village of Janville. On - their right was the great marshy plateau, from which broad, dry, sterile - slopes descended; while lower ground stretched away on their left. Then, - behind them, spread the woods with deep thickets parted by clearings, full - of herbage which no scythe had ever touched. And not a soul was to be seen - around them; there was naught save wild Nature, grandly quiescent under - the bright sun of that splendid April day. The earth seemed to be dilating - with all the sap amassed within it, and a flood of life could be felt - rising and quivering in the vigorous trees, the spreading plants, and the - impetuous growth of brambles and nettles which stretched invadingly over - the soil. And on all sides a powerful, pungent odor was diffused. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t go too far,” Marianne called to the children; “we shall stay under - this oak. We will have something to eat by and by.” - </p> - <p> - Blaise and Denis were already bounding along, followed by Ambroise, to see - who could run the fastest; but Rose pettishly called them back, for she - preferred to play at gathering wild flowers. The open air fairly - intoxicated the youngsters; the herbage rose, here and there, to their - very shoulders. But they came back and gathered flowers; and after a time - they set off at a wild run once more, one of the big brothers carrying the - little sister on his back. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, however, had remained absent-minded, with his eyes wandering - hither and thither, throughout their walk. At times he did not hear - Marianne when she spoke to him; he lapsed into reverie before some - uncultivated tract, some copse overrun with brushwood, some spring which - suddenly bubbled up and was then lost in mire. Nevertheless, she felt that - there was no sadness nor feeling of indifference in his heart; for as soon - as he returned to her he laughed once more with his soft, loving laugh. It - was she who often sent him roaming about the country, even alone, for she - felt that it would do him good; and although she had guessed that - something very serious was passing through his mind, she retained full - confidence, waiting till it should please him to speak to her. - </p> - <p> - Now, however, just as he had sunk once more into his reverie, his glance - wandering afar, studying the great varied expanse of land, she raised a - light cry: “Oh! look, look!” - </p> - <p> - Under the big oak tree she had placed Master Gervais in his little - carriage, among wild weeds which hid its wheels. And while she handed a - little silver mug, from which it was intended they should drink while - taking their snack, she had noticed that the child raised his head and - followed the movement of her hand, in which the silver sparkled beneath - the sun-rays. Forthwith she repeated the experiment, and again the child’s - eyes followed the starry gleam. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! it can’t be said that I’m mistaken, and am simply fancying it!” she - exclaimed. “It is certain that he can see quite plainly now. My pretty - pet, my little darling!” - </p> - <p> - She darted to the child to kiss him in celebration of that first clear - glance. And then, too, came the delight of the first smile. - </p> - <p> - “Why, look!” in his turn said Mathieu, who was leaning over the child - beside her, yielding to the same feeling of rapture, “there he is smiling - at you now. But of course, as soon as these little fellows see clearly - they begin to laugh.” - </p> - <p> - She herself burst into a laugh. “You are right, he is laughing! Ah! how - funny he looks, and how happy I am!” - </p> - <p> - Both father and mother laughed together with content at the sight of that - infantile smile, vague and fleeting, like a faint ripple on the pure water - of some spring. - </p> - <p> - Amid this joy Marianne called the four others, who were bounding under the - young foliage around them: “Come, Rose! come, Ambroise! come, Blaise and - Denis! It’s time now; come at once to have something to eat.” - </p> - <p> - They hastened up and the snack was set out on a patch of soft grass. - Mathieu unhooked the basket which hung in front of the baby’s little - vehicle; and Marianne, having drawn some slices of bread-and-butter from - it, proceeded to distribute them. Perfect silence ensued while all four - children began biting with hearty appetite, which it was a pleasure to - see. But all at once a scream arose. It came from Master Gervais, who was - vexed at not having been served first. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! yes, it’s true I was forgetting you,” said Marianne gayly; “you shall - have your share. There, open your mouth, you darling;” and, with an easy, - simple gesture, she unfastened her dress-body; and then, under the - sunlight which steeped her in golden radiance, in full view of the - far-spreading countryside, where all likewise was bare—the soil, the - trees, the plants, streaming with sap—having seated herself in the - long grass, where she almost disappeared amid the swarming growth of - April’s germs, the babe on her breast eagerly sucked in her warm milk, - even as all the encompassing verdure was sucking life from the soil. - </p> - <p> - “How hungry you are!” she exclaimed. “Don’t pinch me so hard, you little - glutton!” - </p> - <p> - Meantime Mathieu had remained standing amid the enchantment of the child’s - first smile and the gayety born of the hearty hunger around him. Then his - dream of creation came back to him, and he at last gave voice to those - plans for the future which haunted him, and of which he had so far spoken - to nobody: “Ah, well, it is high time that I should set to work and found - a kingdom, if these children are to have enough soup to make them grow. - Shall I tell you what I’ve thought—shall I tell you?” - </p> - <p> - Marianne raised her eyes, smiling and all attention. “Yes, tell me your - secret if the time has come. Oh! I could guess that you had some great - hope in you. But I did not ask you anything; I preferred to wait.” - </p> - <p> - He did not give a direct reply, for at a sudden recollection his feelings - rebelled. “That Lepailleur,” said he, “is simply a lazy fellow and a fool - in spite of all his cunning airs. Can there be any more sacrilegious folly - than to imagine that the earth has lost her fruitfulness and is becoming - bankrupt—she, the eternal mother, eternal life? She only shows - herself a bad mother to her bad sons, the malicious, the obstinate, and - the dull-witted, who do not know how to love and cultivate her. But if an - intelligent son comes and devotes himself to her, and works her with the - help of experience and all the new systems of science, you will soon see - her quicken and yield tremendous harvests unceasingly. Ah! folks say in - the district that this estate of Chantebled has never yielded and never - will yield anything but nettles. Well, nevertheless, a man will come who - will transform it and make it a new land of joy and abundance.” - </p> - <p> - Then, suddenly turning round, with outstretched arm, and pointing to the - spots to which he referred in turn, he went on: “Yonder in the rear there - are nearly five hundred acres of little woods, stretching as far as the - farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. They are separated by clearings of - excellent soil which broad gaps unite, and which could easily be turned - into good pastures, for there are numerous springs. And, indeed, the - springs become so abundant on the right, that they have changed that big - plateau into a kind of marshland, dotted with ponds, and planted with - reeds and rushes. But picture a man of bold mind, a clearer, a conqueror, - who should drain those lands and rid them of superfluous water by means of - a few canals which might easily be dug! Why, then a huge stretch of land - would be reclaimed, handed over to cultivation, and wheat would grow there - with extraordinary vigor. But that is not all. There is the expanse before - us, those gentle slopes from Janville to Vieux-Bourg, that is another five - hundred acres, which are left almost uncultivated on account of their - dryness, the stony poverty of their soil. So it is all very simple. One - would merely have to take the sources up yonder, the waters, now stagnant, - and carry them across those sterile slopes, which, when irrigated, would - gradually develop extraordinary fertility. I have seen everything, I have - studied everything. I feel that there are at least twelve hundred acres of - land which a bold creator might turn into a most productive estate. Yonder - lies a whole kingdom of corn, a whole new world to be created by labor, - with the help of the beneficent waters and our father the sun, the source - of eternal life.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne gazed at him and admired him as he stood there quivering, - pondering over all that he evoked from his dream. But she was frightened - by the vastness of such hopes, and could not restrain a cry of disquietude - and prudence. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, that is too much; you desire the impossible. How can you think - that we shall ever possess so much—that our fortune will spread over - the entire region? Think of the capital, the arms that would be needed for - such a conquest!” - </p> - <p> - For a moment Mathieu remained silent on thus suddenly being brought back - to reality. Then with his affectionate, sensible air, he began to laugh. - “You are right; I have been dreaming and talking wildly,” he replied. “I - am not yet so ambitious as to wish to be King of Chantebled. But there is - truth in what I have said to you; and, besides, what harm can there be in - dreaming of great plans to give oneself faith and courage? Meantime I - intend to try cultivating just a few acres, which Seguin will no doubt - sell me cheaply enough, together with the little pavilion in which we - live. I know that the unproductiveness of the estate weighs on him. And, - later on, we shall see if the earth is disposed to love us and come to us - as we go to her. Ah well, my dear, give that little glutton plenty of - life, and you, my darlings, eat and drink and grow in strength, for the - earth belongs to those who are healthy and numerous.” - </p> - <p> - Blaise and Denis made answer by taking some fresh slices of - bread-and-butter, while Rose drained the mug of wine and water which - Ambroise handed her. And Marianne sat there like the symbol of blossoming - Fruitfulness, the source of vigor and conquest, while Gervais heartily - nursed on. He pulled so hard, indeed, that one could hear the sound of his - lips. It was like the faint noise which attends the rise of a spring—a - slender rill of milk that is to swell and become a river. Around her the - mother heard that source springing up and spreading on all sides. She was - not nourishing alone: the sap of April was dilating the land, sending a - quiver through the woods, raising the long herbage which embowered her. - And beneath her, from the bosom of the earth, which was ever in travail, - she felt that flood of sap reaching and ever pervading her. And it was - like a stream of milk flowing through the world, a stream of eternal life - for humanity’s eternal crop. And on that gay day of spring the dazzling, - singing, fragrant countryside was steeped in it all, triumphal with that - beauty of the mother, who, in the full light of the sun, in view of the - vast horizon, sat there nursing her child. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VIII - </h2> - <p> - ON the morrow, after a morning’s hard toil at his office at the works, - Mathieu, having things well advanced, bethought himself of going to see - Norine at Madame Bourdieu’s. He knew that she had given birth to a child a - fortnight previously, and he wished to ascertain the exact state of - affairs, in order to carry to an end the mission with which Beauchene had - intrusted him. As the other, however, had never again spoken to him on the - subject, he simply told him that he was going out in the afternoon, - without indicating the motive of his absence. At the same time he knew - what secret relief Beauchene would experience when he at last learnt that - the whole business was at an end—the child cast adrift and the - mother following her own course. - </p> - <p> - On reaching the Rue de Miromesnil, Mathieu had to go up to Norine’s room, - for though she was to leave the house on the following Thursday, she still - kept her bed. And at the foot of the bedstead, asleep in a cradle, he was - surprised to see the infant, of which, he thought, she had already rid - herself. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! is it you?” she joyously exclaimed. “I was about to write to you, for - I wanted to see you before going away. My little sister here would have - taken you the letter.” - </p> - <p> - Cecile Moineaud was indeed there, together with the younger girl, Irma. - The mother, unable to absent herself from her household duties, had sent - them to make inquiries, and give Norine three big oranges, which glistened - on the table beside the bed. The little girls had made the journey on - foot, greatly interested by all the sights of the streets and the displays - in the shop-windows. And now they were enraptured with the fine house in - which they found their big sister sojourning, and full of curiosity with - respect to the baby which slept under the cradle’s muslin curtains. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu made the usual inquiries of Norine, who answered him gayly, but - pouted somewhat at the prospect of having so soon to leave the house, - where she had found herself so comfortable. - </p> - <p> - “We shan’t easily find such soft mattresses and such good food, eh, - Victoire?” she asked. Whereupon Mathieu perceived that another girl was - present, a pale little creature with wavy red hair, tip-tilted nose, and - long mouth, whom he had already seen there on the occasion of a previous - visit. She slept in one of the two other beds which the room contained, - and now sat beside it mending some linen. She was to leave the house on - the morrow, having already sent her child to the Foundling Hospital; and - in the meantime she was mending some things for Rosine, the well-to-do - young person of great beauty whom Mathieu had previously espied, and whose - story, according to Norine, was so sadly pathetic. - </p> - <p> - Victoire ceased sewing and raised her head. She was a servant girl by - calling, one of those unlucky creatures who are overtaken by trouble when - they have scarce arrived in the great city from their native village. - “Well,” said she, “it’s quite certain that one won’t be able to dawdle in - bed, and that one won’t have warm milk given one to drink before getting - up. But, all the same, it isn’t lively to see nothing but that big gray - wall yonder from the window. And, besides, one can’t go on forever doing - nothing.” - </p> - <p> - Norine laughed and jerked her head, as if she were not of this opinion. - Then, as her little sisters embarrassed her, she wished to get rid of - them. - </p> - <p> - “And so, my pussies,” said she, “you say that papa’s still angry with me, - and that I’m not to go back home.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” cried Cecile, “it’s not so much that he’s angry, but he says that - all the neighbors would point their fingers at him if he let you come - home. Besides, Euphrasie keeps his anger up, particularly since she’s - arranged to get married.” - </p> - <p> - “What! Euphrasie going to be married? You didn’t tell me that.” - </p> - <p> - Norine looked very vexed, particularly when her sisters, speaking both - together, told her that the future husband was Auguste Benard, a jovial - young mason who lived on the floor above them. He had taken a fancy to - Euphrasie, though she had no good looks, and was as thin, at eighteen, as - a grasshopper. Doubtless, however, he considered her strong and - hard-working. - </p> - <p> - “Much good may it do them!” said Norine spitefully. “Why, with her evil - temper, she’ll be beating him before six months are over. You can just - tell mamma that I don’t care a rap for any of you, and that I need nobody. - I’ll go and look for work, and I’ll find somebody to help me. So, you - hear, don’t you come back here. I don’t want to be bothered by you any - more.” - </p> - <p> - At this, Irma, but eight years old and tender-hearted, began to cry. “Why - do you scold us? We didn’t come to worry you. I wanted to ask you, too, if - that baby’s yours, and if we may kiss it before we go away.” - </p> - <p> - Norine immediately regretted her spiteful outburst. She once more called - the girls her “little pussies,” kissed them tenderly, and told them that - although they must run away now they might come back another day to see - her if it amused them. “Thank mamma from me for her oranges. And as for - the baby, well, you may look at it, but you mustn’t touch it, for if it - woke up we shouldn’t be able to hear ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as the two children leant inquisitively over the cradle, Mathieu - also glanced at it, and saw a healthy, sturdy-looking child, with a square - face and strong features. And it seemed to him that the infant was - singularly like Beauchene. - </p> - <p> - At that moment, however, Madame Bourdieu came in, accompanied by a woman, - whom he recognized as Sophie Couteau, “La Couteau,” that nurse-agent whom - he had seen at the Seguins’ one day when she had gone thither to offer to - procure them a nurse. She also certainly recognized this gentleman, whose - wife, proud of being able to suckle her own children, had evinced such - little inclination to help others to do business. She pretended, however, - that she saw him for the first time; for she was discreet by profession - and not even inquisitive, since so many matters were ever coming to her - knowledge without the asking. - </p> - <p> - Little Cecile and little Irma went off at once; and then Madame Bourdieu, - addressing Norine, inquired: “Well, my child, have you thought it over; - have you quite made up your mind about that poor little darling, who is - sleeping there so prettily? Here is the person I spoke to you about. She - comes from Normandy every fortnight, bringing nurses to Paris; and each - time she takes babies away with her to put them out to nurse in the - country. Though you say you won’t feed it, you surely need not cast off - your child altogether; you might confide it to this person until you are - in a position to take it back. Or else, if you have made up your mind to - abandon it altogether, she will kindly take it to the Foundling Hospital - at once.” - </p> - <p> - Great perturbation had come over Norine, who let her head fall back on her - pillow, over which streamed her thick fair hair, whilst her face darkened - and she stammered: “<i>Mon Dieu</i>, <i>mon Dieu</i>! you are going to - worry me again!” - </p> - <p> - Then she pressed her hands to her eyes as if anxious to see nothing more. - </p> - <p> - “This is what the regulations require of me, monsieur,” said Madame - Bourdieu to Mathieu in an undertone, while leaving the young mother for a - moment to her reflections. “We are recommended to do all we can to - persuade our boarders, especially when they are situated like this one, to - nurse their infants. You are aware that this often saves not only the - child, but the mother herself, from the sad future which threatens her. - And so, however much she may wish to abandon the child, we leave it near - her as long as possible, and feed it with the bottle, in the hope that the - sight of the poor little creature may touch her heart and awaken feelings - of motherliness in her. Nine times out of ten, as soon as she gives the - child the breast, she is vanquished, and she keeps it. That is why you - still see this baby here.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, feeling greatly moved, drew near to Norine, who still lay back - amid her streaming hair, with her hands pressed to her face. “Come,” said - he, “you are a goodhearted girl, there is no malice in you. Why not - yourself keep that dear little fellow?” - </p> - <p> - Then she uncovered her burning, tearless face: “Did the father even come - to see me?” she asked bitterly. “I can’t love the child of a man who has - behaved as he has! The mere thought that it’s there, in that cradle, puts - me in a rage.” - </p> - <p> - “But that dear little innocent isn’t guilty. It’s he whom you condemn, - yourself whom you punish, for now you will be quite alone, and he might - prove a great consolation.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I tell you no, I won’t. I can’t keep a child like that with nobody to - help me. We all know what we can do, don’t we? Well, it is of no use my - questioning myself. I’m not brave enough, I’m not stupid enough to do such - a thing. No, no, and no.” - </p> - <p> - He said no more, for he realized that nothing would prevail over that - thirst for liberty which she felt in the depths of her being. With a - gesture he expressed his sadness, but he was neither indignant nor angry - with her, for others had made her what she was. - </p> - <p> - “Well, it’s understood, you won’t be forced to feed it,” resumed Madame - Bourdieu, attempting a final effort. “But it isn’t praiseworthy to abandon - the child. Why not trust it to Madame here, who would put it out to nurse, - so that you would be able to take it back some day, when you have found - work? It wouldn’t cost much, and no doubt the father would pay.” - </p> - <p> - This time Norine flew into a passion. “He! pay? Ah! you don’t know him. - It’s not that the money would inconvenience him, for he’s a millionnaire. - But all he wants is to see the little one disappear. If he had dared he - would have told me to kill it! Just ask that gentleman if I speak the - truth. You see that he keeps silent! And how am I to pay when I haven’t a - copper, when to-morrow I shall be cast out-of-doors, perhaps, without work - and without bread. No, no, a thousand times no, I can’t!” - </p> - <p> - Then, overcome by an hysterical fit of despair, she burst into sobs. “I - beg you, leave me in peace. For the last fortnight you have been torturing - me with that child, by keeping him near me, with the idea that I should - end by nursing him. You bring him to me, and set him on my knees, so that - I may look at him and kiss him. You are always worrying me with him, and - making him cry with the hope that I shall pity him and take him to my - breast. But, <i>mon Dieu</i>! can’t you understand that if I turn my head - away, if I don’t want to kiss him or even to see him, it is because I’m - afraid of being caught and loving him like a big fool, which would be a - great misfortune both for him and for me? He’ll be far happier by himself! - So, I beg you, let him be taken away at once, and don’t torture me any - more.” - </p> - <p> - Sobbing violently, she again sank back in bed, and buried her dishevelled - head in the pillows. - </p> - <p> - La Couteau had remained waiting, mute and motionless, at the foot of the - bedstead. In her gown of dark woollen stuff and her black cap trimmed with - yellow ribbons she retained the air of a peasant woman in her Sunday best. - And she strove to impart an expression of compassionate good-nature to her - long, avaricious, false face. Although it seemed to her unlikely that - business would ensue, she risked a repetition of her customary speech. - </p> - <p> - “At Rougemont, you know, madame, your little one would be just the same as - at home. There’s no better air in the Department; people come there from - Bayeux to recruit their health. And if you only knew how well the little - ones are cared for! It’s the only occupation of the district, to have - little Parisians to coddle and love! And, besides, I wouldn’t charge you - dear. I’ve a friend of mine who already has three nurslings, and, as she - naturally brings them up with the bottle, it wouldn’t put her out to take - a fourth for almost next to nothing. Come, doesn’t that suit you—doesn’t - that tempt you?” - </p> - <p> - When, however, she saw that tears were Norine’s only answer, she made an - impatient gesture like an active woman who cannot afford to lose her time. - At each of her fortnightly journeys, as soon as she had rid herself of her - batch of nurses at the different offices, she hastened round the nurses’ - establishments to pick up infants, so as to take the train homewards the - same evening together with two or three women who, as she put it, helped - her “to cart the little ones about.” On this occasion she was in a greater - hurry, as Madame Bourdieu, who employed her in a variety of ways, had - asked her to take Norine’s child to the Foundling Hospital if she did not - take it to Rougemont. - </p> - <p> - “And so,” said La Couteau, turning to Madame Bourdieu, “I shall have only - the other lady’s child to take back with me. Well, I had better see her at - once to make final arrangements. Then I’ll take this one and carry it - yonder as fast as possible, for my train starts at six o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - When La Couteau and Madame Bourdieu had gone off to speak to Rosine, who - was the “other lady” referred to, the room sank into silence save for the - wailing and sobbing of Norine. Mathieu had seated himself near the cradle, - gazing compassionately at the poor little babe, who was still peacefully - sleeping. Soon, however, Victoire, the little servant girl, who had - hitherto remained silent, as if absorbed in her sewing, broke the heavy - silence and talked on slowly and interminably without raising her eyes - from her needle. - </p> - <p> - “You were quite right in not trusting your child to that horrid woman!” - she began. “Whatever may be done with him at the hospital, he will be - better off there than in her hands. At least he will have a chance to - live. And that’s why I insisted, like you, on having mine taken there at - once. You know I belong in that woman’s region—yes, I come from - Berville, which is barely four miles from Rougemont, and I can’t help - knowing La Couteau, for folks talk enough about her in our village. She’s - a nice creature and no mistake! And it’s a fine trade that she plies, - selling other people’s milk. She was no better than she should be at one - time, but at last she was lucky enough to marry a big, coarse, brutal - fellow, whom at this time of day she leads by the nose. And he helps her. - Yes, he also brings nurses to Paris and takes babies back with him, at - busy times. But between them they have more murders on their consciences - than all the assassins that have ever been guillotined. The mayor of - Berville, a bourgeois who’s retired from business and a worthy man, said - that Rougemont was the curse of the Department. I know well enough that - there’s always been some rivalry between Rougemont and Berville; but, the - folks of Rougemont ply a wicked trade with the babies they get from Paris. - All the inhabitants have ended by taking to it, there’s nothing else doing - in the whole village, and you should just see how things are arranged so - that there may be as many funerals as possible. Ah! yes, people don’t keep - their stock-in-trade on their hands. The more that die, the more they - earn. And so one can understand that La Couteau always wants to take back - as many babies as possible at each journey she makes.” - </p> - <p> - Victoire recounted these dreadful things in her simple way, as one whom - Paris has not yet turned into a liar, and who says all she knows, careless - what it may be. - </p> - <p> - “And it seems things were far worse years ago,” she continued. “I have - heard my father say that, in his time, the agents would bring back four or - five children at one journey—perfect parcels of babies, which they - tied together and carried under their arms. They set them out in rows on - the seats in the waiting-rooms at the station; and one day, indeed, a - Rougemont agent forgot one child in a waiting-room, and there was quite a - row about it, because when the child was found again it was dead. And then - you should have seen in the trains what a heap of poor little things there - was, all crying with hunger. It became pitiable in winter time, when there - was snow and frost, for they were all shivering and blue with cold in - their scanty, ragged swaddling-clothes. One or another often died on the - way, and then it was removed at the next station and buried in the nearest - cemetery. And you can picture what a state those who didn’t die were in. - At our place we care better for our pigs, for we certainly wouldn’t send - them travelling in that fashion. My father used to say that it was enough - to make the very stones weep. Nowadays, however, there’s more supervision; - the regulations allow the agents to take only one nursling back at a time. - But they know all sorts of tricks, and often take a couple. And then, too, - they make arrangements; they have women who help them, and they avail - themselves of those who may be going back into the country alone. Yes, La - Couteau has all sorts of tricks to evade the law. And, besides, all the - folks of Rougemont close their eyes—they are too much interested in - keeping business brisk; and all they fear is that the police may poke - their noses into their affairs. Ah! it is all very well for the Government - to send inspectors every month, and insist on registers, and the Mayor’s - signature and the stamp of the Commune; why, it’s just as if it did - nothing. It doesn’t prevent these women from quietly plying their trade - and sending as many little ones as they can to kingdom-come. We’ve got a - cousin at Rougemont who said to us one day: ‘La Malivoire’s precious - lucky, she got rid of four more during last month.’” - </p> - <p> - Victoire paused for a moment to thread her needle. Norine was still - weeping, while Mathieu listened, mute with horror, and with his eyes fixed - upon the sleeping child. - </p> - <p> - “No doubt folks say less about Rougemont nowadays than they used to,” the - girl resumed; “but there’s still enough to disgust one. We know three or - four baby-farmers who are not worth their salt. The rule is to bring the - little ones up with the bottle, you know; and you’d be horrified if you - saw what bottles they are—never cleaned, always filthy, with the - milk inside them icy cold in the winter and sour in the summer. La Vimeux, - for her part, thinks that the bottle system costs too much, and so she - feeds her children on soup. That clears them off all the quicker. At La - Loiseau’s you have to hold your nose when you go near the corner where the - little ones sleep—their rags are so filthy. As for La Gavette, she’s - always working in the fields with her man, so that the three or four - nurslings that she generally has are left in charge of the grandfather, an - old cripple of seventy, who can’t even prevent the fowls from coming to - peck at the little ones.* And things are worse even at La Cauchois’, for, - as she has nobody at all to mind the children when she goes out working, - she leaves them tied in their cradles, for fear lest they should tumble - out and crack their skulls. You might visit all the houses in the village, - and you would find the same thing everywhere. There isn’t a house where - the trade isn’t carried on. Round our part there are places where folks - make lace, or make cheese, or make cider; but at Rougemont they only make - dead bodies.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * There is no exaggeration in what M. Zola writes on this subject. - I have even read in French Government reports of instances in - which nurslings have been devoured by pigs! And it is a well-known - saying in France that certain Norman and Touraine villages are - virtually “paved with little Parisians.”—Trans. -</pre> - <p> - All at once she ceased sewing, and looked at Mathieu with her timid, clear - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “But the worst of all,” she continued, “is La Couillard, an old thief who - once did six months in prison, and who now lives a little way out of the - village on the verge of the wood. No live child has ever left La - Couillard’s. That’s her specialty. When you see an agent, like La Couteau, - for instance, taking her a child, you know at once what’s in the wind. La - Couteau has simply bargained that the little one shall die. It’s settled - in a very easy fashion: the parents give a sum of three or four hundred - francs on condition that the little one shall be kept till his first - communion, and you may be quite certain that he dies within a week. It’s - only necessary to leave a window open near him, as a nurse used to do whom - my father knew. At winter time, when she had half a dozen babies in her - house, she would set the door wide open and then go out for a stroll. And, - by the way, that little boy in the next room, whom La Couteau has just - gone to see, she’ll take him to La Couillard’s, I’m sure; for I heard the - mother, Mademoiselle Rosine, agree with her the other day to give her a - sum of four hundred francs down on the understanding that she should have - nothing more to do in the matter.” - </p> - <p> - At this point Victoire ceased speaking, for La Couteau came in to fetch - Norine’s child. Norine, who had emerged from her distress during the - servant girl’s stories, had ended by listening to them with great - interest. But directly she perceived the agent she once more hid her face - in her pillows, as though she feared to see what was about to happen. - Mathieu, on his side, had risen from his chair and stood there quivering. - </p> - <p> - “So it’s understood, I’m going to take the child,” said La Couteau. - “Madame Bourdieu has given me a slip of paper bearing the date of the - birth and the address. Only I ought to have some Christian names. What do - you wish the child to be called?” - </p> - <p> - Norine did not at first answer. Then, in a faint distressful voice, she - said: “Alexandre.” - </p> - <p> - “Alexandre, very well. But you would do better to give the boy a second - Christian name, so as to identify him the more readily, if some day you - take it into your head to run after him.” - </p> - <p> - It was again necessary to tear a reply from Norine. “Honore,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Alexandre Honore—all right. That last name is yours, is it not?* - And the first is the father’s? That is settled; and now I’ve everything I - need. Only it’s four o’clock already, and I shall never get back in time - for the six o’clock train if I don’t take a cab. It’s such a long way off—the - other side of the Luxembourg. And a cab costs money. How shall we manage?” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Norine is, of course, a diminutive of Honorine, which is the - feminine form of Honore.—Trans. -</pre> - <p> - While she continued whining, to see if she could not extract a few francs - from the distressed girl, it suddenly occurred to Mathieu to carry out his - mission to the very end by driving with her himself to the Foundling - Hospital, so that he might be in a position to inform Beauchene that the - child had really been deposited there, in his presence. So he told La - Couteau that he would go down with her, take a cab, and bring her back. - </p> - <p> - “All right; that will suit me. Let us be off! It’s a pity to wake the - little one, since he’s so sound asleep; but all the same, we must pack him - off, since it’s decided.” - </p> - <p> - With her dry hands, which were used to handling goods of this description, - she caught up the child, perhaps, however, a little roughly, forgetting - her assumed wheedling good nature now that she was simply charged with - conveying it to hospital. And the child awoke and began to scream loudly. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! dear me, it won’t be amusing if he keeps up this music in the cab. - Quick, let us be off.” - </p> - <p> - But Mathieu stopped her. “Won’t you kiss him, Norine?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - At the very first squeal that sorry mother had dipped yet lower under her - sheets, carrying her hands to her ears, distracted as she was by the sound - of those cries. “No, no,” she gasped, “take him away; take him away at - once. Don’t begin torturing me again!” - </p> - <p> - Then she closed her eyes, and with one arm repulsed the child who seemed - to be pursuing her. But when she felt that the agent was laying him on the - bed, she suddenly shuddered, sat up, and gave a wild hasty kiss, which - lighted on the little fellow’s cap. She had scarcely opened her - tear-dimmed eyes, and could have seen but a vague phantom of that poor - feeble creature, wailing and struggling at the decisive moment when he was - being cast into the unknown. - </p> - <p> - “You are killing me! Take him away; take him away!” - </p> - <p> - Once in the cab the child suddenly became silent. Either the jolting of - the vehicle calmed him, or the creaking of the wheels filled him with - emotion. La Couteau, who kept him on her knees, at first remained silent, - as if interested in the people on the footwalks, where the bright sun was - shining. Then, all of a sudden, she began to talk, venting her thoughts - aloud. - </p> - <p> - “That little woman made a great mistake in not trusting the child to me. I - should have put him out to nurse properly, and he would have grown up - finely at Rougemont. But there! they all imagine that we simply worry them - because we want to do business. But I just ask you, if she had given me - five francs for myself and paid my return journey, would that have ruined - her? A pretty girl like her oughtn’t to be hard up for money. I know very - well that in our calling there are some people who are hardly honest, who - speculate and ask for commissions, and then put out nurslings at cheap - rates and rob both the parents and the nurse. It’s really not right to - treat these dear little things as if they were goods—poultry or - vegetables. When folks do that I can understand that their hearts get - hardened, and that they pass the little ones on from hand to hand without - any more care than if they were stock-in-trade. But then, monsieur, I’m an - honest woman; I’m authorized by the mayor of our village; I hold a - certificate of morality, which I can show to anybody. If ever you should - come to Rougemont, just ask after Sophie Couteau there. Folks will tell - you that I’m a hard-working woman, and don’t owe a copper to a soul!” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu could not help looking at her to see how unblushingly she thus - praised herself. And her speech struck him as if it were a premeditated - reply to all that Victoire had related of her, for, with the keen scent of - a shrewd peasant woman, she must have guessed that charges had been - brought against her. When she felt that his piercing glance was diving to - her very soul, she doubtless feared that she had not lied with sufficient - assurance, and had somehow negligently betrayed herself; for she did not - insist, but put on more gentleness of manner, and contented herself with - praising Rougemont in a general way, saying what a perfect paradise it - was, where the little ones were received, fed, cared for, and coddled as - if they were all sons of princes. Then, seeing that the gentleman uttered - never a word, she became silent once more. It was evidently useless to try - to win him over. And meantime the cab rolled and rolled along; streets - followed streets, ever noisy and crowded; and they crossed the Seine and - at last drew near to the Luxembourg. It was only after passing the palace - gardens that La Couteau again began: - </p> - <p> - “Well, it’s that young person’s own affair if she imagines that her child - will be better off for passing through the Foundling. I don’t attack the - Administration, but you know, monsieur, there’s a good deal to be said on - the matter. At Rougemont we have a number of nurslings that it sends us, - and they don’t grow any better or die less frequently than the others. - Well, well, people are free to act as they fancy; but all the same I - should like you to know, as I do, all that goes on in there.” - </p> - <p> - The cab had stopped at the top of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau, at a short - distance from the former outer Boulevard. A big gray wall stretched out, - the frigid facade of a State establishment, and it was through a quiet, - simple, unobtrusive little doorway at the end of this wall that La Couteau - went in with the child. Mathieu followed her, but he did not enter the - office where a woman received the children. He felt too much emotion, and - feared lest he should be questioned; it was, indeed, as if he considered - himself an accomplice in a crime. Though La Couteau told him that the - woman would ask him nothing, and the strictest secrecy was always - observed, he preferred to wait in an anteroom, which led to several closed - compartments, where the persons who came to deposit children were placed - to wait their turn. And he watched the woman go off, carrying the little - one, who still remained extremely well behaved, with a vacant stare in his - big eyes. - </p> - <p> - Though the interval of waiting could not have lasted more than twenty - minutes, it seemed terribly long to Mathieu. Lifeless quietude reigned in - that stern, sad-looking anteroom, wainscoted with oak, and pervaded with - the smell peculiar to hospitals. All he heard was the occasional faint - wail of some infant, above which now and then rose a heavy, restrained - sob, coming perhaps from some mother who was waiting in one of the - adjoining compartments. And he recalled the “slide” of other days, the box - which turned within the wall. The mother crept up, concealing herself much - as possible from view, thrust her baby into the cavity as into an oven, - gave a tug at the bell-chain, and then precipitately fled. Mathieu was too - young to have seen the real thing; he had only seen it represented in a - melodrama at the Port St. Martin Theatre.* But how many stories it - recalled—hampers of poor little creatures brought up from the - provinces and deposited at the hospital by carriers; the stolen babes of - Duchesses, here cast into oblivion by suspicious-looking men; the hundreds - of wretched work-girls too who had here rid themselves of their - unfortunate children. Now, however, the children had to be deposited - openly, and there was a staff which took down names and dates, while - giving a pledge of inviolable secrecy. Mathieu was aware that some few - people imputed to the suppression of the slide system the great increase - in criminal offences. But each day public opinion condemns more and more - the attitude of society in former times, and discards the idea that one - must accept evil, dam it in, and hide it as if it were some necessary - sewer; for the only course for a free community to pursue is to foresee - evil and grapple with it, and destroy it in the bud. To diminish the - number of cast-off children one must seek out the mothers, encourage them, - succor them, and give them the means to be mothers in fact as well as in - name. At that moment, however, Mathieu did not reason; it was his heart - that was affected, filled with growing pity and anguish at the thought of - all the crime, all the shame, all the grief and distress that had passed - through that anteroom in which he stood. What terrible confessions must - have been heard, what a procession of suffering, ignominy, and - wretchedness must have been witnessed by that woman who received the - children in her mysterious little office! To her all the wreckage of the - slums, all the woe lying beneath gilded life, all the abominations, all - the tortures that remain unknown, were carried. There in her office was - the port for the shipwrecked, there the black hole that swallowed up the - offspring of frailty and shame. And while Mathieu’s spell of waiting - continued he saw three poor creatures arrive at the hospital. One was - surely a work-girl, delicate and pretty though she looked, so thin, so - pale too, and with so wild an air that he remembered a paragraph he had - lately read in a newspaper, recounting how another such girl, after - forsaking her child, had thrown herself into the river. The second seemed - to him to be a married woman, some workman’s wife, no doubt, overburdened - with children and unable to provide food for another mouth; while the - third was tall, strong, and insolent,—one of those who bring three - or four children to the hospital one after the other. And all three women - plunged in, and he heard them being penned in separate compartments by an - attendant, while he, with stricken heart, realizing how heavily fate fell - on some, still stood there waiting. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The “slide” system, which enabled a mother to deposit her child - at the hospital without being seen by those within, ceased to be - employed officially as far back as 1847; but the apparatus was - long preserved intact, and I recollect seeing it in the latter - years of the Second Empire, <i>cir.</i> 1867-70, when I was often at - the artists’ studios in the neighborhood. The aperture through - which children were deposited in the sliding-box was close to - the little door of which M. Zola speaks.—Trans. -</pre> - <p> - When La Couteau at last reappeared with empty arms she said never a word, - and Mathieu put no question to her. Still in silence, they took their - seats in the cab; and only some ten minutes afterwards, when the vehicle - was already rolling through bustling, populous streets, did the woman - begin to laugh. Then, as her companion, still silent and distant, did not - condescend to ask her the cause of her sudden gayety, she ended by saying - aloud: - </p> - <p> - “Do you know why I am laughing? If I kept you waiting a bit longer, it was - because I met a friend of mine, an attendant in the house, just as I left - the office. She’s one of those who put the babies out to nurse in the - provinces.* Well, my friend told me that she was going to Rougemont - to-morrow with two other attendants, and that among others they would - certainly have with them the little fellow I had just left at the - hospital.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * There are only about 600 beds at the Hopital des Enfants - Assistes, and the majority of the children deposited there - are perforce placed out to purse in the country.—Trans. -</pre> - <p> - Again did she give vent to a dry laugh which distorted her wheedling face. - And she continued: “How comical, eh? The mother wouldn’t let me take the - child to Rougemont, and now it’s going there just the same. Ah! some - things are bound to happen in spite of everything.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu did not answer, but an icy chill had sped through his heart. It - was true, fate pitilessly took its own course. What would become of that - poor little fellow? To what early death, what life of suffering or - wretchedness, or even crime, had he been thus brutally cast? - </p> - <p> - But the cab continued rolling on, and for a long while neither Mathieu nor - La Couteau spoke again. It was only when the latter alighted in the Rue de - Miromesnil that she began to lament, on seeing that it was already - half-past five o’clock, for she felt certain that she would miss her - train, particularly as she still had some accounts to settle and that - other child upstairs to fetch. Mathieu, who had intended to keep the cab - and drive to the Northern terminus, then experienced a feeling of - curiosity, and thought of witnessing the departure of the nurse-agents. So - he calmed La Couteau by telling her that if she would make haste he would - wait for her. And as she asked for a quarter of an hour, it occurred to - him to speak to Norine again, and so he also went upstairs. - </p> - <p> - When he entered Norine’s room he found her sitting up in bed, eating one - of the oranges which her little sisters had brought her. She had all the - greedy instincts of a plump, pretty girl; she carefully detached each - section of the orange, and, her eyes half closed the while, her flesh - quivering under her streaming outspread hair, she sucked one after another - with her fresh red lips, like a pet cat lapping a cup of milk. Mathieu’s - sudden entry made her start, however, and when she recognized him she - smiled faintly in an embarrassed way. - </p> - <p> - “It’s done,” he simply said. - </p> - <p> - She did not immediately reply, but wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. - However, it was necessary that she should say something, and so she began: - “You did not tell me you would come back—I was not expecting you. - Well, it’s done, and it’s all for the best. I assure you there was no - means of doing otherwise.” - </p> - <p> - Then she spoke of her departure, asked the young man if he thought she - might regain admittance to the works, and declared that in any case she - should go there to see if the master would have the audacity to turn her - away. Thus she continued while the minutes went slowly by. The - conversation had dropped, Mathieu scarcely replying to her, when La - Couteau, carrying the other child in her arms, at last darted in like a - gust of wind. “Let’s make haste, let’s make haste!” she cried. “They never - end with their figures; they try all they can to leave me without a copper - for myself!” - </p> - <p> - But Norine detained her, asking: “Oh! is that Rosine’s baby? Pray do show - it me.” Then she uncovered the infant’s face, and exclaimed: “Oh! how - plump and pretty he is!” And she began another sentence: “What a pity! Can - one have the heart—” But then she remembered, paused, and changed - her words: “Yes, how heartrending it is when one has to forsake such - little angels.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-by! Take care of yourself!” cried La Couteau; “you will make me miss - my train. And I’ve got the return tickets, too; the five others are - waiting for me at the station! Ah! what a fuss they would make if I got - there too late!” - </p> - <p> - Then, followed by Mathieu, she hurried away, bounding down the stairs, - where she almost fell with her little burden. But soon she threw herself - back in the cab, which rolled off. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! that’s a good job! And what do you say of that young person, - monsieur? She wouldn’t lay out fifteen francs a month on her own account, - and yet she reproaches that good Mademoiselle Rosine, who has just given - me four hundred francs to have her little one taken care of till his first - communion. Just look at him—a superb child, isn’t he? What a pity it - is that the finest are often those who die the first.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu looked at the infant on the woman’s knees. His garments were very - white, of fine texture, trimmed with lace, as if he were some little - condemned prince being taken in all luxury to execution. And the young man - remembered that Norine had told him that the child was the offspring of - crime. Born amid secrecy, he was now, for a fixed sum, to be handed over - to a woman who would quietly suppress him by simply leaving some door or - window wide open. Young though the boy was, he already had a finely-formed - face, that suggested the beauty of a cherub. And he was very well behaved; - he did not raise the faintest wail. But a shudder swept through Mathieu. - How abominable! - </p> - <p> - La Couteau quickly sprang from the cab as soon as they reached the - courtyard of the St. Lazare Station. “Thank you, monsieur, you have been - very kind,” said she. “And if you will kindly recommend me to any ladies - you may know, I shall be quite at their disposal.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu, having alighted on the pavement in his turn, saw a scene - which detained him there a few moments longer. Amid all the scramble of - passengers and luggage, five women of peasant aspect, each carrying an - infant, were darting in a scared, uneasy way hither and thither, like - crows in trouble, with big yellow beaks quivering and black wings flapping - with anxiety. Then, on perceiving La Couteau, there was one general caw, - and all five swooped down upon her with angry, voracious mien. And, after - a furious exchange of cries and explanations, the six banded themselves - together, and, with cap-strings waving and skirts flying, rushed towards - the train, carrying the little ones, like birds of prey who feared delay - in returning to the charnel-house. - </p> - <p> - And Mathieu remained alone in the great crowd. Thus every year did these - crows of ill omen carry off from Paris no fewer than 20,000 children, who - were never, never seen again! Ah! that great question of the depopulation - of France! Not merely were there those who were resolved to have no - children, not only were infanticide and crime of other kinds rife upon all - sides, but one-half of the babes saved from those dangers were killed. - Thieves and murderesses, eager for lucre, flocked to the great city from - the four points of the compass, and bore away all the budding Life that - their arms could carry in order that they might turn it to Death! They - beat down the game, they watched in the doorways, they sniffed from afar - the innocent flesh on which they preyed. And the babes were carted to the - railway stations; the cradles, the wards of hospitals and refuges, the - wretched garrets of poor mothers, without fires and without bread—all, - all were emptied! And the packages were heaped up, moved carelessly hither - and thither, sent off, distributed to be murdered either by foul deed or - by neglect. The raids swept on like tempest blasts; Death’s scythe never - knew dead season, at every hour it mowed down budding life. Children who - might well have lived were taken from their mothers, the only nurses whose - milk would have nourished them, to be carted away and to die for lack of - proper nutriment. - </p> - <p> - A rush of blood warmed Mathieu’s heart when, all at once, he thought of - Marianne, so strong and healthy, who would be waiting for him on the - bridge over the Yeuse, in the open country, with their little Gervais at - her breast. Figures that he had seen in print came back to his mind. In - certain regions which devoted themselves to baby-farming the mortality - among the nurslings was fifty per cent; in the best of them it was forty, - and seventy in the worst. It was calculated that in one century seventeen - millions of nurslings had died. Over a long period the mortality had - remained at from one hundred to one hundred and twenty thousand per annum. - The most deadly reigns, the greatest butcheries of the most terrible - conquerors, had never resulted in such massacre. It was a giant battle - that France lost every year, the abyss into which her whole strength sank, - the charnel-place into which every hope was cast. At the end of it is the - imbecile death of the nation. And Mathieu, seized with terror at the - thought, rushed away, eager to seek consolation by the side of Marianne, - amid the peacefulness, the wisdom, and the health which were their happy - lot. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IX - </h2> - <p> - ONE Thursday morning Mathieu went to lunch with Dr. Boutan in the rooms - where the latter had resided for more than ten years, in the Rue de - l’Universite, behind the Palais-Bourbon. By a contradiction, at which he - himself often laughed, this impassioned apostle of fruitfulness had - remained a bachelor. His extensive practice kept him in a perpetual hurry, - and he had little time free beyond his dejeuner hour. Accordingly, - whenever a friend wished to have any serious conversation with him, he - preferred to invite him to his modest table, to partake more or less - hastily of an egg, a cutlet, and a cup of coffee. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu wished to ask the doctor’s advice on a grave subject. After a - couple of weeks’ reflection, his idea of experimenting in agriculture, of - extricating that unappreciated estate of Chantebled from chaos, - preoccupied him to such a degree that he positively suffered at not daring - to come to a decision. The imperious desire to create, to produce life, - health, strength, and wealth grew within him day by day. Yet what fine - courage and what a fund of hope he needed to venture upon an enterprise - which outwardly seemed so wild and rash, and the wisdom of which was - apparent to himself alone. With whom could he discuss such a matter, to - whom could he confide his doubts and hesitation? When the idea of - consulting Boutan occurred to him, he at once asked the doctor for an - appointment. Here was such a confidant as he desired, a man of broad, - brave mind, one who worshipped life, who was endowed with far-seeing - intelligence, and who would therefore at once look beyond the first - difficulties of execution. - </p> - <p> - As soon as they were face to face on either side of the table, Mathieu - began to pour forth his confession, recounting his dream—his poem, - as he called it. And the doctor listened without interrupting, evidently - won over by the young man’s growing, creative emotion. When at last Boutan - had to express an opinion he replied: “<i>Mon Dieu</i>, my friend, I can - tell you nothing from a practical point of view, for I have never even - planted a lettuce. I will even add that your project seems to me so - hazardous that any one versed in these matters whom you might consult - would assuredly bring forward substantial and convincing arguments to - dissuade you. But you speak of this affair with such superb confidence and - ardor and affection, that I feel convinced you would succeed. Moreover, - you flatter my own views, for I have long endeavored to show that, if - numerous families are ever to flourish again in France, people must again - love and worship the soil, and desert the towns, and lead a fruitful - fortifying country life. So how can I disapprove your plans? Moreover, I - suspect that, like all people who ask advice, you simply came here in the - hope that you would find in me a brother ready, in principle at all - events, to wage the same battle.” - </p> - <p> - At this they both laughed heartily. Then, on Boutan inquiring with what - capital he would start operations, Mathieu quietly explained that he did - not mean to borrow money and thus run into debt; he would begin, if - necessary, with very few acres indeed, convinced as he was of the - conquering power of labor. His would be the head, and he would assuredly - find the necessary arms. His only worry was whether he would be able to - induce Seguin to sell him the old hunting-box and the few acres round it - on a system of yearly payments, without preliminary disbursement. When he - spoke to the doctor on this subject, the other replied: - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I think he is very favorably disposed. I know that he would be - delighted to sell that huge, unprofitable estate, for with his increasing - pecuniary wants he is very much embarrassed by it. You are aware, no - doubt, that things are going from bad to worse in his household.” - </p> - <p> - Then the doctor broke off to inquire: “And our friend Beauchene, have you - warned him of your intention to leave the works?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, no, not yet,” said Mathieu; “and I would ask you to keep the matter - private, for I wish to have everything settled before informing him.” - </p> - <p> - Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctor offered - to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going there himself, for - Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, in order that he - might keep an eye on Maurice’s health. Not only did the lad still suffer - from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate a stomach that he had to be - dieted severely. - </p> - <p> - “It’s the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not been - brought up by their own mothers,” continued Boutan. “Your plucky wife - doesn’t know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever they - fancy. But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such as four - cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion. Well, so it is settled, I - will drive you back to the works. Only I must first make a call in the Rue - Roquepine to choose a nurse. It won’t take me long, I hope. Quick! let us - be off.” - </p> - <p> - When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it was - precisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency. There was - a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d’Antin. A few months - previously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husband had - obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself, - pretending that he knew all about such matters. And he had chosen a big, - sturdy young woman of monumental appearance. Nevertheless, for two months - past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor had - discovered, by analyzing the nurse’s milk, that it was deficient in - nutriment. Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation. To change a - nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins’ house was in a tempestuous - state. The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors and - declaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything. - </p> - <p> - “And so,” added Boutan, “I have now been instructed to choose a fresh - nurse. And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxious about - that poor little Andree.” - </p> - <p> - “But why did not the mother nurse her child?” asked Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - The doctor made a gesture of despair. “Ah! my dear fellow, you ask me too - much. But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisie - undertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when she leads - the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees, and - absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little Madame Seguin is - simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress and says that she - would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but that it was impossible - since she had no milk. She never even tried! When her first child was born - she could doubtless have nursed it. But to-day, with the imbecile, spoilt - life she leads, it is quite certain that she is incapable of making such - an effort. The worst is, my dear fellow, as any doctor will tell you, that - after three or four generations of mothers who do not feed their children - there comes a generation that cannot do so. And so, my friend, we are fast - coming, not only in France, but in other countries where the odious - wet-nurse system is in vogue, to a race of wretched, degenerate women, who - will be absolutely powerless to nourish their offspring.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu then remembered what he had witnessed at Madame Bourdieu’s and the - Foundling Hospital. And he imparted his impressions to Boutan, who again - made a despairing gesture. There was a great work of social salvation to - be accomplished, said he. No doubt a number of philanthropists were trying - their best to improve things, but private effort could not cope with such - widespread need. There must be general measures; laws must be passed to - save the nation. The mother must be protected and helped, even in secrecy, - if she asked for it; she must be cared for, succored, from the earliest - period, and right through all the long months during which she fed her - babe. All sorts of establishments would have to be founded—refuges, - convalescent homes, and so forth; and there must be protective enactments, - and large sums of money voted to enable help to be extended to all - mothers, whatever they might be. It was only by such preventive steps that - one could put a stop to the frightful hecatomb of newly-born infants, that - incessant loss of life which exhausted the nation and brought it nearer - and nearer to death every day. - </p> - <p> - “And,” continued the doctor, “it may all be summed up in this verity: ‘It - is a mother’s duty to nurse her child.’ And, besides, a mother, is she not - the symbol of all grandeur, all strength, all beauty? She represents the - eternity of life. She deserves a social culture, she should be religiously - venerated. When we know how to worship motherhood, our country will be - saved. And this is why, my friend, I should like a mother feeding her babe - to be adopted as the highest expression of human beauty. Ah! how can one - persuade our Parisiennes, all our French women, indeed, that woman’s - beauty lies in being a mother with an infant on her knees? Whenever that - fashion prevails, we shall be the sovereign nation, the masters of the - world!” - </p> - <p> - He ended by laughing in a distressed way, in his despair at being unable - to change manners and customs, aware as he was that the nation could be - revolutionized only by a change in its ideal of true beauty. - </p> - <p> - “To sum up, then, I believe in a child being nursed only by its own - mother. Every mother who neglects that duty when she can perform it is a - criminal. Of course, there are instances when she is physically incapable - of accomplishing her duty, and in that case there is the feeding-bottle, - which, if employed with care and extreme cleanliness, only sterilized milk - being used, will yield a sufficiently good result. But to send a child - away to be nursed means almost certain death; and as for the nurse in the - house, that is a shameful transaction, a source of incalculable evil, for - both the employer’s child and the nurse’s child frequently die from it.” - </p> - <p> - Just then the doctor’s brougham drew up outside the nurse-agency in the - Rue Roquepine. - </p> - <p> - “I dare say you have never been in such a place, although you are the - father of five children,” said Boutan to Mathieu, gayly. - </p> - <p> - “No, I haven’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, come with me. One ought to know everything.” - </p> - <p> - The office in the Rue Roquepine was the most important and the one with - the best reputation in the district. It was kept by Madame Broquette, a - woman of forty, with a dignified if somewhat blotched face, who was always - very tightly laced in a faded silk gown of dead-leaf hue. But if she - represented the dignity and fair fame of the establishment in its - intercourse with clients, the soul of the place, the ever-busy - manipulator, was her husband, Monsieur Broquette, a little man with a - pointed nose, quick eyes, and the agility of a ferret. Charged with the - police duties of the office, the supervision and training of the nurses, - he received them, made them clean themselves, taught them to smile and put - on pleasant ways, besides penning them in their various rooms and - preventing them from eating too much. From morn till night he was ever - prowling about, scolding and terrorizing those dirty, ill-behaved, and - often lying and thieving women. The building, a dilapidated private house, - with a damp ground floor, to which alone clients were admitted, had two - upper stories, each comprising six rooms arranged as dormitories, in which - the nurses and their infants slept. There was no end to the arrivals and - departures there: the peasant women were ever galloping through the place, - dragging trunks about, carrying babes in swaddling clothes, and filling - the rooms and the passages with wild cries and vile odors. And amid all - this the house had another inmate, Mademoiselle Broquette, Herminie as she - was called, a long, pale, bloodless girl of fifteen, who mooned about - languidly among that swarm of sturdy young women. - </p> - <p> - Boutan, who knew the house well, went in, followed by Mathieu. The central - passage, which was fairly broad, ended in a glass door, which admitted one - to a kind of courtyard, where a sickly conifer stood on a round patch of - grass, which the dampness rotted. On the right of the passage was the - office, whither Madame Broquette, at the request of her customers, - summoned the nurses, who waited in a neighboring room, which was simply - furnished with a greasy deal table in the centre. The furniture of the - office was some old Empire stuff, upholstered in red velvet. There was a - little mahogany centre table, and a gilt clock. Then, on the left of the - passage, near the kitchen, was the general refectory, with two long - tables, covered with oilcloth, and surrounded by straggling chairs, whose - straw seats were badly damaged. Just a make-believe sweep with a broom was - given there every day: one could divine long-amassed, tenacious dirt in - every dim corner; and the place reeked with an odor of bad cookery mingled - with that of sour milk. - </p> - <p> - When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette was - busy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses. - She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret. “No matter, no - matter,” he exclaimed; “I am not in a hurry: I will wait.” - </p> - <p> - Through the open door Mathieu had caught sight of Mademoiselle Herminie, - the daughter of the house, ensconced in one of the red velvet armchairs - near the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother, - standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the old - gentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemed - unable to make up his mind. - </p> - <p> - “Let us have a look at the garden,” said the doctor, with a laugh. - </p> - <p> - One of the boasts of the establishment, indeed, as set forth in its - prospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty of good - air there, as in the country. They opened the glass door, and on a bench - near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had just arrived, - pretending to clean a squealing infant. She herself looked sordid, and had - evidently not washed since her journey. In one corner there was an - overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots and greasy and rusty - saucepans. Then, at the other end, a French window gave access to the - nurses’ waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseous spectacle of - dirt and untidiness. - </p> - <p> - All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had come - it was hard to say. At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a client - that needed attention. “Is my wife busy, then?” said he. “I cannot allow - you to remain waiting here, doctor. Come, come, I pray you.” - </p> - <p> - With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girl - cleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should see - nothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of the - establishment. “Pray, doctor, follow me,” he repeated, and understanding - that an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, “What - business have you to be here? Why haven’t you gone upstairs to wash and - dress? I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don’t hurry - off and tidy yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Then he forced her to rise and drove her off, all scared and terrified, in - front of him. When she had gone upstairs he led the two gentlemen to the - office entrance and began to complain: “Ah! doctor, if you only knew what - trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands! We who are so - clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean. If ever a speck - of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault.” - </p> - <p> - Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on the upper - floors, whence also a vile smell descended. Some dispute, some battle, - seemed to be in progress. There were shouts and howls, followed by a - furious exchange of vituperation. - </p> - <p> - “Pray excuse me,” at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; “my wife will - receive you in a minute.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon he slipped off and flew up the stairs with noiseless agility. - And directly afterwards there was an explosion. Then the house suddenly - sank into death-like silence. All that could be heard was the voice of - Madame in the office, as, in a very dignified manner, she kept on praising - her goods. - </p> - <p> - “Well, my friend,” said Boutan to Mathieu, while they walked up and down - the passage, “all this, the material side of things, is nothing. What you - should see and know is what goes on in the minds of all these people. And - note that this is a fair average place. There are others which are real - dens, and which the police sometimes have to close. No doubt there is a - certain amount of supervision, and there are severe regulations which - compel the nurses to bring certificates of morality, books setting forth - their names, ages, parentage, the situations they have held, and so on, - with other documents on which they have immediately to secure a signature - from the Prefecture, where the final authorization is granted them. But - these precautions don’t prevent fraud and deceit of various kinds. The - women assert that they have only recently begun nursing, when they have - been doing it for months; they show you superb children which they have - borrowed and which they assert to be their own. And there are many other - tricks to which they resort in their eagerness to make money.” - </p> - <p> - As the doctor and Mathieu chatted on, they paused for a moment near the - door of the refectory, which chanced to be open, and there, among other - young peasant women, they espied La Couteau hastily partaking of cold - meat. Doubtless she had just arrived from Rougemont, and, after disposing - of the batch of nurses she had brought with her, was seeking sustenance - for the various visits which she would have to make before returning home. - The refectory, with its wine-stained tables and greasy walls, cast a smell - like that of a badly-kept sink. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! so you know La Couteau!” exclaimed Boutan, when Mathieu had told him - of his meetings with the woman. “Then you know the depths of crime. La - Couteau is an ogress! And yet, think of it, with our fine social - organization, she is more or less useful, and perhaps I myself shall be - happy to choose one of the nurses that she has brought with her.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment Madame Broquette very amiably asked the visitors into her - office. After long reflection, the old gentleman had gone off without - selecting any nurse, but saying that he would return some other time. - </p> - <p> - “There are folks who don’t know their own minds,” said Madame Broquette - sententiously. “It isn’t my fault, and I sincerely beg you to excuse me, - doctor. If you want a good nurse you will be satisfied, for I have just - received some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you.” - </p> - <p> - Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from her - novel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, with a - weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, after sitting - down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on, while Boutan - stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commander reviewing his - troops. And the procession began. - </p> - <p> - Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame - Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick of - her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms. About a - dozen were thus inspected: short ones with big heavy limbs, tall ones - suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones with the - whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and others who were - pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, silly smile, all - swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the anxious mien of the - bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she may not find a - purchaser. They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, radiant with - internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, but clouding over and - casting black glances at their companions when the latter seemed to have - the better chance. Out of the dozen the doctor began by setting three - aside, and finally he detained but one, in order that he might study her - more fully. - </p> - <p> - “One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business,” Madame - Broquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile. “I don’t often - have such pearls. But she has only just arrived, otherwise she would - probably have been engaged already. I can answer for her as I could for - myself, for I have put her out before.” - </p> - <p> - The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, built - strongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-looking jaw. - Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairly well. - </p> - <p> - “So that child is not your first one?” asked the doctor. - </p> - <p> - “No, monsieur, he’s my third.” - </p> - <p> - Then Boutan inquired into her circumstances, studied her papers, took her - into Madame Broquette’s private room for examination, and on his return - make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, some three - months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on an armchair. - The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his head to ask, “And - that child is really your own?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! monsieur, where could I have got him otherwise?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! my girl, children are borrowed, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Then he paused for a moment, still hesitating and looking at the young - woman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed to embody - all requirements. “And are you all quite well in your family?” he asked; - “have none of your relatives ever died of chest complaints?” - </p> - <p> - “Never, monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, of course you would not tell me if they had. Your books ought to - contain a page for information of that kind. And you, are you of sober - habits? You don’t drink?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - This time the young woman bristled up, and Boutan had to calm her. Then - her face brightened with pleasure as soon as the doctor—with the - gesture of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one may be - there is always an element of chance in such matters—said to her: - “Well, it is understood, I engage you. If you can send your child away at - once, you can go this evening to the address I will give you. Let me see, - what is your name?” - </p> - <p> - “Marie Lebleu.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Broquette, who, without presuming to interfere with a doctor, had - retained her majestic air which so fully proclaimed the high - respectability of her establishment, now turned towards her daughter: - “Herminie, go to see if Madame Couteau is still there.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as the girl slowly raised her pale dreamy eyes without stirring from - her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had better execute - the commission herself. A moment later she came back with La Couteau. - </p> - <p> - The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for the - nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and - Madame Broquette’s charges. Then there was the question of her child’s - return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without counting - a gratuity to La Couteau. - </p> - <p> - “I’m going back this evening,” said the latter; “I’m quite willing to take - the little one with me. In the Avenue d’Antin, did you say? Oh! I know, - there’s a lady’s maid from my district in that house. Marie can go there - at once. When I’ve settled my business, in a couple of hours, I will go - and rid her of her baby.” - </p> - <p> - On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu, - without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his chair - silently watching the scene—first an inspection as of cattle at a - market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother’s milk. And by degrees - pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed through him - when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking child, of which she - promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured her with her five - companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, like some voracious - crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was the pillaging beginning - afresh; life and hope were again being stolen from Paris. And this time, - as the doctor said, a double murder was threatened; for, however careful - one may be, the employer’s child often dies from another’s milk, and the - nurse’s child, carried back into the country like a parcel, is killed with - neglect and indigestible pap. - </p> - <p> - But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion drove - away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene works, - came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, the - accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by his - daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow of - Valerie’s funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of - prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he had - abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big fortune - elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his flat, though - it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive. But then his - wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain in them. And, - moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all comfort. All the - affection of his weak heart was now given to that child, whose resemblance - to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at her for hours with tears in - his eyes. A great passion was springing up within him; his one dream now - was to dower her richly and seek happiness through her, if indeed he could - ever be happy again. Thus feelings of avarice had come to him; he - economized with respect to everything that was not connected with her, and - secretly sought supplementary work in order that he might give her more - luxury and increase her dower. Without her he would have died of weariness - and self-abandonment. She was indeed fast becoming his very life. - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes,” said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which - Boutan put to her, “it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to - be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other - wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn’t stir.” - </p> - <p> - Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as he - was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of a - collection of his wife’s portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing her - at all ages, which he had hung on the walls. - </p> - <p> - “It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange,” said Boutan, “you do right in - taking a stroll.” - </p> - <p> - The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the sun as - if he had not previously noticed it. “That is true, it is fine weather—and - besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little.” - </p> - <p> - Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her black - mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored during the - long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant. To him - solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned, and whom - he accused himself of having killed. - </p> - <p> - “Papa won’t believe that one never feels <i>ennui</i> at my age,” said the - girl gayly. “Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be a - little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me out.” - </p> - <p> - Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the curb. - A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her. - </p> - <p> - “Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and - Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here.” - </p> - <p> - This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to the - carriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughter had - sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusively thanking - the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear child was going to - amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till it disappeared, he - entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, as if his grief - had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelming him that he quite - forgot the others, and did not even take leave of them. - </p> - <p> - “Poor fellow!” muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeing - Seraphine’s bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window. - </p> - <p> - Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from one of - the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair of them - found Constance and Maurice in the little drawing-room, whither the father - had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutan immediately - attended to the child, who was much better with respect to his legs, but - who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, the slightest departure - from the prescribed diet leading to troublesome complications. - </p> - <p> - Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxious about - the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with all - eagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on one side. - </p> - <p> - “I say,” he began, laughing, “why did you not tell me that everything was - finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the street yesterday.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order to - render an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the first to - raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenses had - proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he could produce - receipts for his various disbursements. He was already entering into - particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him. - </p> - <p> - “You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask for - work, not of me of course, but of the foreman of the women’s work-room. - Fortunately I had foreseen this and had given strict orders; so the - foreman told her that considerations of order and discipline prevented him - from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be married next - week, is still working here. Just fancy them having another set-to! - Besides, her place is not here.” - </p> - <p> - Then he went to take a little glass of cognac which stood on the - mantelpiece. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving Madame - Bourdieu’s, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, not caring - to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents’ home. Besides her attempt - to regain admittance at Beauchene’s, she had applied at two other - establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince any - particular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months’ idleness and - coddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand’s life, and the - inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came back sipping - his cognac, resumed: “Yes, I met her in the street. She was quite smartly - dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded young fellow, who did - nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come to that, you know. I - always thought so.” - </p> - <p> - Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he remembered - something else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, “What - was it you were telling me about the child?” And as soon as Mathieu had - related that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so as to be - certain that it was deposited there, he warmly pressed his hand. “That’s - perfect. Thank you, my dear fellow; I shall be at peace now.” - </p> - <p> - He felt, indeed, intensely relieved, hummed a lively air, and then took - his stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. She was - holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with the - jealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the health - of her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industry and - wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, she - exclaimed: “Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say that a - child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution than - others, and can the better resist the ailments of childhood?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! there is no doubt of it, madame.” - </p> - <p> - Beauchene, ceasing to chew his cigar, shrugged his shoulders, and burst - into a sonorous laugh: “Oh! don’t you worry, that youngster will live to - be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as a rock! - But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass a law for - obligatory nursing by mothers?” - </p> - <p> - At this sally Boutan also began to laugh. “Well, why not?” said he. - </p> - <p> - This at once supplied Beauchene with material for innumerable jests. Why, - such a law would completely upset manners and customs, social life would - be suspended, and drawing-rooms would become deserted! Posters would be - placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: “Closed on account of - nursing.” - </p> - <p> - “Briefly,” said Beauchene, in conclusion, “you want to have a revolution.” - </p> - <p> - “A revolution, yes,” the doctor gently replied, “and we will effect it.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - X - </h2> - <p> - MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivation - of Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all the - audacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warned - Beauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the - month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had found him - quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acres around it - on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin’s affairs were in a - very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gaming table and - spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a most disastrous life - since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomed the transaction - which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that the young man would end by - ridding him of the whole of that unprofitable estate should his first - experiment prove successful. Then came other interviews between them, and - Seguin finally consented to sell on a system of annual payments, spread - over a term of years, the first to be made in two years’ time from that - date. As things stood, the property seemed likely to remain unremunerative - forever, and so there was nothing risked in allowing the purchaser a - couple of years’ credit. However, they agreed to meet once more and settle - the final details before a formal deed of sale was drawn up. And one - Monday morning, therefore, about ten o’clock, Mathieu set out for the - house in the Avenue d’Antin in order to complete the business. - </p> - <p> - That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid received in the linen room, - where she usually remained, a visit from her friend Madame Menoux, the - little haberdasher of the neighborhood, in whose tiny shop she was so fond - of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever since La Couteau, at - Celeste’s instigation, had taken Madame Menoux’s child, Pierre, to - Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possible way for the - sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also very complaisantly - promised to call each month at one or another of her journeys in order to - receive the thirty francs, thereby saving the mother the trouble of - sending the money by post, and also enabling her to obtain fresh news of - her child. Thus, each time a payment became due, if La Couteau’s journey - happened to be delayed a single day, Madame Menoux grew terribly - frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to make inquiries of her. And, - moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity of conversing with this - girl, who came from the very part where her little Pierre was being - reared. - </p> - <p> - “You will excuse, me, won’t you, mademoiselle, for calling so early,” said - she, “but you told me that your lady never required you before nine - o’clock. And I’ve come, you know, because I’ve had no news from over - yonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received a - letter.” - </p> - <p> - Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poor - clerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad, - expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang her - passionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could have - crushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she was - endowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would have killed - herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognac which he - liked to sip after each repast. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! it’s hard,” she continued, “to have had to send our Pierre so far - away. As it is, I don’t see my husband all day, and now I’ve a child whom - I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, and how - could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, where from - morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can’t help - crying at the thought that I wasn’t able to keep and nurse him. When my - husband comes home from the museum every evening, we do nothing but talk - about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, mademoiselle, - that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are never any nasty - illnesses about there?” - </p> - <p> - But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another early - visitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it was of - mine to call here!” - </p> - <p> - Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that she - had arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had started on - her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the Rue - Roquepine. - </p> - <p> - “After bidding Celeste good-day in passing,” said she, “I intended to call - on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle our accounts - here, if you are agreeable.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. “And how is my - little Pierre?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of the strongest; - one can’t say that he’s a big child. Only he’s so pretty and nice-looking - with his rather pale face. And it’s quite certain that if there are bigger - babies than he is, there are smaller ones too.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words which - might render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. These - were her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers’ hearts, and then - extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion she must - have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe a slight - illness to the child. - </p> - <p> - “However, I must really tell you, because I don’t know how to lie; and - besides, after all, it’s my duty—Well, the poor little darling has - been ill, and he’s not quite well again yet.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: “<i>Mon - Dieu</i>! he will die of it.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, since I tell you that he’s already a little better. And certainly - he doesn’t lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseau coddles him! - When children are well behaved they soon get themselves loved. And the - whole house is at his service, and no expense is spared The doctor came - twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costs money.” - </p> - <p> - The last words fell from La Couteau’s lips with the weight of a club. - Then, without leaving the scared, trembling mother time to recover, the - nurse-agent continued: “Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?” - </p> - <p> - Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning to her - shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked for a slip of - paper on which to set down the figures; first the month’s nursing, thirty - francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, with the medicine, that - would make ten francs. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you,” added La Couteau, “that so much - linen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add three - francs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there were - other little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to act like - a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francs - altogether, will that suit you?” - </p> - <p> - In spite of her emotion Madame Menoux felt that she was being robbed, that - the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of surprise - and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money—that money - which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had to be - sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the necessity - of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the other, would - have touched the hardest heart. - </p> - <p> - “But that will make another half-month’s money,” said she. - </p> - <p> - At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: “Well, what would you have? - It isn’t my fault. One can’t let your child die, so one must incur the - necessary expenses. And then, if you haven’t confidence in me, say so; - send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly relieve - me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I’m always - stupid enough to be too obliging.” - </p> - <p> - When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another - difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc pieces - and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the table. La - Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I can’t give you your five francs change,” she said, “I haven’t any - change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this lady?” - </p> - <p> - She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such a - glance that the other immediately understood her. “I have not a copper in - my pocket,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel - resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her. - </p> - <p> - “Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to - take so much trouble. And, <i>mon Dieu</i>! may all this money bring me - good luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine - handsome man like his father.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! as for that I’ll warrant it,” cried the other, with enthusiasm. - “Those little ailments don’t mean anything—on the contrary. I see - plenty of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, yours - will become an extraordinarily fine child. There won’t be better.” - </p> - <p> - When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and - such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer - regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would - come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak. - </p> - <p> - As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began to - laugh in her impudent way: “What a lot of fibs you told her! I don’t - believe that her child so much as caught a cold,” she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air: “Say that I’m a liar at - once. The child isn’t well, I assure you.” - </p> - <p> - The maid’s gayety only increased at this. “Well now, you are really - comical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I know - what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle.” - </p> - <p> - “The child is quite puny,” repeated her friend, more gently. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I can believe that. All the same I should like to see the doctor’s - prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar. But, you know, I don’t care a - button about the matter. As for that little Madame Menoux, it’s here - to-day and gone to-morrow. She has her business, and I have mine. And you, - too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out of it as - you can.” - </p> - <p> - But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she could - not give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling did upset - her stomach so. Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottle half-full - of malaga and a box of biscuits from the bottom of a cupboard. This was - her little secret store, stolen from the still-room. Then, as the other - expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, she made a gesture - of insolent contempt. Her mistress! Why, she had her nose in her basins - and perfumery pots, and wasn’t at all likely to call till she had fixed - herself up so as to look pretty. - </p> - <p> - “There are only the children to fear,” added Celeste; “that Gaston and - that Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because their - parents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or in - the kitchen from morning till night. And I don’t dare lock this door, for - fear they should come rapping and kicking at it.” - </p> - <p> - When, by way of precaution, she had glanced down the passage and they had - both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out their minds, - soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everything as if quite - unconscious how abominable it was. While sipping her wine Celeste asked - for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutal truth, between - two biscuits. It was at the Vimeux’ house that the servant’s last child, - born in La Rouche’s den, had died a fortnight after arriving at Rougemont, - and the Vimeux, who were more or less her cousins, had sent her their - friendly remembrances and the news that they were about to marry off their - daughter. Then, at La Gavette’s, the old grandfather, who looked after the - nurslings while the family was at work in the fields, had fallen into the - fire with a baby in his arms. Fortunately they had been pulled out of it, - and only the little one had been roasted. La Cauchois, though at heart she - wasn’t downcast, now had some fears that she might be worried, because - four little ones had gone off from her house all in a body, a window being - forgetfully left open at night-time. They were all four little Parisians, - it seemed—two foundlings and two that had come from Madame - Bourdieu’s. Since the beginning of the year as many had died at Rougemont - as had arrived there, and the mayor had declared that far too many were - dying, and that the village would end by getting a bad reputation. One - thing was certain, La Couillard would be the very first to receive a visit - from the gendarmes if she didn’t so arrange matters as to keep at least - one nursling alive every now and then. - </p> - <p> - “Ah? that Couillard!” added the nurse-agent. “Just fancy, my dear, I took - her a child, a perfect little angel—the boy of a very pretty young - person who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu’s. She paid four hundred francs - to have him brought up until his first communion, and he lived just five - days! Really now, that wasn’t long enough! La Couillard need not have been - so hasty. It put me in such a temper! I asked her if she wanted to - dishonor me. What will ruin me is my good heart. I don’t know how to - refuse when folks ask me to do them a service. And God in Heaven knows how - fond I am of children! I’ve always lived among them, and in future, if - anybody who’s a friend of mine gives me a child to put out to nurse, I - shall say: ‘We won’t take the little one to La Couillard, for it would be - tempting Providence. But after all, I’m an honest woman, and I wash my - hands of it, for if I do take the cherubs over yonder I don’t nurse them. - And when one’s conscience is at ease one can sleep quietly.’” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” chimed in Celeste, with an air of conviction. - </p> - <p> - While they thus waxed maudlin over their malaga, there arose a horrible - red vision—a vision of that terrible Rougemont, paved with little - Parisians, the filthy, bloody village, the charnel-place of cowardly - murder, whose steeple pointed so peacefully to the skies in the midst of - the far-spreading plain. - </p> - <p> - But all at once a rush was heard in the passage, and the servant hastened - to the door to rid herself of Gaston and Lucie, who were approaching. “Be - off! I don’t want you here. Your mamma has told you that you mustn’t come - here.” - </p> - <p> - Then she came back into the room quite furious. “That’s true!” said she; - “I can do nothing but they must come to bother me. Why don’t they stay a - little with the nurse?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! by the way,” interrupted La Couteau, “did you hear that Marie - Lebleu’s little one is dead? She must have had a letter about it. Such a - fine child it was! But what can one expect? it’s a nasty wind passing. And - then you know the saying, ‘A nurse’s child is the child of sacrifice!’” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, she told me she had heard of it,” replied Celeste, “but she begged - me not to mention it to madame, as such things always have a bad effect. - The worst is that if her child’s dead madame’s little one isn’t much - better off.” - </p> - <p> - At this La Couteau pricked up her ears. “Ah! so things are not - satisfactory?” - </p> - <p> - “No, indeed. It isn’t on account of her milk; that’s good enough, and she - has plenty of it. Only you never saw such a creature—such a temper! - always brutal and insolent, banging the doors and talking of smashing - everything at the slightest word. And besides, she drinks like a pig—as - no woman ought to drink.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau’s pale eyes sparkled with gayety, and she briskly nodded her - head as if to say that she knew all this and had been expecting it. In - that part of Normandy, in and around Rougemont, all the women drank more - or less, and the girls even carried little bottles of brandy to school - with them in their baskets. Marie Lebleu, however, was a woman of the kind - that one picks up under the table, and, indeed, it might be said that - since the birth of her last child she had never been quite sober. - </p> - <p> - “I know her, my dear,” exclaimed La Couteau; “she is impossible. But then, - that doctor who chose her didn’t ask my opinion. And, besides, it isn’t a - matter that concerns me. I simply bring her to Paris and take her child - back to the country. I know nothing about anything else. Let the - gentlefolks get out of their trouble by themselves.” - </p> - <p> - This sentiment tickled Celeste, who burst out laughing. “You haven’t an - idea,” said she, “of the infernal life that Marie leads here! She fights - people, she threw a water-bottle at the coachman, she broke a big vase in - madame’s apartments, she makes them all tremble with constant dread that - something awful may happen. And, then, if you knew what tricks she plays - to get something to drink! For it was found out that she drank, and all - the liqueurs were put under lock and key. So you don’t know what she - devised? Well, last week she drained a whole bottle of Eau de Melisse, and - was ill, quite ill, from it. Another time she was caught sipping some Eau - de Cologne from one of the bottles in madame’s dressing-room. I now really - believe that she treats herself to some of the spirits of wine that are - given her for the warmer!—it’s enough to make one die of laughing. - I’m always splitting my sides over it, in my little corner.” - </p> - <p> - Then she laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and La Couteau, on her - side highly amused, began to wriggle with a savage delight. All at once, - however, she calmed down and exclaimed, “But, I say, they will turn her - out of doors?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! that won’t be long. They would have done so already if they had - dared.” - </p> - <p> - But at this moment the ringing of a bell was heard, and an oath escaped - Celeste. “Good! there’s madame ringing for me now! One can never be at - peace for a moment.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau, however, was already standing up, quite serious, intent on - business and ready to depart. - </p> - <p> - “Come, little one, don’t be foolish, you must do your work. For my part I - have an idea. I’ll run to fetch one of the nurses whom I brought this - morning, a girl I can answer for as for myself. In an hour’s time I’ll be - back here with her, and there will be a little present for you if you help - me to get her the situation.” - </p> - <p> - She disappeared while the maid, before answering a second ring, leisurely - replaced the malaga and the biscuits at the bottom of the cupboard. - </p> - <p> - At ten o’clock that day Seguin was to take his wife and their friend - Santerre to Mantes, to lunch there, by way of trying an electric - motor-car, which he had just had built at considerable expense. He had - become fond of this new “sport,” less from personal taste, however, than - from his desire to be one of the foremost in taking up a new fashion. And - a quarter of an hour before the time fixed for starting he was already in - his spacious “cabinet,” arrayed in what he deemed an appropriate costume: - a jacket and breeches of greenish ribbed velvet, yellow shoes, and a - little leather hat. And he poked fun at Santerre when the latter presented - himself in town attire, a light gray suit of delicate effect. - </p> - <p> - Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, the novelist - had again become a constant frequenter of the house in the Avenue d’Antin. - He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that he had begun there and - felt confident of victory. Valentine, on her side, after a period of - terror followed by great relief, had set about making up for lost time, - throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortex of fashionable - life. She had recovered her good looks and youthfulness, and had never - before experienced such a desire to divert herself, leaving her children - more and more to the care of servants, and going about, hither and - thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since her husband did the same - in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, which broke out every now - and again in the most imbecile fashion without the slightest cause. It was - the collapse of all family life, with the threat of a great disaster in - the future; and Santerre lived there in the midst of it, helping on the - work of destruction. - </p> - <p> - He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance gowned - in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her head. But - she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that she would - be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree, and given - her last orders to the nurse. - </p> - <p> - “Well, make haste,” cried her husband. “You are quite unbearable, you are - never ready.” - </p> - <p> - It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in - order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business - matters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he was - willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to - stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right of - purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and at fixed - dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this proposal - when he was cut short by a sudden tumult—distant shouts, wild - hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors. - </p> - <p> - “Why! what is it? what is it?” he muttered, turning towards the shaking - walls. - </p> - <p> - The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with - fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled - in her arms. - </p> - <p> - “There, there, my pet,” gasped the mother, “don’t cry, she shan’t hurt you - any more. There, it’s nothing, darling; be quiet, do.” - </p> - <p> - Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at once - became quiet again. She was a very pretty child, but still so puny, - although nearly four months old, that there seemed to be nothing but her - beautiful big eyes in her pale little face. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what is the matter?” asked Seguin, in astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across the - cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. If I had - been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at ten o’clock - in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticed that she - drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able to keep her, - since her milk is so good. But do you know what she had drunk? Why, the - methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle had remained beside - her.” - </p> - <p> - “But what did she say to you?” - </p> - <p> - “She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in a - drunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escape - with the little one, while she began barricading herself in the room, - where she is now smashing the furniture! There! just listen!” - </p> - <p> - Indeed, a distant uproar of destruction reached them. They looked one at - the other, and deep silence fell, full of embarrassment and alarm. - </p> - <p> - “And then?” Seguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can’t leave - Andree in her charge to be killed by her. I have brought the child here, - and I certainly shall not take her back. I will even own that I won’t run - the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girl out of - doors, after paying her wages.” - </p> - <p> - “I! I!” cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the - anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: “I’ve had enough, you - know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect hell - upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but fighting - here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended that the nurse - whom I took the trouble to choose wasn’t healthy. Well, then a second - nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the child. And now, I - suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile creature who will prey on - us and drive us mad. No, no, it’s too exasperating, I won’t have it.” - </p> - <p> - Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. “What won’t you have? - There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have a - nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have - told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable - than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But I - won’t nurse—I can’t. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it’s - simple enough, and we’ll do so at once and risk it.” - </p> - <p> - Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight - of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he - perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, who - had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, full - of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they - remained there, and saw and heard everything. - </p> - <p> - “The carriage is waiting,” resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to - render calm. “Let us make haste, let us go.” - </p> - <p> - Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. “Come, be reasonable,” said she. - “How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust her?” - </p> - <p> - “The carriage is waiting for us,” he repeated, quivering; “let us go at - once.” - </p> - <p> - And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her shoulders, - he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which impelled him - to the greatest violence, even when people were present, and made him - openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd jealousy which had - upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing child, he would have - crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of everything, and indeed it was - she who was now the obstacle to that excursion he had planned, that - pleasure trip which he had promised himself, and which now seemed to him - of such supreme importance. And ‘twas so much the better if friends were - there to hear him. So in the vilest language he began to upbraid his wife, - not only reproaching her for the birth of that child, but even denying - that the child was his. “You will only be content when you have driven me - from the house!” he finished in a fury. “You won’t come? Well then, I’ll - go by myself!” - </p> - <p> - And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to Santerre, - who had remained silent, and without even remembering that Mathieu still - stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in consternation at hearing - all these things, had not dared to withdraw lest by doing so he should - seem to be passing judgment on the scene. Standing there motionless, he - turned his head aside, looked at little Andree who was still crying, and - at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with fright, pressed one against the - other behind the armchair in which their sister was wailing. - </p> - <p> - Valentine had sunk upon a chair, stifling with sobs, her limbs trembling. - “The wretch! Ah, how he treats me! To accuse me thus, when he knows how - false it is! Ah! never more; no, never more! I would rather kill myself; - yes, kill myself!” - </p> - <p> - Then Santerre, who had hitherto stood on one side, gently drew near to her - and ventured to take her hand with a gesture of affectionate compassion, - while saying in an undertone: “Come, calm yourself. You know very well - that you are not alone, that you are not forsaken. There are some things - which cannot touch you. Calm yourself, cease weeping, I beg you. You - distress me dreadfully.” - </p> - <p> - He made himself the more gentle since the husband had been the more - brutal; and he leant over her yet the more closely, and again lowered his - voice till it became but a murmur. Only a few words could be heard: “It is - wrong of you to worry yourself like this. Forget all that folly. I told - you before that he doesn’t know how to behave towards a woman.” - </p> - <p> - Twice was that last remark repeated with a sort of mocking pity; and she - smiled vaguely amid her drying tears, in her turn murmuring: “You are - kind, you are. Thank you. And you are quite right.... Ah! if I could only - be a little happy!” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu distinctly saw her press Santerre’s hand as if in acceptance - of his consolation. It was the logical, fatal outcome of the situation—given - a wife whom her husband had perverted, a mother who refused to nurse her - babe. And yet a cry from Andree suddenly set Valentine erect, awaking to - the reality of her position. If that poor creature were so puny, dying for - lack of her mother’s milk, the mother also was in danger from her refusal - to nurse her and clasp her to her breast like a buckler of invincible - defence. Life and salvation one through the other, or disaster for both, - such was the law. And doubtless Valentine became clearly conscious of her - peril, for she hastened to take up the child and cover her with caresses, - as if to make of her a protecting rampart against the supreme madness to - which she had felt prompted. And great was the distress that came over - her. Her other children were there, looking and listening, and Mathieu - also was still waiting. When she perceived him her tears gushed forth - again, and she strove to explain things, and even attempted to defend her - husband. - </p> - <p> - “Excuse him, there are moments when he quite loses his head. <i>Mon Dieu</i>! - What will become of me with this child? Yet I can’t nurse her now, it is - too late. It is frightful to be in such a position without knowing what to - do. Ah! what will become of me, good Lord?” - </p> - <p> - Santerre again attempted to console her, but she no longer listened to - him, and he was about to defer all further efforts till another time when - unexpected intervention helped on his designs. - </p> - <p> - Celeste, who had entered noiselessly, stood there waiting for her mistress - to allow her to speak. “It is my friend who has come to see me, madame,” - said she; “you know, the person from my village, Sophie Couteau, and as - she happens to have a nurse with her—” - </p> - <p> - “There is a nurse here?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! yes, madame, a very fine one, an excellent one.” - </p> - <p> - Then, on perceiving her mistress’s radiant surprise, her joy at this - relief, she showed herself zealous: “Madame must not tire herself by - holding the little one. Madame hasn’t the habit. If madame will allow me, - I will bring the nurse to her.” - </p> - <p> - Heaving a sigh of happy deliverance, Valentine had allowed the servant to - take the child from her. So Heaven had not abandoned her! However, she - began to discuss the matter, and was not inclined to have the nurse - brought there. She somehow feared that if the other one, who was drunk in - her room, should come out and meet the new arrival, she would set about - beating them all and breaking everything. At last she insisted on taking - Santerre and Mathieu into the linen-room, saying that the latter must - certainly have some knowledge of these matters, although he declared the - contrary. Only Gaston and Lucie were formally forbidden to follow. - </p> - <p> - “You are not wanted,” said their mother, “so stay here and play. But we - others will all go, and as softly as possible, please, so that that - drunken creature may not suspect anything.” - </p> - <p> - Once in the linen-room, Valentine ordered all the doors to be carefully - secured. La Couteau was standing there with a sturdy young person of - five-and-twenty, who carried a superb-looking infant in her arms. She had - dark hair, a low forehead, and a broad face, and was very respectably - dressed. And she made a little courtesy like a well-trained nurse, who has - already served with gentlefolks and knows how to behave. But Valentine’s - embarrassment remained extreme; she looked at the nurse and at the babe - like an ignorant woman who, though her elder children had been brought up - in a room adjoining her own, had never troubled or concerned herself about - anything. In her despair, seeing that Santerre kept to himself, she again - appealed to Mathieu, who once more excused himself. And it was only then - that La Couteau, after glancing askance at the gentleman who, somehow or - other, always turned up whenever she had business to transact, ventured to - intervene: - </p> - <p> - “Will madame rely on me? If madame will kindly remember, I once before - ventured to offer her my services, and if she had accepted them she would - have saved herself no end of worry. That Marie Lebleu is impossible, and I - certainly could have warned madame of it at the time when I came to fetch - Marie’s child. But since madame’s doctor had chosen her, it was not for me - to speak. Oh! she has good milk, that’s quite sure; only she also has a - good tongue, which is always dry. So if madame will now place confidence - in me—” - </p> - <p> - Then she rattled on interminably, expatiating on the respectability of her - calling, and praising the value of the goods she offered. - </p> - <p> - “Well, madame, I tell you that you can take La Catiche with your eyes - shut. She’s exactly what you want, there’s no better in Paris. Just look - how she’s built, how sturdy and how healthy she is! And her child, just - look at it! She’s married, she even has a little girl of four at the - village with her husband. She’s a respectable woman, which is more than - can be said for a good many nurses. In a word, madame, I know her and can - answer for her. If you are not pleased with her I myself will give you - your money back.” - </p> - <p> - In her haste to get it all over Valentine made a great gesture of - surrender. She even consented to pay one hundred francs a month, since La - Catiche was a married woman. Moreover, La Couteau explained that she would - not have to pay the office charges, which would mean a saving of - forty-five francs, though, perhaps, madame would not forget all the - trouble which she, La Couteau, had taken. On the other hand, there would, - of course, be the expense of taking La Catiche’s child back to the - village, a matter of thirty francs. Valentine liberally promised to double - that sum; and all seemed to be settled, and she felt delivered, when she - suddenly bethought herself of the other nurse, who had barricaded herself - in her room. How could they get her out in order to install La Catiche in - her place? - </p> - <p> - “What!” exclaimed La Couteau, “does Marie Lebleu frighten you? She had - better not give me any of her nonsense if she wants me ever to find her - another situation. I’ll speak to her, never fear.” - </p> - <p> - Celeste thereupon placed Andree on a blanket, which was lying there, side - by side with the infant of which the new nurse had rid herself a moment - previously, and undertook to conduct La Couteau to Marie Lebleu’s room. - Deathlike silence now reigned there, but the nurse-agent only had to give - her name to secure admittance. She went in, and for a few moments one only - heard her dry curt voice. Then, on coming out, she tranquillized - Valentine, who had gone to listen, trembling. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve sobered her, I can tell you,” said she. “Pay her her month’s wages. - She’s packing her box and going off.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as they went back into the linen-room, Valentine settled pecuniary - matters and added five francs for this new service. But a final difficulty - arose. La Couteau could not come back to fetch La Catiche’s child in the - evening, and what was she to do with it during the rest of the day? “Well, - no matter,” she said at last, “I’ll take it; I’ll deposit it at the - office, before I go my round. They’ll give it a bottle there, and it’ll - have to grow accustomed to the bottle now, won’t it?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” the mother quietly replied. - </p> - <p> - Then, as La Couteau, on the point of leaving, after all sorts of bows and - thanks, turned round to take the little one, she made a gesture of - hesitation on seeing the two children lying side by side on the blanket. - </p> - <p> - “The devil!” she murmured; “I mustn’t make a mistake.” - </p> - <p> - This seemed amusing, and enlivened the others. Celeste fairly exploded, - and even La Catiche grinned broadly; while La Couteau caught up the child - with her long claw-like hands and carried it away. Yet another gone, to be - carted away yonder in one of those ever-recurring <i>razzias</i> which - consigned the little babes to massacre! - </p> - <p> - Mathieu alone had not laughed. He had suddenly recalled his conversation - with Boutan respecting the demoralizing effects of that nurse trade, the - shameful bargaining, the common crime of two mothers, who each risked the - death of her child—the idle mother who bought another’s services, - the venal mother who sold her milk. He felt cold at heart as he saw one - child carried off still full of life, and the other remain there already - so puny. And what would be fate’s course? Would not one or the other, - perhaps both of them be sacrificed? - </p> - <p> - Valentine, however, was already leading both him and Santerre to the - spacious salon again; and she was so delighted, so fully relieved, that - she had recovered all her cavalier carelessness, her passion for noise and - pleasure. And as Mathieu was about to take his leave, he heard the - triumphant Santerre saying to her, while for a moment he retained her hand - in his clasp: “Till to-morrow, then.” And she, who had cast her buckler of - defence aside, made answer: “Yes—yes, to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - A week later La Catiche was the acknowledged queen of the house. Andree - had recovered a little color, and was increasing in weight daily. And in - presence of this result the others bowed low indeed. There was every - disposition to overlook all possible faults on the nurse’s part. She was - the third, and a fourth would mean the child’s death; so that she was an - indispensable, a providential helper, one whose services must be retained - at all costs. Moreover, she seemed to have no defects, for she was a calm, - cunning, peasant woman, one who knew how to rule her employers and extract - from them all that was to be extracted. Her conquest of the Seguins was - effected with extraordinary skill. At first some unpleasantness seemed - likely, because Celeste was, on her own side, pursuing a similar course; - but they were both too intelligent to do otherwise than come to an - understanding. As their departments were distinct, they agreed that they - could prosecute parallel invasions. And from that moment they even helped - one another, divided the empire, and preyed upon the house in company. - </p> - <p> - La Catiche sat upon a throne, served by the other domestics, with her - employers at her feet. The finest dishes were for her; she had her special - wine, her special bread, she had everything most delicate and most - nourishing that could be found. Gluttonous, slothful, and proud, she - strutted about, bending one and all to her fancies. The others gave way to - her in everything to avoid sending her into a temper which might have - spoilt her milk. At her slightest indisposition everybody was distracted. - One night she had an attack of indigestion, and all the doctors in the - neighborhood were rung up to attend on her. Her only real defect, perhaps, - was a slight inclination for pilfering; she appropriated some linen that - was lying about, but madame would not hear of the matter being mentioned. - </p> - <p> - There was also the chapter of the presents which were heaped on her in - order to keep her in good temper. Apart from the regulation present when - the child cut its first tooth, advantage was taken of various other - occasions, and a ring, a brooch, and a pair of earrings were given her. - Naturally she was the most adorned nurse in the Champs-Elysees, with - superb cloaks and the richest of caps, trimmed with long ribbons which - flared in the sunlight. Never did lady lead a life of more sumptuous - idleness. There were also the presents which she extracted for her husband - and her little girl at the village. Parcels were sent them by express - train every week. And on the morning when news came that her own baby, - carried back by La Couteau, had died from the effects of a bad cold, she - was presented with fifty francs as if in payment for the loss of her - child. Little Andree, meanwhile, grew ever stronger, and thus La Catiche - rose higher and higher, with the whole house bending low beneath her - tyrannical sway. - </p> - <p> - On the day when Mathieu called to sign the deed which was to insure him - the possession of the little pavilion of Chantebled with some fifty acres - around it, and the privilege of acquiring other parts of the estate on - certain conditions, he found Seguin on the point of starting for Le Havre, - where a friend, a wealthy Englishman, was waiting for him with his yacht, - in order that they might have a month’s trip round the coast of Spain. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Seguin feverishly, alluding to some recent heavy losses at the - gaming table, “I’m leaving Paris for a time—I have no luck here just - now. But I wish you plenty of courage and all success, my dear sir. You - know how much I am interested in the attempt you are about to make.” - </p> - <p> - A little later that same day Mathieu was crossing the Champs-Elysees, - eager to join Marianne at Chantebled, moved as he was by the decisive step - he had taken, yet quivering also with faith and hope, when in a deserted - avenue he espied a cab waiting, and recognized Santerre inside it. Then, - as a veiled lady furtively sprang into the vehicle, he turned round - wondering: Was that not Valentine? And as the cab drove off he felt - convinced it was. - </p> - <p> - There came other meetings when he reached the main avenue; first Gaston - and Lucie, already tired of play, and dragging about their puny limbs - under the careless supervision of Celeste, who was busy laughing with a - grocer’s man; while farther off La Catiche, superb and royal, decked out - like the idol of venal motherhood, was giving little Andree an outing, - with her long purple ribbons streaming victoriously in the sunshine. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XI - </h2> - <p> - ON the day when the first blow with the pick was dealt, Marianne, with - Gervais in her arms, came and sat down close by, full of happy emotion at - this work of faith and hope which Mathieu was so boldly undertaking. It - was a clear, warm day in the middle of June, with a pure, broad sky that - encouraged confidence. And as the children had been given a holiday, they - played about in the surrounding grass, and one could hear the shrill cries - of little Rose while she amused herself with running after the three boys. - </p> - <p> - “Will you deal the first blow?” Mathieu gayly asked his wife. - </p> - <p> - But she pointed to her baby. “No, no, I have my work. Deal it yourself, - you are the father.” - </p> - <p> - He stood there with two men under his orders, but ready himself to - undertake part of the hard manual toil in order to help on the realization - of his long thought of, ripening scheme. With great prudence and wisdom he - had assured himself a modest livelihood for a year of effort, by an - intelligent scheme of association and advances repayable out of profits, - which would enable him to wait for his first harvest. And it was his life - that he risked on that future crop, should the earth refuse his worship - and his labor. But he was a faithful believer, one who felt certain of - conquering, since love and determination were his. - </p> - <p> - “Well then, here goes!” he gallantly cried. “May the earth prove a good - mother to us!” - </p> - <p> - Then he dealt the first blow with his pick. - </p> - <p> - The work was begun to the left of the old pavilion, in a corner of that - extensive marshy tableland, where little streams coursed on all sides - through the reeds which sprang up everywhere. It was at first simply a - question of draining a few acres by capturing these streams and turning - them into canals, in order to direct them afterwards over the dry sandy - slopes which descended towards the railway line. After an attentive - examination Mathieu had discovered that the work might easily be executed, - and that water-furrows would suffice, such was the disposition and nature - of the ground. This, indeed, was his real discovery, not to mention the - layer of humus which he felt certain would be found amassed on the - plateau, and the wondrous fertility which it would display as soon as a - ploughshare had passed through it. And so with his pick he now began to - open the trench which was to drain the damp soil above, and fertilize the - dry, sterile, thirsty ground below. - </p> - <p> - The open air, however, had doubtless given Gervais an appetite, for he - began to cry. He was now a strong little fellow, three months and a half - old, and never neglected mealtime. He was growing like one of the young - trees in the neighboring wood, with hands which did not easily release - what they grasped, with eyes too full of light, now all laughter and now - all tears, and with the ever open beak of a greedy bird, that raised a - tempest whenever his mother kept him waiting. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, I know you are there,” said she; “come, don’t deafen us any - longer.” - </p> - <p> - Then she gave him the breast and he became quiet, simply purring like a - happy little kitten. The beneficent source had begun to flow once more, as - if it were inexhaustible. The trickling milk murmured unceasingly. One - might have said that it could be heard descending and spreading, while - Mathieu on his side continued opening his trench, assisted by the two men - whose apprenticeship was long since past. - </p> - <p> - He rose up at last, wiped his brow, and with his air of quiet certainty - exclaimed: “It’s only a trade to learn. In a few months’ time I shall be - nothing but a peasant. Look at that stagnant pond there, green with - water-plants. The spring which feeds it is yonder in that big tuft of - herbage. And when this trench has been opened to the edge of the slope, - you will see the pond dry up, and the spring gush forth and take its - course, carrying the beneficent water away.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Marianne, “may it fertilize all that stony expanse, for nothing - can be sadder than dead land. How happy it will be to quench its thirst - and live again!” - </p> - <p> - Then she broke off to scold Gervais: “Come, young gentleman, don’t pull so - hard,” said she. “Wait till it comes; you know very well that it’s all for - you.” - </p> - <p> - Meantime the blows of the pickaxes rang out, the trench rapidly made its - way through the fat, moist soil, and soon the water would flow into the - parched veins of the neighboring sandy tracts to endow them with - fruitfulness. And the light trickling of the mother’s milk also continued - with the faint murmur of an inexhaustible source, flowing from her breast - into the mouth of her babe, like a fountain of eternal life. It ever and - ever flowed, it created flesh, intelligence, and labor, and strength. And - soon its whispering would mingle with the babble of the delivered spring - as it descended along the trenches to the dry hot lands. And at last there - would be but one and the same stream, one and the same river, gradually - overflowing and carrying life to all the earth, a mighty river of - nourishing milk flowing through the world’s veins, creating without a - pause, and producing yet more youth and more health at each return of - springtide. - </p> - <p> - Four months later, when Mathieu and his men had finished the autumn - ploughing, there came the sowing on the same spot. Marianne was there - again, and it was such a very mild gray day that she was still able to sit - down, and once more gayly give the breast to little Gervais. He was - already eight months old and had become quite a personage. He grew a - little more every day, always in his mother’s arms, on that warm breast - whence he sucked life. He was like the seed which clings to the seed-pod - so long as it is not ripe. And at that first quiver of November, that - approach of winter through which the germs would slumber in the furrows, - he pressed his chilly little face close to his mother’s warm bosom, and - nursed on in silence as if the river of life were lost, buried deep - beneath the soil. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Marianne, laughing, “you are not warm, young gentleman, are - you? It is time for you to take up your winter quarters.” - </p> - <p> - Just then Mathieu, with his sower’s bag at his waist, was returning - towards them, scattering the seed with broad rhythmical gestures. He had - heard his wife, and he paused to say to her: “Let him nurse and sleep till - the sun comes back. He will be a man by harvest time.” And, pointing to - the great field which he was sowing with his assistants, he added: “All - this will grow and ripen when our Gervais has begun to walk and talk—just - look, see our conquest!” - </p> - <p> - He was proud of it. From ten to fifteen acres of the plateau were now rid - of the stagnant pools, cleared and levelled; and they spread out in a - brown expanse, rich with humus, while the water-furrows which intersected - them carried the streams to the neighboring slopes. Before cultivating - those dry lands one must yet wait until the moisture should have - penetrated and fertilized them. That would be the work of the future, and - thus, by degrees, life would be diffused through the whole estate. - </p> - <p> - “Evening is coming on,” resumed Mathieu, “I must make haste.” - </p> - <p> - Then he set off again, throwing the seed with his broad rhythmical - gesture. And while Marianne, gravely smiling, watched him go, it occurred - to little Rose to follow in his track, and take up handfuls of earth, - which she scattered to the wind. The three boys perceived her, and Blaise - and Denis then hastened up, followed by Ambroise, all gleefully imitating - their father’s gesture, and darting hither and thither around him. And for - a moment it was almost as if Mathieu with the sweep of his arm not only - cast the seed of expected corn into the furrows, but also sowed those dear - children, casting them here and there without cessation, so that a whole - nation of little sowers should spring up and finish populating the world. - </p> - <p> - Two months more went by, and January had arrived with a hard frost, when - one day the Froments unexpectedly received a visit from Seguin and - Beauchene, who had come to try their luck at wild-duck shooting, among - such of the ponds on the plateau as had not yet been drained. It was a - Sunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheered by - a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading - countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal - casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April’s resurrection. And, that - day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also was slumbering - in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, but plump even as - larks are in the cold weather, and waiting, he also, simply for life’s - revival, in order to reappear in all the triumph of his acquired strength. - </p> - <p> - The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, the - four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbed in a - playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, the twins, - Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces of - cardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, a - church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch the scissors, - presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself even to her hair. - In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang at intervals, - their father and mother had remained seated side by side in front of the - blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace after the week’s hard - work. - </p> - <p> - They lived there very simply, like genuine peasants, without any luxury, - any amusement, save that of being together. Their gay, bright kitchen was - redolent of that easy primitive life, lived so near the earth, which frees - one from fictitious wants, ambition, and the longing for pleasure. And no - fortune, no power could have brought such quiet delight as that afternoon - of happy intimacy, while the last-born slept so soundly and quietly that - one could not even hear him breathe. - </p> - <p> - Beauchene and Seguin broke in upon the quiet like unlucky sportsmen, with - their limbs weary and their faces and hands icy cold. Amid the - exclamations of surprise which greeted them, they complained of the folly - that had possessed them to venture out of Paris in such bleak weather. - </p> - <p> - “Just fancy, my dear fellow,” said Beauchene, “we haven’t seen a single - duck! It’s no doubt too cold. And you can’t imagine what a bitter wind - blows on the plateau, amid those ponds and bushes bristling with icicles. - So we gave up the idea of any shooting. You must give us each a glass of - hot wine, and then we’ll get back to Paris.” - </p> - <p> - Seguin, who was in even a worse humor, stood before the fire trying to - thaw himself; and while Marianne made haste to warm some wine, he began to - speak of the cleared fields which he had skirted. Under the icy covering, - however, beneath which they stiffly slumbered, hiding the seed within - them, he had guessed nothing of the truth, and already felt anxious about - this business of Mathieu’s, which looked anything but encouraging. Indeed, - he already feared that he would not be paid his purchase money, and so - made bold to speak ironically. - </p> - <p> - “I say, my dear fellow, I am afraid you have lost your time,” he began; “I - noticed it all as I went by, and it did not seem promising. But how can - you hope to reap anything from rotten soil in which only reeds have been - growing for centuries?” - </p> - <p> - “One must wait,” Mathieu quietly answered. “You must come back and see it - all next June.” - </p> - <p> - But Beauchene interrupted them. “There is a train at four o’clock, I - think,” said he; “let us make haste, for it would annoy us tremendously to - miss it, would it not, Seguin?” - </p> - <p> - So saying, he gave him a gay, meaning glance. They had doubtless planned - some little spree together, like husbands bent on availing themselves to - the utmost of the convenient pretext of a day’s shooting. Then, having - drunk some wine and feeling warmed and livelier, they began to express - astonishment at their surroundings. - </p> - <p> - “It stupefies me, my dear fellow,” declared Beauchene, “that you can live - in this awful solitude in the depth of winter. It is enough to kill - anybody. I am all in favor of work, you know; but, dash it! one must have - some amusement too.” - </p> - <p> - “But we do amuse ourselves,” said Mathieu, waving his hand round that - rustic kitchen in which centred all their pleasant family life. - </p> - <p> - The two visitors followed his gesture, and gazed in amazement at the walls - covered with utensils, at the rough furniture, and at the table on which - the children were still building their village after offering their cheeks - to be kissed. No doubt they were unable to understand what pleasure there - could possibly be there, for, suppressing a jeering laugh, they shook - their heads. To them it was really an extraordinary life, a life of most - singular taste. - </p> - <p> - “Come and see my little Gervais,” said Marianne softly. “He is asleep; - mind, you must not wake him.” - </p> - <p> - For politeness’ sake they both bent over the cradle, and expressed - surprise at finding a child but ten months old so big. He was very good, - too. Only, as soon as he should wake, he would no doubt deafen everybody. - And then, too, if a fine child like that sufficed to make life happy, how - many people must be guilty of spoiling their lives! The visitors came back - to the fireside, anxious only to be gone now that they felt enlivened. - </p> - <p> - “So it’s understood,” said Mathieu, “you won’t stay to dinner with us?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, indeed!” they exclaimed in one breath. - </p> - <p> - Then, to attenuate the discourtesy of such a cry, Beauchene began to jest, - and accepted the invitation for a later date when the warm weather should - have arrived. - </p> - <p> - “On my word of honor, we have business in Paris,” he declared. “But I - promise you that when it’s fine we will all come and spend a day here—yes, - with our wives and children. And you will then show us your work, and we - shall see if you have succeeded. So good-by! All my good wishes, my dear - fellow! Au revoir, cousin! Au revoir, children; be good!” - </p> - <p> - Then came more kisses and hand-shakes, and the two men disappeared. And - when the gentle silence had fallen once more Mathieu and Marianne again - found themselves in front of the bright fire, while the children completed - the building of their village with a great consumption of paste, and - Gervais continued sleeping soundly. Had they been dreaming? Mathieu - wondered. What sudden blast from all the shame and suffering of Paris had - blown into their far-away quiet? Outside, the country retained its icy - rigidity. The fire alone sang the song of hope in life’s future revival. - And, all at once, after a few minutes’ reverie the young man began to - speak aloud, as if he had at last just found the answer to all sorts of - grave questions which he had long since put to himself. - </p> - <p> - “But those folks don’t love; they are incapable of loving! Money, power, - ambition, pleasure—yes, all those things may be theirs, but not - love! Even the husbands who deceive their wives do not really love their - mistresses. They have never glowed with the supreme desire, the divine - desire which is the world’s very soul, the brazier of eternal life. And - that explains everything. Without desire there is no love, no courage, and - no hope. By love alone can one create. And if love be restricted in its - mission there is but failure. Yes, they lie and deceive, because they do - not love. Then they suffer and lapse into moral and physical degradation. - And at the end lies the collapse of our rotten society, which breaks up - more and more each day before our eyes. That, then, is the truth I was - seeking. It is desire and love that save. Whoever loves and creates is the - revolutionary saviour, the maker of men for the new world which will - shortly dawn.” - </p> - <p> - Never before had Mathieu so plainly understood that he and his wife were - different from others. This now struck him with extraordinary force. - Comparisons ensued, and he realized that their simple life, free from the - lust of wealth, their contempt for luxury and worldly vanities, all their - common participation in toil which made them accept and glorify life and - its duties, all that mode of existence of theirs which was at once their - joy and their strength, sprang solely from the source of eternal energy: - the love with which they glowed. If, later on, victory should remain with - them, if they should some day leave behind them work of value and health - and happiness, it would be solely because they had possessed the power of - love and the courage to love freely, harvesting, in an ever-increasing - family, both the means of support and the means of conquest. And this - sudden conviction filled Mathieu with such a glow that he leant towards - his wife, who sat there deeply moved by what he said, and kissed her - ardently upon the lips. It was divine love passing like a flaming blast. - But she, though her own eyes were sparkling, laughingly scolded him, - saying: “Hush, hush, you will wake Gervais.” - </p> - <p> - Then they remained there hand in hand, pressing each other’s fingers amid - the silence. Evening was coming on, and at last the children, their - village finished, raised cries of rapture at seeing it standing there - among bits of wood, which figured trees. And then the softened glances of - the parents strayed now through the window towards the crops sleeping - beneath the crystalline rime, and now towards their last-born’s cradle, - where hope was likewise slumbering. - </p> - <p> - Again did two long months go by. Gervais had just completed his first - year, and fine weather, setting in early, was hastening the awaking of the - earth. One morning, when Marianne and the children went to join Mathieu on - the plateau, they raised shouts of wonder, so completely had the sun - transformed the expanse in a single week. It was now all green velvet, a - thick endless carpet of sprouting corn, of tender, delicate emerald hue. - Never had such a marvellous crop been seen. And thus, as the family walked - on through the mild, radiant April morning, amid the country now roused - from winter’s sleep, and quivering with fresh youth, they all waxed merry - at the sight of that healthfulness, that progressing fruitfulness, which - promised the fulfilment of all their hopes. And their rapture yet - increased when, all at once, they noticed that little Gervais also was - awaking to life, acquiring decisive strength. As he struggled in his - little carriage and his mother removed him from it, behold! he took his - flight, and, staggering, made four steps; then hung to his father’s legs - with his little fists. A cry of extraordinary delight burst forth. - </p> - <p> - “Why! he walks, he walks!” - </p> - <p> - Ah! those first lispings of life, those successive flights of the dear - little ones; the first glance, the first smile, the first step—what - joy do they not bring to parents’ hearts! They are the rapturous <i>etapes</i> - of infancy, for which father and mother watch, which they await - impatiently, which they hail with exclamations of victory, as if each were - a conquest, a fresh triumphal entry into life. The child grows, the child - becomes a man. And there is yet the first tooth, forcing its way like a - needle-point through rosy gums; and there is also the first stammered - word, the “pa-pa,” the “mam-ma,” which one is quite ready to detect amid - the vaguest babble, though it be but the purring of a kitten, the chirping - of a bird. Life does its work, and the father and the mother are ever - wonderstruck with admiration and emotion at the sight of that - efflorescence alike of their flesh and their souls. - </p> - <p> - “Wait a moment,” said Marianne, “he will come back to me. Gervais! - Gervais!” - </p> - <p> - And after a little hesitation, a false start, the child did indeed return, - taking the four steps afresh, with arms extended and beating the air as if - they were balancing-poles. - </p> - <p> - “Gervais! Gervais!” called Mathieu in his turn. And the child went back to - him; and again and again did they want him to repeat the journey, amid - their mirthful cries, so pretty and so funny did they find him. - </p> - <p> - Then, seeing that the four other children began playing rather roughly - with him in their enthusiasm, Marianne carried him away. And once more, on - the same spot, on the young grass, did she give him the breast. And again - did the stream of milk trickle forth. - </p> - <p> - Close by that spot, skirting the new field, there passed a crossroad, in - rather bad condition, leading to a neighboring village. And on this road a - cart suddenly came into sight, jolting amid the ruts, and driven by a - peasant—who was so absorbed in his contemplation of the land which - Mathieu had cleared, that he would have let his horse climb upon a heap of - stones had not a woman who accompanied him abruptly pulled the reins. The - horse then stopped, and the man in a jeering voice called out: “So this, - then, is your work, Monsieur Froment?” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu and Marianne thereupon recognized the Lepailleurs, the people of - the mill. They were well aware that folks laughed at Janville over the - folly of their attempt—that mad idea of growing wheat among the - marshes of the plateau. Lepailleur, in particular, distinguished himself - by the violent raillery he levelled at this Parisian, a gentleman born, - with a good berth, who was so stupid as to make himself a peasant, and - fling what money he had to that rascally earth, which would assuredly - swallow him and his children and his money all together, without yielding - even enough wheat to keep them in bread. And thus the sight of the field - had stupefied him. It was a long while since he had passed that way, and - he had never thought that the seed would sprout so thickly, for he had - repeated a hundred times that nothing would germinate, so rotten was all - the land. Although he almost choked with covert anger at seeing his - predictions thus falsified, he was unwilling to admit his error, and put - on an air of ironical doubt. - </p> - <p> - “So you think it will grow, eh? Well, one can’t say that it hasn’t come - up. Only one must see if it can stand and ripen.” And as Mathieu quietly - smiled with hope and confidence, he added, striving to poison his joy: - “Ah! when you know the earth you’ll find what a hussy she is. I’ve seen - plenty of crops coming on magnificently, and then a storm, a gust of wind, - a mere trifle, has reduced them to nothing! But you are young at the trade - as yet; you’ll get your experience in misfortune.” - </p> - <p> - His wife, who nodded approval on hearing him talk so finely, then - addressed herself to Marianne: “Oh! my man doesn’t say that to discourage - you, madame. But the land you know, is just like children. There are some - who live and some who die; some who give one pleasure, and others who kill - one with grief. But, all considered, one always bestows more on them than - one gets back, and in the end one finds oneself duped. You’ll see, you’ll - see.” - </p> - <p> - Without replying, Marianne, moved by these malicious predictions, gently - raised her trustful eyes to Mathieu. And he, though for a moment irritated - by all the ignorance, envy, and imbecile ambition which he felt were - before him, contented himself with jesting. “That’s it, we’ll see. When - your son Antoine becomes a prefect, and I have twelve peasant daughters - ready, I’ll invite you to their weddings, for it’s your mill that ought to - be rebuilt, you know, and provided with a fine engine, so as to grind all - the corn of my property yonder, left and right, everywhere!” - </p> - <p> - The sweep of his arm embraced such a far expanse of ground that the - miller, who did not like to be derided, almost lost his temper. He lashed - his horse with his whip, and the cart jolted on again through the ruts. - </p> - <p> - “Wheat in the ear is not wheat in the mill,” said he. “Au revoir, and good - luck to you, all the same.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, au revoir.” - </p> - <p> - Then, while the children still ran about, seeking early primroses among - the mosses, Mathieu came and sat down beside Marianne, who, he saw, was - quivering. He said nothing to her, for he knew that she possessed - sufficient strength and confidence to surmount, unaided, such fears for - the future as threats might kindle in her womanly heart. But he simply set - himself there, so near her that he touched her, looking and smiling at her - the while. And she immediately became calm again and likewise smiled, - while little Gervais, whom the words of the malicious could not as yet - disturb, nursed more eagerly than ever, with a purr of rapturous - satisfaction. The milk was ever trickling, bringing flesh to little limbs - which grew stronger day by day, spreading through the earth, filling the - whole world, nourishing the life which increased hour by hour. And was not - this the answer which faith and hope returned to all threats of death?—the - certainty of life’s victory, with fine children ever growing in the - sunlight, and fine crops ever rising from the soil at each returning - spring! To-morrow, yet once again, on the glorious day of harvest, the - corn will have ripened, the children will be men! - </p> - <p> - And it was thus, indeed, three months later, when the Beauchenes and the - Seguins, keeping their promise, came—husbands, wives, and children—to - spend a Sunday afternoon at Chantebled. The Froments had even prevailed on - Morange to be of the party with Reine, in their desire to draw him for a - day, at any rate, from the dolorous prostration in which he lived. As soon - as all these fine folks had alighted from the train it was decided to go - up to the plateau to see the famous fields, for everybody was curious - about them, so extravagant and inexplicable did the idea of Mathieu’s - return to the soil, and transformation into a peasant, seem to them. He - laughed gayly, and at least he succeeded in surprising them when he waved - his hand towards the great expanse under the broad blue sky, that sea of - tall green stalks whose ears were already heavy and undulated at the - faintest breeze. That warm splendid afternoon, the far-spreading fields - looked like the very triumph of fruitfulness, a growth of germs which the - humus amassed through centuries had nourished with prodigious sap, thus - producing this first formidable crop, as if to glorify the eternal source - of life which sleeps in the earth’s flanks. The milk had streamed, and the - corn now grew on all sides with overflowing energy, creating health and - strength, bespeaking man’s labor and the kindliness, the solidarity of the - world. It was like a beneficent, nourishing ocean, in which all hunger - would be appeased, and in which to-morrow might arise, amid that tide of - wheat whose waves were ever carrying good news to the horizon. - </p> - <p> - True, neither Constance nor Valentine was greatly touched by the sight of - the waving wheat, for other ambitions filled their minds: and Morange, - though he stared with his vague dim eyes, did not even seem to see it. But - Beauchene and Seguin marvelled, for they remembered their visit in the - month of January, when the frozen ground had been wrapt in sleep and - mystery. They had then guessed nothing, and now they were amazed at this - miraculous awakening, this conquering fertility, which had changed a part - of the marshy tableland into a field of living wealth. And Seguin, in - particular, did not cease praising and admiring, certain as he now felt - that he would be paid, and already hoping that Mathieu would soon take a - further portion of the estate off his hands. - </p> - <p> - Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformed into - a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pending - dinner-time, the conversation fell upon children. Marianne, as it - happened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among the - ladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going from one - to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or his nose. He - was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtless because his - health was so good. His big clear eyes were ever laughing; he offered his - little hands in a friendly way, and was very white, very pink, and very - sturdy—quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen and a half - months old. Constance and Valentine admired him, while Marianne jested and - turned him away each time that he greedily put out his little hands - towards her. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, monsieur, it’s over now. You will have nothing but soup in - future.” - </p> - <p> - “Weaning is such a terrible business,” then remarked Constance. “Did he - let you sleep last night?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! yes, he had good habits, you know; he never troubled me at night. But - this morning he was stupefied and began to cry. Still, you see, he is - fairly well behaved already. Besides, I never had more trouble than this - with the other ones.” - </p> - <p> - Beauchene was standing there, listening, and, as usual, smoking a cigar. - Constance appealed to him: - </p> - <p> - “You are lucky. But you, dear, remember—don’t you?—what a life - Maurice led us when his nurse went away. For three whole nights we were - unable to sleep.” - </p> - <p> - “But just look how your Maurice is playing!” exclaimed Beauchene. “Yet - you’ll be telling me again that he is ill.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I no longer say that, my friend; he is quite well now. Besides, I was - never anxious; I know that he is very strong.” - </p> - <p> - A great game of hide-and-seek was going on in the garden, along the paths - and even over the flower-beds, among the eight children who were assembled - there. Besides the four of the house—Blaise, Denis, Ambroise, and - Rose—there were Gaston and Lucie, the two elder children of the - Seguins, who had abstained, however, from bringing their other daughter—little - Andree. Then, too, both Reine and Maurice were present. And the latter - now, indeed, seemed to be all right upon his legs, though his square face - with its heavy jaw still remained somewhat pale. His mother watched him - running about, and felt so happy and so vain at the realization of her - dream that she became quite amiable even towards these poor relatives the - Froments, whose retirement into the country seemed to her like an - incomprehensible downfall, which forever thrust them out of her social - sphere. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! well,” resumed Beauchene, “I’ve only one boy, but he’s a sturdy - fellow, I warrant it; isn’t he, Mathieu?” - </p> - <p> - These words had scarcely passed his lips when he must have regretted them. - His eyelids quivered and a little chill came over him as his glance met - that of his former designer. For in the latter’s clear eyes he beheld, as - it were, a vision of that other son, Norine’s ill-fated child, who had - been cast into the unknown. Then there came a pause, and amid the shrill - cries of the boys and girls playing at hide-and-seek a number of little - shadows flitted through the sunlight: they were the shadows of the poor - doomed babes who scarce saw the light before they were carried off from - homes and hospitals to be abandoned in corners, and die of cold, and - perhaps even of starvation! - </p> - <p> - Mathieu had been unable to answer a word. And his emotion increased when - he noticed Morange huddled up on a chair, and gazing with blurred, tearful - eyes at little Gervais, who was laughingly toddling hither and thither. - Had a vision come to him also? Had the phantom of his dead wife, shrinking - from the duties of motherhood and murdered in a hateful den, risen before - him in that sunlit garden, amid all the turbulent mirth of happy, playful - children? - </p> - <p> - “What a pretty girl your daughter Reine is!” said Mathieu, in the hope of - drawing the accountant from his haunting remorse. “Just look at her - running about!—so girlish still, as if she were not almost old - enough to be married.” - </p> - <p> - Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter. And a smile - returned to his eyes, still moist with tears. Day by day his adoration - increased. As Reine grew up he found her more and more like her mother, - and all his thoughts became centred in her. His one yearning was that she - might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich. That would be a sign that - he was forgiven—that would be the only joy for which he could yet - hope. And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at the thought - that a husband would some day take her from him, and that he would remain - alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his dead wife. - </p> - <p> - “Married?” he murmured; “oh! not yet. She is only fourteen.” - </p> - <p> - At this the others expressed surprise: they would have taken her to be - quite eighteen, so womanly was her precocious beauty already. - </p> - <p> - “As a matter of fact,” resumed her father, feeling flattered, “she has - already been asked in marriage. You know that the Baroness de Lowicz is - kind enough to take her out now and then. Well, she told me that an - arch-millionnaire had fallen in love with Reine—but he’ll have to - wait! I shall still be able to keep her to myself for another five or six - years at least!” - </p> - <p> - He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction, - without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine’s name; - for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companion for a - young girl. - </p> - <p> - Then Marianne, anxious at seeing the conversation drop, began, questioning - Valentine, while Gervais at last slyly crept to her knees. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you not bring your little Andree?” she inquired. “I should have - been so pleased to kiss her. And she would have been able to play with - this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment’s peace.” - </p> - <p> - But Seguin did not give his wife time to reply. “Ah! no, indeed!” he - exclaimed; “in that case I should not have come. It is quite enough to - have to drag the two others about. That fearful child has not ceased - deafening us ever since her nurse went away.” - </p> - <p> - Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved. She had - been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, after - terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged it by her - departure into anarchy. Ah! that Catiche, she might compliment herself on - all the money she had cost! Sent away almost by force, like a queen who is - bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded with presents for herself - and her husband, and her little girl at the village! And now it had been - of little use to take a dry-nurse in her place, for Andree did not cease - shrieking from morning till night. They had discovered, too, that La - Catiche had not only carried off with her a large quantity of linen, but - had left the other servants quite spoilt, disorganized, so that a general - clearance seemed necessary. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” resumed Marianne, as if to smooth things, “when the children are - well one can overlook other worries.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?” cried Seguin, giving way to one - of his brutal fits. “That Catiche certainly set her right at first, but I - don’t know what happened afterwards, for now she is simply skin and - bones.” Then, as his wife wished to protest, he lost his temper. “Do you - mean to say that I don’t speak the truth? Why, look at our two others - yonder: they have papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that you don’t - look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre has of - them!” - </p> - <p> - For him Santerre’s opinion remained authoritative. However, Valentine - contented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others, feeling - slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid the romping of - their companions, soon lost breath and lagged behind, sulky and - distrustful. - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear friend,” said Constance to Valentine, “didn’t our good - Doctor Boutan tell you that all the trouble came from your not nursing - your children yourself? At all events, that was the compliment that he - paid me.” - </p> - <p> - At the mention of Boutan a friendly shout arose. Oh! Boutan, Boutan! he - was like all other specialists. Seguin sneered; Beauchene jested about the - legislature decreeing compulsory nursing by mothers; and only Mathieu and - Marianne remained silent. - </p> - <p> - “Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you,” said Constance, - turning towards the latter. “Your children are superb, and nobody says the - contrary.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free to make - fun of her if they pleased. But at this moment she perceived that Gervais, - profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his “paradise lost.” And - thereupon she set him on the ground: “Ah, no, no, monsieur!” she - exclaimed. “I have told you that it is all over. Can’t you see that people - would laugh at us?” - </p> - <p> - Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking at - her with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to - him, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her so - beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with the - triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something divine - had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed from her - bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of life, glory - to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail o’er. For there - is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, responsible for - incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, in that glory, amid her - vigorous children, like the good goddess of Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt - that he adored her. Divine passion swept by—the glow which makes the - fields palpitate, which rolls on through the waters, and floats in the - wind, begetting millions and millions of existences. And ‘twas delightful - the ecstasy into which they both sank, forgetfulness of all else, of all - those others who were there. They saw them no longer; they felt but one - desire, to say that they loved each other, and that the season had come - when love blossoms afresh. His lips protruded, she offered hers, and then - they kissed. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! don’t disturb yourselves!” cried Beauchene merrily. “Why, what is the - matter with you?” - </p> - <p> - “Would you like us to move away?” added Seguin. - </p> - <p> - But while Valentine laughed wildly, and Constance put on a prudish air, - Morange, in whose voice tears were again rising, spoke these words, - fraught with supreme regret: “Ah! you are right!” - </p> - <p> - Astonished at what they had done, without intention of doing it, Mathieu - and Marianne remained for a moment speechless, looking at one another in - consternation. And then they burst into a hearty laugh, gayly excusing - themselves. To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies all health, - all will, and all power. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XII - </h2> - <p> - FOUR years went by. And during those four years Mathieu and Marianne had - two more children, a daughter at the end of the first year and a son at - the expiration of the third. And each time that the family thus increased, - the estate at Chantebled was increased also—on the first occasion by - fifty more acres of rich soil reclaimed among the marshes of the plateau, - and the second time by an extensive expanse of wood and moorland which the - springs were beginning to fertilize. It was the resistless conquest of - life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was labor ever - incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, - making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, - more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - </p> - <p> - On the day when Mathieu called on Seguin to purchase the wood and - moorland, he lunched with Dr. Boutan, whom he found in an execrable humor. - The doctor had just heard that three of his former patients had lately - passed through the hands of his colleague Gaude, the notorious surgeon to - whose clinic at the Marbeuf Hospital society Paris flocked as to a - theatre. One of these patients was none other than Euphrasie, old - Moineaud’s eldest daughter, now married to Auguste Benard, a mason, and - already the mother of three children. She had doubtless resumed her usual - avocations too soon after the birth of her last child, as often happens in - working-class families where the mother is unable to remain idle. At all - events, she had for some time been ailing, and had finally been removed to - the hospital. Mathieu had for a while employed her young sister Cecile, - now seventeen, as a servant in the house at Chantebled, but she was of - poor health and had returned to Paris, where, curiously enough, she also - entered Doctor Gaude’s clinic. And Boutan waxed indignant at the methods - which Gaude employed. The two sisters, the married woman and the girl, had - been discharged as cured, and so far, this might seem to be the case; but - time, in Boutan’s opinion, would bring round some terrible revenges. - </p> - <p> - One curious point of the affair was that Beauchene’s dissolute sister, - Seraphine, having heard of these so-called cures, which the newspapers had - widely extolled, had actually sought out the Benards and the Moineauds to - interview Euphrasie and Cecile on the subject. And in the result she - likewise had placed herself in Gaude’s hands. She certainly was of little - account, and, whatever might become of her, the world would be none the - poorer by her death. But Boutan pointed out that during the fifteen years - that Gaude’s theories and practices had prevailed in France, no fewer than - half a million women had been treated accordingly, and, in the vast - majority of cases, without any such treatment being really necessary. - Moreover, Boutan spoke feelingly of the after results of such treatment—comparative - health for a few brief years, followed in some cases by a total loss of - muscular energy, and in others by insanity of a most violent form; so that - the padded cells of the madhouses were filling year by year with the - unhappy women who had passed through the hands of Gaude and his - colleagues. From a social point of view also the effects were disastrous. - They ran counter to all Boutan’s own theories, and blasted all his hopes - of living to see France again holding a foremost place among the nations - of the earth. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said he to Mathieu, “if people were only like you and your good - wife!” - </p> - <p> - During those four years at Chantebled the Froments had been ever founding, - creating, increasing, and multiplying, again and again proving victorious - in the eternal battle which life wages against death, thanks to that - continual increase both of offspring and of fertile land which was like - their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a - gust of flame—desire divine and fruitful, since they possessed the - power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energy did the rest—that - will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that is - necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates the earth. But - during the first two years they had to struggle incessantly. There were - two disastrous winters with snow and ice, and March brought hail-storms - and hurricanes which left the crops lying low. Even as Lepailleur had - threateningly predicted with a laugh of impotent envy, it seemed as if the - earth meant to prove a bad mother, ungrateful to them for their toil, - indifferent to their losses. During those two years they only extricated - themselves from trouble thanks to the second fifty acres that they - purchased from Seguin, to the west of the plateau, a fresh expanse of rich - soil which they reclaimed amid the marshes, and which, in spite of frost - and hail, yielded a prodigious first harvest. As the estate gradually - expanded, it also grew stronger, better able to bear ill-luck. - </p> - <p> - But Mathieu and Marianne also had great family worries. Their five elder - children gave them much anxiety, much fatigue. As with the soil, here - again there was a daily battle, endless cares and endless fears. Little - Gervais was stricken with fever and narrowly escaped death. Rose, too, one - day filled them with the direst alarm, for she fell from a tree in their - presence, but fortunately with no worse injury than a sprain. And, on the - other hand, they were happy in the three others, Blaise, Denis, and - Ambroise, who proved as healthy as young oak-trees. And when Marianne gave - birth to her sixth child, on whom they bestowed the gay name of Claire, - Mathieu celebrated the new pledge of their affection by further - acquisitions. - </p> - <p> - Then, during the two ensuing years, their battles and sadness and joy all - resulted in victory once more. Marianne gave birth, and Mathieu conquered - new lands. There was ever much labor, much life expended, and much life - realized and harvested. This time it was a question of enlarging the - estate on the side of the moorlands, the sandy, gravelly slopes where - nothing had grown for centuries. The captured sources of the tableland, - directed towards those uncultivated tracts, gradually fertilized them, - covered them with increasing vegetation. There were partial failures at - first, and defeat even seemed possible, so great was the patient - determination which the creative effort demanded. But here, too, the crops - at last overflowed, while the intelligent felling of a part of the - purchased woods resulted in a large profit, and gave Mathieu an idea of - cultivating some of the spacious clearings hitherto overgrown with - brambles. - </p> - <p> - And while the estate spread the children grew. It had been necessary to - send the three elder ones—Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise—to a - school in Paris, whither they gallantly repaired each day by the first - train, returning only in the evening. But the three others, little Gervais - and the girls Rose and Claire, were still allowed all freedom in the midst - of Nature. Marianne, however, gave birth to a seventh child, amid - circumstances which caused Mathieu keen anxiety. For a moment, indeed, he - feared that he might lose her. But her healthful temperament triumphed - over all, and the child—a boy, named Gregoire—soon drank life - and strength from her breast, as from the very source of existence. When - Mathieu saw his wife smiling again with that dear little one in her arms, - he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow - and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet an - additional force born into the world, another field ready for to-morrow’s - harvest. - </p> - <p> - And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness - spreading, thanks to the earth and to woman, both victorious over - destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child - was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, and - ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * * * * * * -</pre> - <p> - Then two more years rolled on. And during those two years Mathieu and - Marianne had yet another child, a girl. And again, at the same time as the - family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased also—on one - side by five-and-seventy acres of woodland stretching over the plateau as - far as the fields of Mareuil, and on the other by five-and-seventy acres - of sloping moorland, extending to the village of Monval, alongside the - railway line. But the principal change was that, as the old hunting-box, - the little dilapidated pavilion, no longer offered sufficient - accommodation, a whole farmstead had to be erected—stone buildings, - and barns, and sheds, and stables, and cowhouses—for farm hands and - crops and animals, whose number increased at each enlargement of the - estate. - </p> - <p> - It was the resistless conquest of life; it was fruitfulness spreading in - the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation - amid obstacles and suffering, ever making good all losses, and at each - succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the - veins of the world. - </p> - <p> - But during those two years, while Chantebled grew, while labor and worry - and victory alternated, Mathieu suddenly found himself mixed up in a - terribly tragedy. He was obliged to come to Paris at times—more - often indeed than he cared—now through his business relations with - Seguin, now to sell, now to buy, now to order one thing or another. He - often purchased implements and appliances at the Beauchene works, and had - thus kept up intercourse with Morange, who once more seemed a changed man. - Time had largely healed the wound left by his wife’s death, particularly - as she seemed to live again in Reine, to whom he was more attached than - ever. Reine was no longer a child; she had become a woman. Still her - father hoped to keep her with him some years yet, while working with all - diligence, saving and saving every penny that he could spare, in order to - increase her dowry. - </p> - <p> - But the inevitable was on the march, for the girl had become the constant - companion of Seraphine. The latter, however depraved she might be, had - certainly in the first instance entertained no idea of corrupting the - child whom she patronized. She had at first taken her solely to such - places of amusement as were fit for her years and understanding. But - little by little the descent had come. Reine, too, as she grew into a - woman, amid the hours of idleness when she was left alone by her father—who, - perforce, had to spend his days at the Beauchene works—developed an - ardent temperament and a thirst for every frivolous pleasure. And by - degrees the once simply petted child became a participator in Seraphine’s - own reckless and dissolute life. - </p> - <p> - When the end came, and Reine found herself in dire trouble because of a - high State functionary, a married man, a friend of Seraphine’s—both - women quite lost their heads. Such a blow might kill Morange. Everything - must be hidden from him; but how? Thereupon Seraphine devised a plan. She - obtained permission for Reine to accompany her on a visit into the - country; but while the fond father imagined that his daughter was enjoying - herself among society folk at a chateau in the Loiret, she was really - hiding in Paris. It was indeed a repetition of her mother’s tragic story, - with this difference—that Seraphine addressed herself to no vulgar - Madame Rouche, but to an assistant of her own surgeon, Gaude, a certain - Sarraille, who had a dingy den of a clinic in the Passage Tivoli. - </p> - <p> - It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris to make - some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone with Morange at - the latter’s flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathless and in - consternation. Reine, she said, had been taken ill in the country, and she - had brought her back to Paris to her own flat. But it was not thither; it - was to Sarraille’s den that she drove Morange and Mathieu. And there the - frightful scene which had been enacted at La Rouche’s at the time of - Valerie’s death was repeated. Reine, too, was dead—dead like her - mother! And Morange, in a first outburst of fury threatened both Seraphine - and Sarraille with the scaffold. For half an hour there was no mastering - him, but all at once he broke down. To lose his daughter as he had lost - his wife, it was too appalling; the blow was too great; he had strength - left only to weep. Sarraille, moreover, defended himself; he swore that he - had known nothing of the truth, that the deceased had simply come to him - for legitimate treatment, and that both she and the Baroness had deceived - him. Then Seraphine on her side took hold of Morange’s hands, protesting - her devotion, her frightful grief, her fear, too, lest the reputation of - the poor dear girl should be dragged through the mire, if he (the father) - did not keep the terrible secret. She accepted her share of responsibility - and blame, admitted that she had been very culpable, and spoke of eternal - remorse. But might the terrible truth be buried in the dead girl’s grave, - might there be none but pure flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who - lay therein be regretted by all who had known her, as one snatched away in - all innocence of youth and beauty! - </p> - <p> - And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while with - sobs, and scarce repeating that word “Murderers!” which had sprung from - his lips so impulsively a little while before. He thought, too, of the - scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting the crime, - his daughter’s memory covered with mire, and—No! no! he could have - none of that. Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly. - </p> - <p> - Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration. - It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every one of - his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold and scarce - able to beat. And he sank into a sort of second childhood, clasping his - hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseeching compassion, - like one whose sufferings are too hard to bear. - </p> - <p> - And when Mathieu sought to console him he muttered: “Oh, it is all over. - They have both gone, one after the other, and I alone am guilty. The first - time it was I who lied to Reine, telling her that her mother was - travelling; and then she in her turn lied to me the other day with that - story of an invitation to a chateau in the country. Ah! if eight years ago - I had only opposed my poor Valerie’s madness, my poor Reine would still be - alive to-day.... Yes, it is all my fault; I alone killed them by my - weakness. I am their murderer.” - </p> - <p> - Shivering, deathly cold, he went on amid his sobs: “And, wretched fool - that I have been, I have killed them through loving them too much. They - were so beautiful, and it was so excusable for them to be rich and gay and - happy. One after the other they took my heart from me, and I lived only in - them and by them and for them. When one had left me, the other became my - all in all, and for her, my daughter, I again indulged in the dream of - ambition which had originated with her mother. And yet I killed them both, - and my mad desire to rise and conquer fortune led me to that twofold - crime. Ah! when I think that even this morning I still dared to esteem - myself happy at having but that one child, that daughter to cherish! What - foolish blasphemy against love and life! She is dead now, dead like her - mother, and I am alone, with nobody to love and nobody to love me—neither - wife nor daughter, neither desire nor will, but alone—ah! all alone, - forever!” - </p> - <p> - It was the cry of supreme abandonment that he raised, while sinking to the - floor strengthless, with a great void within him; and all he could do was - to press Mathieu’s hands and stammer: “Leave me—tell me nothing. You - alone were right. I refused the offers of life, and life has now taken - everything from me.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, in tears himself, kissed him and lingered yet a few moments - longer in that tragic den, feeling more moved than he had ever felt - before. And when he went off he left the unhappy Morange in the charge of - Seraphine, who now treated him like a little ailing child whose will-power - was entirely gone. - </p> - <p> - And at Chantebled, as time went on, Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, - increased, and multiplied. During the two years which elapsed, they again - proved victorious in the eternal battle which life wages against death, - thanks to that continual increase both of offspring and of fertile land - which was like their very existence, their joy, and their strength. Desire - passed like a gust of flame—desire divine and fruitful, since they - possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energy did - the rest—that will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of - the labor that is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates - the world. They were, however, still in the hard, trying, earlier stage of - their work of conquest, and they often wept with grief and anxiety. Many - were their cares, too, in transforming the old pavilion into a farm. The - outlay was considerable, and at times it seemed as if the crops would - never pay the building accounts. Moreover, as the enterprise grew in - magnitude, and there came more and more cattle, more and more horses, a - larger staff of both men and girls became necessary, to say nothing of - additional implements and appliances, and the increase of supervision - which left the Froments little rest. Mathieu controlled the agricultural - part of the enterprise, ever seeking improved methods for drawing from the - earth all the life that slumbered within it. And Marianne watched over the - farmyard, the dairy, the poultry, and showed herself a first-class - accountant, keeping the books, and receiving and paying money. And thus, - in spite of recurring worries, strokes of bad luck and inevitable - mistakes, fortune smiled on them athwart all worries and losses, so brave - and sensible did they prove in their incessant daily struggle. - </p> - <p> - Apart, too, from the new buildings, the estate was increased by - five-and-seventy acres of woodland, and five-and-seventy acres of sandy - sloping soil. Mathieu’s battle with those sandy slopes became yet keener, - more and more heroic as his field of action expanded; but he ended by - conquering, by fertilizing them yet more each season, thanks to the - fructifying springs which he directed through them upon every side. And in - the same way he cut broad roads through the new woods which he purchased - on the plateau, in order to increase the means of communication and carry - into effect his idea of using the clearings as pasture for his cattle, - pending the time when he might largely devote himself to stock-raising. In - this wise, then, the battle went on, and spread incessantly in all - directions; and the chances of decisive victory likewise increased, - compensation for possible loss on one side being found on another where - the harvest proved prodigious. - </p> - <p> - And, like the estate, the children also grew. Blaise and Denis, the twins, - now already fourteen years of age, reaped prize after prize at school, - putting their younger brother, Ambroise, slightly to shame, for his quick - and ingenious mind was often busy with other matters than his lessons. - Gervais, the girls Rose and Claire, as well as the last-born boy, little - Gregoire, were yet too young to be trusted alone in Paris, and so they - continued growing in the open air of the country, without any great mishap - befalling them. And at the end of those two years Marianne gave birth to - her eighth child, this time a girl, named Louise; and when Mathieu saw her - smiling with the dear little babe in her arms, he embraced her - passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang. - Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born - into the world, another field ready for to-morrow’s harvest. - </p> - <p> - And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness - spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over - destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child - was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering, and - ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * * * * * * -</pre> - <p> - Then two more years rolled on, and during those two years Mathieu and - Marianne had yet another child, another daughter, whom they called - Madeleine. And once again the estate of Chantebled was increased; this - time by all the marshland whose ponds and whose springs remained to be - drained and captured on the west of the plateau. The whole of this part of - the property was now acquired by the Froments—two hundred acres of - land where, hitherto, only water plants had grown, but which now was given - over to cultivation, and yielded abundant crops. And the new springs, - turned into canals on every side, again carried beneficent life to the - sandy slopes, and fertilized them. It was life’s resistless conquest; it - was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly - pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, making good - all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, - and more joy in the veins of the world. - </p> - <p> - This time it was Seguin himself who asked Mathieu to purchase a fresh part - of the estate, pressing him even to take all that was left of it, woods - and moorland—extending over some five hundred acres. Nowadays Seguin - was often in need of money, and in order to do business he offered Mathieu - lower terms and all sorts of advantages; but the other prudently declined - the proposals, keeping steadfastly to his original intentions, which were - that he would proceed with his work of creation step by step, in - accordance with his exact means and requirements. Moreover, a certain - difficulty arose with regard to the purchase of the remaining moors, for - enclosed by this land, eastward, near the railway line, were a few acres - belonging to Lepailleur, the miller, who had never done anything with - them. And so Mathieu preferred to select what remained of the marshy - plateau, adding, however, that he would enter into negotiations respecting - the moorland later on, when the miller should have consented to sell his - enclosure. He knew that, ever since his property had been increasing, - Lepailleur had regarded him with the greatest jealousy and hatred, and he - did not think it advisable to apply to him personally, certain as he felt - that he would fail in his endeavor. Seguin, however, pretended that if he - took up the matter he would know how to bring the miller to reason, and - even secure the enclosure for next to nothing. And indeed, thinking that - he might yet induce Mathieu to purchase all the remaining property, he - determined to see Lepailleur and negotiate with him before even signing - the deed which was to convey to Mathieu the selected marshland on the - plateau. - </p> - <p> - But the outcome proved as Mathieu had foreseen. Lepailleur asked such a - monstrous price for his few acres enclosed within the estate that nothing - could be done. When he was approached on the subject by Seguin, he made - little secret of the rage he felt at Mathieu’s triumph. He had told the - young man that he would never succeed in reaping an ear of wheat from that - uncultivated expanse, given over to brambles for centuries past; and yet - now it was covered with abundant crops! And this had increased the - miller’s rancor against the soil; he hated it yet more than ever for its - harshness to him, a peasant’s son, and its kindliness towards that - bourgeois, who seemed to have fallen from heaven expressly to - revolutionize the region. Thus, in answer to Seguin, he declared with a - sneer that since sorcerers had sprung up who were able to make wheat - sprout from stones, his patch of ground was now worth its weight in gold. - Several years previously, no doubt, he had offered Seguin the enclosure - for a trifle; but times had changed, and he now crowed loudly over the - other’s folly in not entertaining his previous offer. - </p> - <p> - On the other hand, there seemed little likelihood of his turning the - enclosure to account himself, for he was more disgusted than ever with the - tilling of the soil. His disposition had been further embittered by the - birth of a daughter, whom he would willingly have dispensed with, anxious - as he was with respect to his son Antonin, now a lad of twelve, who proved - so sharp and quick at school that he was regarded by the folks of Janville - as a little prodigy. Mathieu had mortally offended the father and mother - by suggesting that Antonin should be sent to an agricultural college—a - very sensible suggestion, but one which exasperated them, determined as - they were to make him a gentleman. - </p> - <p> - As Lepailleur would not part with his enclosure on any reasonable terms, - Seguin had to content himself for the time with selling Mathieu the - selected marshland on the plateau. A deed of conveyance having been - prepared, they exchanged signatures. And then, on Seguin’s hands, there - still remained nearly two hundred and fifty acres of woods in the - direction of Lillebonne, together with the moorlands stretching to - Vieux-Bourg, in which Lepailleur’s few acres were enclosed. - </p> - <p> - It was on the occasion of the visits which he paid Seguin in reference to - these matters that Mathieu became acquainted with the terrible break-up of - the other’s home. The very rooms of the house in the Avenue d’Antin, - particularly the once sumptuous “cabinet,” spoke of neglect and - abandonment. The desire to cut a figure in society, and to carry the “fad” - of the moment to extremes, ever possessed Seguin; and thus he had for a - while renounced his pretended artistic tastes for certain new forms of - sport—the motor-car craze, and so forth. But his only real passion - was horseflesh, and to this he at last returned. A racing stable which he - set up quickly helped on his ruin. Women and gaming had been responsible - for the loss of part of his large fortune, and now horses were devouring - the remainder. It was said, too, that he gambled at the bourse, in the - hope of recouping himself for his losses on the turf, and by way, too, of - affecting an air of power and influence, for he allowed it to be supposed - that he obtained information direct from members of the Government. And as - his losses increased and downfall threatened him, all that remained of the - <i>bel esprit</i> and moralist, once so prone to discuss literature and - social philosophy with Santerre, was an embittered, impotent individual—one - who had proclaimed himself a pessimist for fashion’s sake, and was now - caught in his own trap; having so spoilt his existence that he was now but - an artisan of corruption and death. - </p> - <p> - All was disaster in his home. Celeste the maid had long since been - dismissed, and the children were now in the charge of a certain German - governess called Nora, who virtually ruled the house. Her position with - respect to Seguin was evident to one and all; but then, what of Seguin’s - wife and Santerre? The worst was, that this horrible life, which seemed to - be accepted on either side, was known to the children, or, at all events, - to the elder daughter Lucie, yet scarcely in her teens. There had been - terrible scenes with this child, who evinced a mystical disposition, and - was ever talking of becoming a nun when she grew up. Gaston, her brother, - resembled his father; he was brutal in his ways, narrow-minded, supremely - egotistical. Very different was the little girl Andree, whom La Catiche - had suckled. She had become a pretty child—so affectionate, docile, - and gay, that she scarcely complained even of her brother’s teasing, - almost bullying ways. “What a pity,” thought Mathieu, “that so lovable a - child should have to grow up amid such surroundings!” - </p> - <p> - And then his thoughts turned to his own home—to Chantebled. The - debts contracted at the outset of his enterprise had at last been paid, - and he alone was now the master there, resolved to have no other partners - than his wife and children. It was for each of his children that he - conquered a fresh expanse of land. That estate would remain their home, - their source of nourishment, the tie linking them together, even if they - became dispersed through the world in a variety of social positions. And - thus how decisive was that growth of the property, the acquisition of that - last lot of marshland which allowed the whole plateau to be cultivated! - There might now come yet another child, for there would be food for him; - wheat would grow to provide him with daily bread. And when the work was - finished, when the last springs were captured, and the land had been - drained and cleared, how prodigious was the scene at springtide!—with - the whole expanse, as far as eye could see, one mass of greenery, full of - the promise of harvest. Therein was compensation for every tear, every - worry and anxiety of the earlier days of labor. - </p> - <p> - Meantime Mathieu, amid his creative work, received Marianne’s gay and - courageous assistance. And she was not merely a skilful helpmate, taking a - share in the general management, keeping the accounts, and watching over - the home. She remained both a loving and well-loved spouse, and a mother - who nursed, reared, and educated her little ones in order to give them - some of her own sense and heart. As Boutan remarked, it is not enough for - a woman to have a child; she should also possess healthy moral gifts in - order that she may bring it up in creditable fashion. Marianne, for her - part, made it her pride to obtain everything from her children by dint of - gentleness and grace. She was listened to, obeyed, and worshipped by them, - because she was so beautiful, so kind, and so greatly beloved. Her task - was scarcely easy, since she had eight children already; but in all things - she proceeded in a very orderly fashion, utilizing the elder to watch over - the younger ones, giving each a little share of loving authority, and - extricating herself from every embarrassment by setting truth and justice - above one and all. Blaise and Denis, the twins, who were now sixteen, and - Ambroise, who was nearly fourteen, did in a measure escape her authority, - being largely in their father’s hands. But around her she had the five - others—from Rose, who was eleven, to Louise, who was two years old; - between them, at intervals of a couple of years, coming Gervais, Claire, - and Gregoire. And each time that one flew away, as it were, feeling his - wings strong enough for flight, there appeared another to nestle beside - her. And it was again a daughter, Madeleine, who came at the expiration of - those two years. And when Mathieu saw his wife erect and smiling again, - with the dear little girl at her breast, he embraced her passionately and - triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, - yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the world, - another field ready for to-morrow’s harvest. - </p> - <p> - And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness - spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over - destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child - was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, and - ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIII - </h2> - <p> - TWO more years went by, and during those two years Mathieu and Marianne - had yet another daughter; and this time, as the family increased, - Chantebled also was increased by all the woodland extending eastward of - the plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. All the - northern part of the property was thus acquired: more than five hundred - acres of woods, intersected by clearings which roads soon connected - together. And those clearings, transformed into pasture-land, watered by - the neighboring springs, enabled Mathieu to treble his live-stock and - attempt cattle-raising on a large scale. It was the resistless conquest of - life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was labor ever - incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, - making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, - more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - </p> - <p> - Since the Froments had become conquerors, busily founding a little kingdom - and building up a substantial fortune in land, the Beauchenes no longer - derided them respecting what they had once deemed their extravagant idea - in establishing themselves in the country. Astonished and anticipating now - the fullest success, they treated them as well-to-do relatives, and - occasionally visited them, delighted with the aspect of that big, bustling - farm, so full of life and prosperity. It was in the course of these visits - that Constance renewed her intercourse with her former schoolfellow, - Madame Angelin, the Froments’ neighbor. A great change had come over the - Angelins; they had ended by purchasing a little house at the end of the - village, where they invariably spent the summer, but their buoyant - happiness seemed to have departed. They had long desired to remain - unburdened by children, and now they eagerly longed to have a child, and - none came, though Claire, the wife, was as yet but six-and-thirty. Her - husband, the once gay, handsome musketeer, was already turning gray and - losing his eyesight—to such a degree, indeed, that he could scarcely - see well enough to continue his profession as a fan-painter. - </p> - <p> - When Madame Angelin went to Paris she often called on Constance, to whom, - before long, she confided all her worries. She had been in a doctor’s - hands for three years, but all to no avail, and now during the last six - months she had been consulting a person in the Rue de Miromesnil, a - certain Madame Bourdieu, said she. - </p> - <p> - Constance at first made light of her friend’s statements, and in part - declined to believe her. But when she found herself alone she felt - disquieted by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated the - matter as mere idle tittle-tattle, if she had not already regretted that - she herself had no second child. On the day when the unhappy Morange had - lost his only daughter, and had remained stricken down, utterly alone in - life, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish. Since that supreme - loss the wretched accountant had been living on in a state of imbecile - stupefaction, simply discharging his duties in a mechanical sort of way - from force of habit. Scarcely speaking, but showing great gentleness of - manner, he lived as one who was stranded, fated to remain forever at - Beauchene’s works, where his salary had now risen to eight thousand francs - a year. It was not known what he did with this amount, which was - considerable for a man who led such a narrow regular life, free from - expenses and fancies outside his home—that flat which was much too - big for him, but which he had, nevertheless, obstinately retained, - shutting himself up therein, and leading a most misanthropic life in - fierce solitude. - </p> - <p> - It was his grievous prostration which had at one moment quite upset and - affected Constance, so that she had even sobbed with the desolate man—she - whose tears flowed so seldom! No doubt a thought that she might have had - other children than Maurice came back to her in certain bitter hours of - unconscious self-examination, when from the depths of her being, in which - feelings of motherliness awakened, there rose vague fear, sudden dread, - such as she had never known before. - </p> - <p> - Yet Maurice, her son, after a delicate youth which had necessitated great - care, was now a handsome fellow of nineteen, still somewhat pale, but - vigorous in appearance. He had completed his studies in a fairly - satisfactory manner, and was already helping his father in the management - of the works. And his adoring mother had never set higher hopes upon his - head. She already pictured him as the master of that great establishment, - whose prosperity he would yet increase, thereby rising to royal wealth and - power. - </p> - <p> - Constance’s worship for that only son, to-morrow’s hero; increased the - more since his father day by day declined in her estimation, till she - regarded him in fact with naught but contempt and disgust. It was a - logical downfall, which she could not stop, and the successive phases of - which she herself fatally precipitated. At the outset she had overlooked - his infidelity; then from a spirit of duty and to save him from - irreparable folly she had sought to retain him near her; and finally, - failing in her endeavor, she had begun to feel loathing and disgust. He - was now two-and-forty, he drank too much, he ate too much, he smoked too - much. He was growing corpulent and scant of breath, with hanging lips and - heavy eyelids; he no longer took care of his person as formerly, but went - about slipshod, and indulged in the coarsest pleasantries. But it was more - particularly away from his home that he sank into degradation, indulging - in the low debauchery which had ever attracted him. Every now and again he - disappeared from the house and slept elsewhere; then he concocted such - ridiculous falsehoods that he could not be believed, or else did not take - the trouble to lie at all. Constance, who felt powerless to influence him, - ended by allowing him complete freedom. - </p> - <p> - The worst was, that the dissolute life he led grievously affected the - business. He who had been such a great and energetic worker had lost both - mental and bodily vigor; he could no longer plan remunerative strokes of - business; he no longer had the strength to undertake important contracts. - He lingered in bed in the morning, and remained for three or four days - without once going round the works, letting disorder and waste accumulate - there, so that his once triumphal stock-takings now year by year showed a - falling-off. And what an end it was for that egotist, that enjoyer, so - gayly and noisily active, who had always professed that money—capital - increased tenfold by the labor of others—was the only desirable - source of power, and whom excess of money and excess of enjoyment now cast - with appropriate irony to slow ruin, the final paralysis of the impotent. - </p> - <p> - But a supreme blow was to fall on Constance and fill her with horror of - her husband. Some anonymous letters, the low, treacherous revenge of a - dismissed servant, apprised her of Beauchene’s former intrigue with - Norine, that work-girl who had given birth to a boy, spirited away none - knew whither. Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence, - Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt. Whither had - that child been sent? Was he still alive? What ignominious existence was - he leading? She was vaguely jealous of the boy. The thought that her - husband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now that all her - motherly nature was aroused. But she devoted herself yet more ardently to - her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, and for his sake - even sacrificed her just rancor. She indeed came to the conclusion that he - must not suffer from his father’s indignity, and so it was for him that, - with extraordinary strength of will, she ever preserved a proud demeanor, - feigning that she was ignorant of everything, never addressing a reproach - to her husband, but remaining, in the presence of others, the same - respectful wife as formerly. And even when they were alone together she - kept silence and avoided explanations and quarrels. Never even thinking of - the possibility of revenge, she seemed, in the presence of her husband’s - profligacy, to attach herself more firmly to her home, clinging to her - son, and protected by him from thought of evil as much as by her own - sternness of heart and principles. And thus sorely wounded, full of - repugnance but hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of that son - who would purify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith in his - strength, and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once, without - reasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a chill, - affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which she no - longer remembered. - </p> - <p> - That little quiver came back while she listened to all that Madame Angelin - confided to her. And at last she became quite interested in her friend’s - case, and offered to accompany her some day when she might be calling on - Madame Bourdieu. In the end they arranged to meet one Thursday afternoon - for the purpose of going together to the Rue de Miromesnil. - </p> - <p> - As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o’clock, Mathieu, who had - come to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchene’s works, was - quietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile Moineaud, who - was carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string. She was now - nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, since passing - through the hands of Dr. Gaude. Mathieu had taken a great liking to her - during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled; and later, - knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he had regarded her with - deep compassion. He had busied himself to find her easy work, and a friend - of his had given her some cardboard boxes to paste together, the only - employment that did not tire her thin weak hands. So childish had she - remained that one would have taken her for a young girl suddenly arrested - in her growth. Yet her slender fingers were skilful, and she contrived to - earn some two francs a day in making the little boxes. And as she suffered - greatly at her parents’ home, tortured by her brutal surroundings there, - and robbed of her earnings week by week, her dream was to secure a home of - her own, to find a little money that would enable her to install herself - in a room where she might live in peace and quietness. It had occurred to - Mathieu to give her a pleasant surprise some day by supplying her with the - small sum she needed. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you running so fast?” he gayly asked her. - </p> - <p> - The meeting seemed to take her aback, and she answered in an evasive, - embarrassed way: “I am going to the Rue de Miromesnil for a call I have to - make.” - </p> - <p> - Noticing his kindly air, however, she soon told him the truth. Her sister, - that poor creature Norine, had just given birth to another child, her - third, at Madame Bourdieu’s establishment. A gentleman who had been - protecting her had cast her adrift, and she had been obliged to sell her - few sticks of furniture in order to get together a couple of hundred - francs, and thus secure admittance to Madame Bourdieu’s house, for the - mere idea of having to go to a hospital terrified her. Whenever she might - be able to get about again, however, she would find herself in the - streets, with the task of beginning life anew at one-and-thirty years of - age. - </p> - <p> - “She never behaved unkindly to me,” resumed Cecile. “I pity her with all - my heart, and I have been to see her. I am taking her a little chocolate - now. Ah! if you only saw her little boy! he is a perfect love!” - </p> - <p> - The poor girl’s eyes shone, and her thin, pale face became radiant with a - smile. The instinct of maternity remained keen within her, though she - could never be a mother. - </p> - <p> - “What a pity it is,” she continued, “that Norine is so obstinately - determined on getting rid of the baby, just as she got rid of the others. - This little fellow, it’s true, cries so much that she has had to give him - the breast. But it’s only for the time being; she says that she can’t see - him starve while he remains near her. But it quite upsets me to think that - one can get rid of one’s children; I had an idea of arranging things very - differently. You know that I want to leave my parents, don’t you? Well, I - thought of renting a room and of taking my sister and her little boy with - me. I would show Norine how to cut out and paste up those little boxes, - and we might live, all three, happily together.” - </p> - <p> - “And won’t she consent?” asked Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! she told me that I was mad; and there’s some truth in that, for I - have no money even to rent a room. Ah! if you only knew how it distresses - me.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu concealed his emotion, and resumed in his quiet way: “Well, there - are rooms to be rented. And you would find a friend to help you. Only I am - much afraid that you will never persuade your sister to keep her child, - for I fancy that I know her ideas on that subject. A miracle would be - needed to change them.” - </p> - <p> - Quick-witted as she was, Cecile darted a glance at him. The friend he - spoke of was himself. Good heavens would her dream come true? She ended by - bravely saying: “Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you really ought - to do me a last favor. It would be to come with me and see Norine at once. - You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps. But let us walk - slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her. They turned the corner of - the Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbed the - stairs of Madame Bourdieu’s establishment. Ten years ago! Was it possible? - He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in that house. And it - all seemed to date from yesterday, for the building had not changed; - indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the very grease-spots on the - doors on the various landings. - </p> - <p> - Following Cecile to Norine’s room, he found Norine up and dressed, but - seated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe. - </p> - <p> - “What! is it you, monsieur?” she exclaimed, as soon as she recognized her - visitor. “It is very kind of Cecile to have brought you. Ah! <i>mon Dieu</i> - what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you! We are none of us - any the younger.” - </p> - <p> - He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged. She was one - of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year. Still, if - her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remained - pleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever. - </p> - <p> - Cecile wished to bring matters to the point at once. “Here is your - chocolate,” she began. “I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he is so - kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help me in - carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and work with - me. So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevail on you - to keep that poor little fellow of yours. You see, I don’t want to take - you unawares; I warn you in advance.” - </p> - <p> - Norine started with emotion, and began to protest. “What is all this - again?” said she. “No, no, I don’t want to be worried. I’m too unhappy as - it is.” - </p> - <p> - But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if she - reverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lower and - lower. She herself had no illusions on that point; she spoke bitterly - enough of her experiences. Her youth had flown, her good-looks were - departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough. But then what could - she do? When one had fallen into the mire one had to stay there. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! yes, ah! yes,” said she; “I’ve had enough of that infernal life which - some folks think so amusing. But it’s like a stone round my neck; I can’t - get rid of it. I shall have to keep to it till I’m picked up in some - corner and carried off to die at a hospital.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke these words with the fierce energy of one who all at once - clearly perceives the fate which she cannot escape. Then she glanced at - her infant, who was still nursing. “He had better go his way and I’ll go - mine,” she added. “Then we shan’t inconvenience one another.” - </p> - <p> - This time her voice softened, and an expression of infinite tenderness - passed over her desolate face. And Mathieu, in astonishment, divining the - new emotion that possessed her, though she did not express it, made haste - to rejoin: “To let him go his way would be the shortest way to kill him, - now that you have begun to give him the breast.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it my fault?” she angrily exclaimed. “I didn’t want to give it to him; - you know what my ideas were. And I flew into a passion and almost fought - Madame Bourdieu when she put him in my arms. But then how could I hold - out? He cried so dreadfully with hunger, poor little mite, and seemed to - suffer so much, that I was weak enough to let him nurse just a little. I - didn’t intend to repeat it, but the next day he cried again, and so I had - to continue, worse luck for me! There was no pity shown me; I’ve been made - a hundred times more unhappy than I should have been, for, of course, I - shall soon have to get rid of him as I got rid of the others.” - </p> - <p> - Tears appeared in her eyes. It was the oft-recurring story of the - girl-mother who is prevailed upon to nurse her child for a few days, in - the hope that she will grow attached to the babe and be unable to part - from it. The chief object in view is to save the child, because its best - nurse is its natural nurse, the mother. And Norine, instinctively divining - the trap set for her, had struggled to escape it, and repeated, sensibly - enough, that one ought not to begin such a task when one meant to throw it - up in a few days’ time. As soon as she yielded she was certain to be - caught; her egotism was bound to be vanquished by the wave of pity, love, - and hope that would sweep through her heart. The poor, pale, puny infant - had weighed but little the first time he took the breast. But every - morning afterwards he had been weighed afresh, and on the wall at the foot - of the bed had been hung the diagram indicating the daily difference of - weight. At first Norine had taken little interest in the matter, but as - the line gradually ascended, plainly indicating how much the child was - profiting, she gave it more and more attention. All at once, as the result - of an indisposition, the line had dipped down; and since then she had - always feverishly awaited the weighing, eager to see if the line would - once more ascend. Then, a continuous rise having set in, she laughed with - delight. That little line, which ever ascended, told her that her child - was saved, and that all the weight and strength he acquired was derived - from her—from her milk, her blood, her flesh. She was completing the - appointed work; and motherliness, at last awakened within her, was - blossoming in a florescence of love. - </p> - <p> - “If you want to kill him,” continued Mathieu, “you need only take him from - your breast. See how eagerly the poor little fellow is nursing!” - </p> - <p> - This was indeed true. And Norine burst into big sobs: “<i>Mon Dieu</i>! - you are beginning to torture me again. Do you think that I shall take any - pleasure in getting rid of him now? You force me to say things which make - me weep at night when I think of them. I shall feel as if my very vitals - were being torn out when this child is taken from me! There, are you both - pleased that you have made me say it? But what good does it do to put me - in such a state, since nobody can remedy things, and he must needs go to - the foundlings, while I return to the gutter, to wait for the broom that’s - to sweep me away?” - </p> - <p> - But Cecile, who likewise was weeping, kissed and kissed the child, and - again reverted to her dream, explaining how happy they would be, all three - of them, in a nice room, which she pictured full of endless joys, like - some Paradise. It was by no means difficult to cut out and paste up the - little boxes. As soon as Norine should know the work, she, who was strong, - might perhaps earn three francs a day at it. And five francs a day between - them, would not that mean fortune, the rearing of the child, and all evil - things forgotten, at an end? Norine, more weary than ever, gave way at - last, and ceased refusing. - </p> - <p> - “You daze me,” she said. “I don’t know. Do as you like—but certainly - it will be great happiness to keep this dear little fellow with me.” - </p> - <p> - Cecile, enraptured, clapped her hands; while Mathieu, who was greatly - moved, gave utterance to these deeply significant words: “You have saved - him, and now he saves you.” - </p> - <p> - Then Norine at last smiled. She felt happy now; a great weight had been - lifted from her heart. And carrying her child in her arms she insisted on - accompanying her sister and their friend to the first floor. - </p> - <p> - During the last half-hour Constance and Madame Angelin had been deep in - consultation with Madame Bourdieu. The former had not given her name, but - had simply played the part of an obliging friend accompanying another on - an occasion of some delicacy. Madame Bourdieu, with the keen scent - characteristic of her profession, divined a possible customer in that - inquisitive lady who put such strange questions to her. However, a rather - painful scene took place, for realizing that she could not forever deceive - Madame Angelin with false hopes, Madame Bourdieu decided to tell the truth—her - case was hopeless. Constance, however, at last made a sign to entreat her - to continue deceiving her friend, if only for charity’s sake. The other, - therefore, while conducting her visitors to the landing, spoke a few - hopeful words to Madame Angelin: “After all, dear madame,” said she, “one - must never despair. I did wrong to speak as I did just now. I may yet be - mistaken. Come back to see me again.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment Mathieu and Cecile were still on the landing in - conversation with Norine, whose infant had fallen asleep in her arms. - Constance and Madame Angelin were so surprised at finding the farmer of - Chantebled in the company of the two young women that they pretended they - did not see him. All at once, however, Constance, with the help of memory, - recognized Norine, the more readily perhaps as she was now aware that - Mathieu had, ten years previously, acted as her husband’s intermediary. - And a feeling of revolt and the wildest fancies instantly arose within - her. What was Mathieu doing in that house? whose child was it that the - young woman carried in her arms? At that moment the other child seemed to - peer forth from the past; she saw it in swaddling clothes, like the infant - there; indeed, she almost confounded one with the other, and imagined that - it was indeed her husband’s illegitimate son that was sleeping in his - mother’s arms before her. Then all the satisfaction she had derived from - what she had heard Madame Bourdieu say departed, and she went off furious - and ashamed, as if soiled and threatened by all the vague abominations - which she had for some time felt around her, without knowing, however, - whence came the little chill which made her shudder as with dread. - </p> - <p> - As for Mathieu, he saw that neither Norine nor Cecile had recognized - Madame Beauchene under her veil, and so he quietly continued explaining to - the former that he would take steps to secure for her from the Assistance - Publique—the official organization for the relief of the poor—a - cradle and a supply of baby linen, as well as immediate pecuniary succor, - since she undertook to keep and nurse her child. Afterwards he would - obtain for her an allowance of thirty francs a month for at least one - year. This would greatly help the sisters, particularly in the earlier - stages of their life together in the room which they had settled to rent. - When Mathieu added that he would take upon himself the preliminary outlay - of a little furniture and so forth, Norine insisted upon kissing him. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! it is with a good heart,” said she. “It does one good to meet a man - like you. And come, kiss my poor little fellow, too; it will bring him - good luck.” - </p> - <p> - On reaching the Rue La Boetie it occurred to Mathieu, who was bound for - the Beauchene works, to take a cab and let Cecile alight near her parents’ - home, since it was in the neighborhood of the factory. But she explained - to him that she wished, first of all, to call upon her sister Euphrasie in - the Rue Caroline. This street was in the same direction, and so Mathieu - made her get into the cab, telling her that he would set her down at her - sister’s door. - </p> - <p> - She was so amazed, so happy at seeing her dream at last on the point of - realization, that as she sat in the cab by the side of Mathieu she did not - know how to thank him. Her eyes were quite moist, all smiles and tears. - </p> - <p> - “You must not think me a bad daughter, monsieur,” said she, “because I’m - so pleased to leave home. Papa still works as much as he is able, though - he does not get much reward for it at the factory. And mamma does all she - can at home, though she hasn’t much strength left her nowadays. Since - Victor came back from the army, he has married and has children of his - own, and I’m even afraid that he’ll have more than he can provide for, as, - while he was in the army, he seems to have lost all taste for work. But - the sharpest of the family is that lazy-bones Irma, my younger sister, - who’s so pretty and so delicate-looking, perhaps because she’s always ill. - As you may remember, mamma used to fear that Irma might turn out badly - like Norine. Well, not at all! Indeed, she’s the only one of us who is - likely to do well, for she’s going to marry a clerk in the post-office. - And so the only ones left at home are myself and Alfred. Oh! he is a - perfect bandit! That is the plain truth. He committed a theft the other - day, and one had no end of trouble to get him out of the hands of the - police commissary. But all the same, mamma has a weakness for him, and - lets him take all my earnings. Yes, indeed, I’ve had quite enough of him, - especially as he is always terrifying me out of my wits, threatening to - beat and even kill me, though he well knows that ever since my illness the - slightest noise throws me into a faint. And as, all considered, neither - papa nor mamma needs me, it’s quite excusable, isn’t it, that I should - prefer living quietly alone. It is my right, is it not, monsieur?” - </p> - <p> - She went on to speak of her sister Euphrasie, who had fallen into a most - wretched condition, said she, ever since passing through Dr. Gaude’s - hands. Her home had virtually been broken up, she had become decrepit, a - mere bundle of rags, unable even to handle a broom. It made one tremble to - see her. Then, after a pause, just as the cab was reaching the Rue - Caroline, the girl continued: “Will you come up to see her? You might say - a few kind words to her. It would please me, for I’m going on a rather - unpleasant errand. I thought that she would have strength enough to make - some little boxes like me, and thus earn a few pence for herself; but she - has kept the work I gave her more than a month now, and if she really - cannot do it I must take it back.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu consented, and in the room upstairs he beheld one of the most - frightful, poignant spectacles that he had ever witnessed. In the centre - of that one room where the family slept and ate, Euphrasie sat on a - straw-bottomed chair; and although she was barely thirty years of age, one - might have taken her for a little old woman of fifty; so thin and so - withered did she look that she resembled one of those fruits, suddenly - deprived of sap, that dry up on the tree. Her teeth had fallen, and of her - hair she only retained a few white locks. But the more characteristic mark - of this mature senility was a wonderful loss of muscular strength, an - almost complete disappearance of will, energy, and power of action, so - that she now spent whole days, idle, stupefied, without courage even to - raise a finger. - </p> - <p> - When Cecile told her that her visitor was M. Froment, the former chief - designer at the Beauchene works, she did not even seem to recognize him; - she no longer took interest in anything. And when her sister spoke of the - object of her visit, asking for the work with which she had entrusted her, - she answered with a gesture of utter weariness: “Oh! what can you expect! - It takes me too long to stick all those little bits of cardboard together. - I can’t do it; it throws me into a perspiration.” - </p> - <p> - Then a stout woman, who was cutting some bread and butter for the three - children, intervened with an air of quiet authority: “You ought to take - those materials away, Mademoiselle Cecile. She’s incapable of doing - anything with them. They will end by getting dirty, and then your people - won’t take them back.” - </p> - <p> - This stout woman was a certain Madame Joseph, a widow of forty and a - charwoman by calling, whom Benard, the husband, had at first engaged to - come two hours every morning to attend to the housework, his wife not - having strength enough to put on a child’s shoes or to set a pot on the - fire. At first Euphrasie had offered furious resistance to this intrusion - of a stranger, but, her physical decline progressing, she had been obliged - to yield. And then things had gone from bad to worse, till Madame Joseph - became supreme in the household. Between times there had been terrible - scenes over it all; but the wretched Euphrasie, stammering and shivering, - had at last resigned herself to the position, like some little old woman - sunk into second childhood and already cut off from the world. That Benard - and Madame Joseph were not bad-hearted in reality was shown by the fact - that although Euphrasie was now but an useless encumbrance, they kept her - with them, instead of flinging her into the streets as others would have - done. - </p> - <p> - “Why, there you are again in the middle of the room!” suddenly exclaimed - the fat woman, who each time that she went hither and thither found it - necessary to avoid the other’s chair. “How funny it is that you can never - put yourself in a corner! Auguste will be coming in for his four o’clock - snack in a moment, and he won’t be at all pleased if he doesn’t find his - cheese and his glass of wine on the table.” - </p> - <p> - Without replying, Euphrasie nervously staggered to her feet, and with the - greatest trouble dragged her chair towards the table. Then she sat down - again limp and very weary. - </p> - <p> - Just as Madame Joseph was bringing the cheese, Benard, whose workshop was - near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovial fellow, - and began to jest with his sister-in-law while showing great politeness - towards Mathieu, whom he thanked for taking interest in his unhappy wife’s - condition. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>, monsieur,” said he, “it isn’t her fault; it - is all due to those rascally doctors at the hospital. For a year or so one - might have thought her cured, but you see what has now become of her. Ah! - it ought not to be allowed! You are no doubt aware that they treated - Cecile just the same. And there was another, too, a baroness, whom you - must know. She called here the other day to see Euphrasie, and, upon my - word, I didn’t recognize her. She used to be such a fine woman, and now - she looks a hundred years old. Yes, yes, I say that the doctors ought to - be sent to prison.” - </p> - <p> - He was about to sit down to table when he stumbled against Euphrasie’s - chair. She sat watching him with an anxious, semi-stupefied expression. - “There you are, in my way as usual!” said he; “one is always tumbling up - against you. Come, make a little room, do.” - </p> - <p> - He did not seem to be a very terrible customer, but at the sound of his - voice she began to tremble, full of childish fear, as if she were - threatened with a thrashing. And this time she found strength enough to - drag her chair as far as a dark closet, the door of which was open. She - there sought refuge, ensconcing herself in the gloom, amid which one could - vaguely espy her shrunken, wrinkled face, which suggested that of some - very old great-grandmother, who was taking years and years to die. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu’s heart contracted as he observed that senile terror, that - shivering obedience on the part of a woman whose harsh, dry, aggressively - quarrelsome disposition he so well remembered. Industrious, self-willed, - full of life as she had once been, she was now but a limp human rag. And - yet her case was recorded in medical annals as one of the renowned Gaude’s - great miracles of cure. Ah! how truly had Boutan spoken in saying that - people ought to wait to see the real results of those victorious - operations which were sapping the vitality of France. - </p> - <p> - Cecile, however, with eager affection, kissed the three children, who - somehow continued to grow up in that wrecked household. Tears came to her - eyes, and directly Madame Joseph had given her back the work-materials - entrusted to Euphrasie she hurried Mathieu away. And, as they reached the - street, she said: “Thank you, Monsieur Froment; I can go home on foot now—. - How frightful, eh? Ah! as I told you, we shall be in Paradise, Norine and - I, in the quiet room which you have so kindly promised to rent for us.” - </p> - <p> - On reaching Beauchene’s establishment Mathieu immediately repaired to the - workshops, but he could obtain no precise information respecting his - threshing-machine, though he had ordered it several months previously. He - was told that the master’s son, Monsieur Maurice, had gone out on - business, and that nobody could give him an answer, particularly as the - master himself had not put in an appearance at the works that week. He - learnt, however, that Beauchene had returned from a journey that very day, - and must be indoors with his wife. Accordingly, he resolved to call at the - house, less on account of the threshing-machine than to decide a matter of - great interest to him, that of the entry of one of his twin sons, Blaise, - into the establishment. - </p> - <p> - This big fellow had lately left college, and although he had only - completed his nineteenth year, he was on the point of marrying a - portionless young girl, Charlotte Desvignes, for whom he had conceived a - romantic attachment ever since childhood. His parents, seeing in this - match a renewal of their own former loving improvidence, had felt moved, - and unwilling to drive the lad to despair. But, if he was to marry, some - employment must first be found for him. Fortunately this could be managed. - While Denis, the other of the twins, entered a technical school, - Beauchene, by way of showing his esteem for the increasing fortune of his - good cousins, as he now called the Froments, cordially offered to give - Blaise a situation at his establishment. - </p> - <p> - On being ushered into Constance’s little yellow salon, Mathieu found her - taking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her from - the Rue de Miromesnil. Beauchene’s unexpected arrival on the scene had - disagreeably interrupted their private converse. He had returned from one - of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under the pretext of - making a short business journey, and, still slightly intoxicated, with - feverish, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he was wearying the two women - with his impudent, noisy falsehoods. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! my dear fellow!” he exclaimed on seeing Mathieu, “I was just telling - the ladies of my return from Amiens—. What wonderful duck pates they - have there!” - </p> - <p> - Then, on Mathieu speaking to him of Blaise, he launched out into - protestations of friendship. It was understood, the young fellow need only - present himself at the works, and in the first instance he should be put - with Morange, in order that he might learn something of the business - mechanism of the establishment. Thus talking, Beauchene puffed and coughed - and spat, exhaling meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, and musk, which - he always brought back from his “sprees,” while his wife smiled - affectionately before the others as was her wont, but directed at him - glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turned her - head. - </p> - <p> - As Beauchene continued talking too much, owning for instance that he did - not know how far the thresher might be from completion, Mathieu noticed - Constance listening anxiously. The idea of Blaise entering the - establishment had already rendered her grave, and now her husband’s - apparent ignorance of important business matters distressed her. Besides, - the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she remembered the girl’s - child, and almost feared some fresh understanding between Beauchene and - Mathieu. All at once, however, she gave a cry of great relief: “Ah! here - is Maurice.” - </p> - <p> - Her son was entering the room—her son, the one and only god on whom - she now set her affection and pride, the crown-prince who to-morrow would - become king, who would save the kingdom from perdition, and who would - exalt her on his right hand in a blaze of glory. She deemed him handsome, - tall, strong, and as invincible in his nineteenth year as all the knights - of the old legends. When he explained that he had just profitably - compromised a worrying transaction in which his father had rashly - embarked, she pictured him repairing disasters and achieving victories. - And she triumphed more than ever on hearing him promise that the - threshing-machine should be ready before the end of that same week. - </p> - <p> - “You must take a cup of tea, my dear,” she exclaimed. “It would do you - good; you worry your mind too much.” - </p> - <p> - Maurice accepted the offer, and gayly replied: “Oh! do you know, an - omnibus almost crushed me just now in the Rue de Rivoli!” - </p> - <p> - At this his mother turned livid, and the cup which she held escaped from - her hand. Ah! God, was her happiness at the mercy of an accident? Then - once again the fearful threat sped by, that icy gust which came she knew - not whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones. - </p> - <p> - “Why, you stupid,” said Beauchene, laughing, “it was he who crushed the - omnibus, since here he is, telling you the tale. Ah! my poor Maurice, your - mother is really ridiculous. I know how strong you are, and I’m quite at - ease about you.” - </p> - <p> - That day Madame Angelin returned to Janville with Mathieu. They found - themselves alone in the railway carriage, and all at once, without any - apparent cause, tears started from the young woman’s eyes. At this she - apologized, and murmured as if in a dream: “To have a child, to rear him, - and then lose him—ah! certainly one’s grief must then be poignant. - Yet one has had him with one; he has grown up, and one has known for years - all the joy of having him at one’s side. But when one never has a child—never, - never—ah! come rather suffering and mourning than such a void as - that!” - </p> - <p> - And meantime, at Chantebled, Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, - increased, and multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal battle - which life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase both of - offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, their - joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame, desire divine - and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, of kindliness, and - health. And their energy did the rest—that will of action, that - quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that is necessary, the labor - that has made and that regulates the world. Yet even during those two - years it was not without constant struggling that they achieved victory. - True, victory was becoming more and more certain as the estate expanded. - The petty worries of earlier days had disappeared, and the chief question - was now one of ruling sensibly and equitably. All the land had been - purchased northward on the plateau, from the farm of Mareuil to the farm - of Lillebonne; there was not a copse that did not belong to the Froments, - and thus beside the surging sea of corn there rose a royal park of - centenarian trees. Apart from the question of felling portions of the wood - for timber, Mathieu was not disposed to retain the remainder for mere - beauty’s sake; and accordingly avenues were devised connecting the broad - clearings, and cattle were then turned into this part of the property. The - ark of life, increased by hundreds of animals, expanded, burst through the - great trees. There was a fresh growth of fruitfulness: more and more - cattle-sheds had to be built, sheepcotes had to be created, and manure - came in loads and loads to endow the land with wondrous fertility. And now - yet other children might come, for floods of milk poured forth, and there - were herds and flocks to clothe and nourish them. Beside the ripening - crops the woods waved their greenery, quivering with the eternal seeds - that germinated in their shade, under the dazzling sun. And only one more - stretch of land, the sandy slopes on the east, remained to be conquered in - order that the kingdom might be complete. Assuredly this compensated one - for all former tears, for all the bitter anxiety of the first years of - toil. - </p> - <p> - Then, while Mathieu completed his conquest, there came to Marianne during - those two years the joy of marrying one of her children even while she was - again <i>enceinte</i>, for, like our good mother the earth, she also - remained fruitful. ‘Twas a delightful fete, full of infinite hope, that - wedding of Blaise and Charlotte; he a strong young fellow of nineteen, she - an adorable girl of eighteen summers, each loving the other with a love of - nosegay freshness that had budded, even in childhood’s hour, along the - flowery paths of Chantebled. The eight other children were all there: - first the big brothers, Denis, Ambroise, and Gervais, who were now - finishing their studies; next Rose, the eldest girl, now fourteen, who - promised to become a woman of healthy beauty and happy gayety of - disposition; then Claire, who was still a child, and Gregoire, who was - only just going to college; without counting the very little ones, Louise - and Madeleine. - </p> - <p> - Folks came out of curiosity from the surrounding villages to see the gay - troop conduct their big brother to the municipal offices. It was a - marvellous cortege, flowery like springtide, full of felicity, which moved - every heart. Often, moreover, on ordinary holidays, when for the sake of - an outing the family repaired in a band to some village market, there was - such a gallop in traps, on horseback, and on bicycles, while the girls’ - hair streamed in the wind and loud laughter rang out from one and all, - that people would stop to watch the charming cavalcade. “Here are the - troops passing!” folks would jestingly exclaim, implying that nothing - could resist those Froments, that the whole countryside was theirs by - right of conquest, since every two years their number increased. And this - time, at the expiration of those last two years it was again to a - daughter, Marguerite, that Marianne gave birth. For a while she remained - in a feverish condition, and there were fears, too, that she might be - unable to nurse her infant as she had done all the others. Thus, when - Mathieu saw her erect once more and smiling, with her dear little - Marguerite at her breast, he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once - again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth - and power, yet an additional force born into the world, another field - ready for to-morrow’s harvest! - </p> - <p> - And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness - spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over - destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child - was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering, and - ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIV - </h2> - <p> - TWO more years went by, and during those two years yet another child, this - time a boy, was born to Mathieu and Marianne. And on this occasion, at the - same time as the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased - also by all the heatherland extending to the east as far as the village of - Vieux-Bourg. And this time the last lot was purchased, the conquest of the - estate was complete. The 1250 acres of uncultivated soil which Seguin’s - father, the old army contractor, had formerly purchased in view of - erecting a palatial residence there were now, thanks to unremitting - effort, becoming fruitful from end to end. The enclosure belonging to the - Lepailleurs, who stubbornly refused to sell it, alone set a strip of dry, - stony, desolate land amid the broad green plain. And it was all life’s - resistless conquest; it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was - labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and - suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting - more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - </p> - <p> - Blaise, now the father of a little girl some ten months old, had been - residing at the Beauchene works since the previous winter. He occupied the - little pavilion where his mother had long previously given birth to his - brother Gervais. His wife Charlotte had conquered the Beauchenes by her - fair grace, her charming, bouquet-like freshness, to such a point, indeed, - that even Constance had desired to have her near her. The truth was that - Madame Desvignes had made adorable creatures of her two daughters, - Charlotte and Marthe. At the death of her husband, a stockbroker’s - confidential clerk, who had died, leaving her at thirty years of age in - very indifferent circumstances, she had gathered her scanty means together - and withdrawn to Janville, her native place, where she had entirely - devoted herself to her daughters’ education. Knowing that they would be - almost portionless, she had brought them up extremely well, in the hope - that this might help to find them husbands, and it so chanced that she - proved successful. - </p> - <p> - Affectionate intercourse sprang up between her and the Froments; the - children played together; and it was, indeed, from those first games that - came the love-romance which was to end in the marriage of Blaise and - Charlotte. By the time the latter reached her eighteenth birthday and - married, Marthe her sister, then fourteen years old, had become the - inseparable companion of Rose Froment, who was of the same age and as - pretty as herself, though dark instead of fair. Charlotte, who had a more - delicate, and perhaps a weaker, nature than her gay, sensible sister, had - become passionately fond of drawing and painting, which she had learnt at - first simply by way of accomplishment. She had ended, however, by painting - miniatures very prettily, and, as her mother remarked, her proficiency - might prove a resource to her in the event of misfortune. Certainly there - was some of the bourgeois respect and esteem for a good education in the - fairly cordial greeting which Constance extended to Charlotte, who had - painted a miniature portrait of her, a good though a flattering likeness. - </p> - <p> - On the other hand, Blaise, who was endowed with the creative fire of the - Froments, ever striving, ever hard at work, became a valuable assistant to - Maurice as soon as a brief stay in Morange’s office had made him familiar - with the business of the firm. Indeed it was Maurice who, finding that his - father seconded him less and less, had insisted on Blaise and Charlotte - installing themselves in the little pavilion, in order that the former’s - services might at all times be available. And Constance, ever on her knees - before her son, could in this matter only obey respectfully. She evinced - boundless faith in the vastness of Maurice’s intellect. His studies had - proved fairly satisfactory; if he was somewhat slow and heavy, and had - frequently been delayed by youthful illnesses, he had, nevertheless, - diligently plodded on. As he was far from talkative, his mother gave out - that he was a reflective, concentrated genius, who would astonish the - world by actions, not by speech. Before he was even fifteen she said of - him, in her adoring way: “Oh! he has a great mind.” And, naturally enough, - she only acknowledged Blaise to be a necessary lieutenant, a humble - assistant, one whose hand would execute the sapient young master’s orders. - The latter, to her thinking, was now so strong and so handsome, and he was - so quickly reviving the business compromised by the father’s slow - collapse, that surely he must be on the high-road to prodigious wealth, to - that final great triumph, indeed, of which she had been dreaming so - proudly, so egotistically, for so many years. - </p> - <p> - But all at once the thunderbolt fell. It was not without some hesitation - that Blaise had agreed to make the little pavilion his home, for he knew - that there was an idea of reducing him to the status of a mere piece of - machinery. But at the birth of his little girl he bravely decided to - accept the proposal, and to engage in the battle of life even as his - father had engaged in it, mindful of the fact that he also might in time - have a large family. But it so happened that one morning, when he went up - to the house to ask Maurice for some instructions, he heard from Constance - herself that the young man had spent a very bad night, and that she had - therefore prevailed on him to remain in bed. She did not evince any great - anxiety on the subject; the indisposition could only be due to a little - fatigue. Indeed, for a week past the two cousins had been tiring - themselves out over the delivery of a very important order, which had set - the entire works in motion. Besides, on the previous day Maurice, - bareheaded and in perspiration, had imprudently lingered in a draught in - one of the sheds while a machine was being tested. - </p> - <p> - That evening he was seized with intense fever, and Boutan was hastily - summoned. On the morrow, alarmed, though he scarcely dared to say it, by - the lightning-like progress of the illness, the doctor insisted on a - consultation, and two of his colleagues being summoned, they soon agreed - together. The malady was an extremely infectious form of galloping - consumption, the more violent since it had found in the patient a field - where there was little to resist its onslaught. Beauchene was away from - home, travelling as usual. Constance, for her part, in spite of the grave - mien of the doctors, who could not bring themselves to tell her the brutal - truth, remained, in spite of growing anxiety, full of a stubborn hope that - her son, the hero, the demi-god necessary for her own life, could not be - seriously ill and likely to die. But only three days elapsed, and during - the very night that Beauchene returned home, summoned by a telegram, the - young fellow expired in her arms. - </p> - <p> - In reality his death was simply the final decomposition of impoverished, - tainted, bourgeois blood, the sudden disappearance of a poor, mediocre - being who, despite a facade of seeming health, had been ailing since - childhood. But what an overwhelming blow it was both for the mother and - for the father, all whose dreams and calculations it swept away! The only - son, the one and only heir, the prince of industry, whom they had desired - with such obstinate, scheming egotism, had passed away like a shadow; - their arms clasped but a void, and the frightful reality arose before - them; a moment had sufficed, and they were childless. - </p> - <p> - Blaise was with the parents at the bedside at the moment when Maurice - expired. It was then about two in the morning, and as soon as possible he - telegraphed the news of the death to Chantebled. Nine o’clock was striking - when Marianne, very pale, quite upset, came into the yard to call Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “Maurice is dead!... <i>Mon Dieu</i>! an only son; poor people!” - </p> - <p> - They stood there thunderstruck, chilled and trembling. They had simply - heard that the young man was poorly; they had not imagined him to be - seriously ill. - </p> - <p> - “Let me go to dress,” said Mathieu; “I shall take the quarter-past ten - o’clock train. I must go to kiss them.” - </p> - <p> - Although Marianne was expecting her eleventh child before long, she - decided to accompany her husband. It would have pained her to be unable to - give this proof of affection to her cousins, who, all things considered, - had treated Blaise and his young wife very kindly. Moreover, she was - really grieved by the terrible catastrophe. So she and her husband, after - distributing the day’s work among the servants, set out for Janville - station, which they reached just in time to catch the quarter-past ten - o’clock train. It was already rolling on again when they recognized the - Lepailleurs and their son Antonin in the very compartment where they were - seated. - </p> - <p> - Seeing the Froments thus together in full dress, the miller imagined that - they were going to a wedding, and when he learnt that they had a visit of - condolence to make, he exclaimed: “Oh! so it’s just the contrary. But no - matter, it’s an outing, a little diversion nevertheless.” - </p> - <p> - Since Mathieu’s victory, since the whole of the estate of Chantebled had - been conquered and fertilized, Lepailleur had shown some respect for his - bourgeois rival. Nevertheless, although he could not deny the results - hitherto obtained, he did not altogether surrender, but continued - sneering, as if he expected that some rending of heaven or earth would - take place to prove him in the right. He would not confess that he had - made a mistake; he repeated that he knew the truth, and that folks would - some day see plainly enough that a peasant’s calling was the very worst - calling there could be, since the dirty land had gone bankrupt and would - yield nothing more. Besides, he held his revenge—that enclosure - which he left barren, uncultivated, by way of protest against the - adjoining estate which it intersected. The thought of this made him - ironical. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he resumed in his ridiculously vain, scoffing way, “we are going - to Paris too. Yes, we are going to install this young gentleman there.” - </p> - <p> - He pointed as he spoke to his son Antonin, now a tall, carroty fellow of - eighteen, with an elongated head. A few light-colored bristles were - already sprouting on his chin and cheeks, and he wore town attire, with a - silk hat and gloves, and a bright blue necktie. After astonishing Janville - by his success at school, he had displayed so much repugnance to manual - work that his father had decided to make “a Parisian” of him. - </p> - <p> - “So it is decided; you have quite made up your mind?” asked Mathieu in a - friendly way. - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes; why should I force him to toil and moil without the least hope - of ever enriching himself? Neither my father nor I ever managed to put a - copper by with that wretched old mill of ours. Why, the mill-stones wear - away with rot more than with grinding corn. And the wretched fields, too, - yield far more pebbles than crowns. And so, as he’s now a scholar, he may - as well try his fortune in Paris. There’s nothing like city life to - sharpen a man’s wits.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Lepailleur, who never took her eyes from her son, but remained in - admiration before him as formerly before her husband, now exclaimed with - an air of rapture: “Yes, yes, he has a place as a clerk with Maitre - Rousselet, the attorney. We have rented a little room for him; I have seen - about the furniture and the linen, and to-day’s the great day; he will - sleep there to-night, after we have dined, all three, at a good - restaurant. Ah! yes, I’m very pleased; he’s making a start now.” - </p> - <p> - “And he will perhaps end by being a minister of state,” said Mathieu, with - a smile; “who knows? Everything is possible nowadays.” - </p> - <p> - It all typified the exodus from the country districts towards the towns, - the feverish impatience to make a fortune, which was becoming general. - Even the parents nowadays celebrated their child’s departure, and - accompanied the adventurer on his way, anxious and proud to climb the - social ladder with him. And that which brought a smile to the lips of the - farmer of Chantebled, the bourgeois who had become a peasant, was the - thought of the double change: the miller’s son going to Paris, whereas he - had gone to the earth, the mother of all strength and regeneration. - </p> - <p> - Antonin, however, had also begun to laugh with the air of an artful idler - who was more particularly attracted by the free dissipation of Paris life. - “Oh! minister?” said he, “I haven’t much taste for that. I would much - sooner win a million at once so as to rest afterwards.” - </p> - <p> - Delighted with this display of wit, the Lepailleurs burst into noisy - merriment. Oh! their boy would do great things, that was quite certain! - </p> - <p> - Marianne, her heart oppressed by thought of the mourning which awaited - her, had hitherto kept silent. She now asked, however, why little Therese - did not form one of the party. Lepailleur dryly replied that he did not - choose to embarrass himself with a child but six years old, who did not - know how to behave. Her arrival had upset everything in the house; things - would have been much better if she had never been born. Then, as Marianne - began to protest, saying that she had seldom seen a more intelligent and - prettier little girl, Madame Lepailleur answered more gently: “Oh! she’s - sharp; that’s true enough; but one can’t send girls to Paris. She’ll have - to be put somewhere, and it will mean a lot of trouble, a lot of money. - However, we mustn’t talk about all that this morning, since we want to - enjoy ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - At last the train reached Paris, and the Lepailleurs, leaving the Northern - terminus, were caught and carried off by the impetuously streaming crowd. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu and Marianne alighted from their cab on the Quai d’Orsay, in - front of the Beauchenes’ residence, they recognized the Seguins’ brougham - drawn up beside the foot pavement. And within it they perceived the two - girls, Lucie and Andree, waiting mute and motionless in their - light-colored dresses. Then, as they approached the door, they saw - Valentine come out, in a very great hurry as usual. On recognizing them, - however, she assumed an expression of deep pity, and spoke the words - required by the situation: - </p> - <p> - “What a frightful misfortune, is it not? an only son!” - </p> - <p> - Then she burst out into a flood of words: “You have hastened here, I see, - as I did; it is only natural. I heard of the catastrophe only by chance - less than an hour ago. And you see my luck! My daughters were dressed, and - I myself was dressing to take them to a wedding—a cousin of our - friend Santerre is marrying a diplomatist. And, in addition, I am engaged - for the whole afternoon. Well, although the wedding is fixed for a - quarter-past eleven, I did not hesitate, but drove here before going to - the church. And naturally I went upstairs alone. My daughters have been - waiting in the carriage. We shall no doubt be a little late for the - wedding. But no matter! You will see the poor parents in their empty - house, near the body, which, I must say, they have laid out very nicely on - the bed. Oh! it is heartrending.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu was looking at her, surprised to see that she did not age. The - fiery flame of her wild life seemed to scorch and preserve her. He knew - that her home was now completely wrecked. Seguin openly lived with Nora, - the governess, for whom he had furnished a little house. It was there even - that he had given Mathieu an appointment to sign the final transfer of the - Chantebled property. And since Gaston had entered the military college of - St. Cyr, Valentine had only her two daughters with her in the spacious, - luxurious mansion of the Avenue d’Antin, which ruin was slowly destroying. - </p> - <p> - “I think,” resumed Madame Seguin, “that I shall tell Gaston to obtain - permission to attend the funeral. For I am not sure whether his father is - in Paris. It’s just the same with our friend Santerre; he’s starting on a - tour to-morrow. Ah! not only do the dead leave us, but it is astonishing - what a number of the living go off and disappear! Life is very sad, is it - not, dear madame?” - </p> - <p> - As she spoke a little quiver passed over her face; the dread of the coming - rupture, which she had felt approaching for several months past, amid all - the skilful preparations of Santerre, who had been long maturing some - secret plan, which she did not as yet divine. However, she made a devout - ecstatic gesture, and added: “Well, we are in the hands of God.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne, who was still smiling at the ever-motionless girls in the closed - brougham, changed the subject. “How tall they have grown, how pretty they - have become! Your Andree looks adorable. How old is your Lucie now? She - will soon be of an age to marry.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! don’t let her hear you,” retorted Valentine; “you would make her - burst into tears! She is seventeen, but for sense she isn’t twelve. Would - you believe it, she began sobbing this morning and refusing to go to the - wedding, under the pretence that it would make her ill? She is always - talking of convents; we shall have to come to a decision about her. - Andree, though she is only thirteen, is already much more womanly. But she - is a little stupid, just like a sheep. Her gentleness quite upsets me at - times; it jars on my nerves.” - </p> - <p> - Then Valentine, on the point of getting into her carriage, turned to shake - hands with Marianne, and thought of inquiring after her health. “Really,” - said she, “I lose my head at times. I was quite forgetting. And the baby - you’re expecting will be your eleventh child, will it now? How terrible! - Still it succeeds with you. And, ah! those poor people whom you are going - to see, their house will be quite empty now.” - </p> - <p> - When the brougham had rolled away it occurred to Mathieu and Marianne that - before seeing the Beauchenes it might be advisable for them to call at the - little pavilion, where their son or their daughter-in-law might be able to - give them some useful information. But neither Blaise nor Charlotte was - there. They found only a servant who was watching over the little girl, - Berthe. This servant declared that she had not seen Monsieur Blaise since - the previous day, for he had remained at the Beauchenes’ near the body. - And as for Madame, she also had gone there early that morning, and had - left instructions that Berthe was to be brought to her at noon, in order - that she might not have to come back to give her the breast. Then, as - Marianne in surprise began to put some questions, the girl explained - matters: “Madame took a box of drawing materials with her. I fancy that - she is painting a portrait of the poor young man who is dead.” - </p> - <p> - As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they felt - oppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned in that great city of - labor, usually so full of noise and bustle. Death had suddenly passed by, - and all the ardent life had at once ceased, the machinery had become cold - and mute, the workshops silent and deserted. There was not a sound, not a - soul, not a puff of that vapor which was like the very breath of the - place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress of the Froments - increased when they passed from the works into the house, amid absolute - solitude; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber, the staircase - quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, as in some - uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servant in the - antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds of - embroidered muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in a - circle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, at - first seemed to them to be empty. But at last they detected a shadowy form - moving slowly to and fro in the middle of the room. It was Morange, - bareheaded and frock-coated; he had hastened thither at the first news - with the same air as if he had been repairing to his office. He seemed to - be at home; it was he who received the visitors in a scared way, overcome - as he was by this sudden demise, which recalled to him his daughter’s - abominable death. His heart-wound had reopened; he was livid, all in - disorder, with his long gray beard streaming down, while he stepped hither - and thither without a pause, making all the surrounding grief his own. - </p> - <p> - As soon as he recognized the Froments he also spoke the words which came - from every tongue: “What a frightful misfortune, an only son!” - </p> - <p> - Then he pressed their hands, and whispered and explained that Madame - Beauchene, feeling quite exhausted, had withdrawn for a few moments, and - that Beauchene and Blaise were making necessary arrangements downstairs. - And then, resuming his maniacal perambulations, he pointed towards an - adjoining room, the folding doors of which were wide open. - </p> - <p> - “He is there, on the bed where he died. There are flowers; it looks very - nice. You may go in.” - </p> - <p> - This room was Maurice’s bedchamber. The large curtains had been closely - drawn, and tapers were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on the - deceased’s face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closed as - if in sleep. Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, and with the - roses scattered over the sheet the bed was like a couch of springtide. The - odor of the flowers, mingling with that of the burning wax, seemed rather - oppressive amid the deep and tragic stillness. Not a breath stirred the - tall, erect flames of the tapers, burning in the semi-obscurity, amid - which the bed alone showed forth. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived their - daughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door. Lighted by a - little lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, making a - drawing of Maurice’s head as it rested among the roses. Hard and - anguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she had - nevertheless yielded to the mother’s ardent entreaties. And for three - hours past, pale, looking wondrously beautiful, her face showing all the - flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine golden hair, - she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best. When - Mathieu and Marianne approached her she would not speak, but simply - nodded. Still a little color came to her cheeks, and her eyes smiled. And - when the others, after lingering there for a moment in sorrowful - contemplation, had quietly returned to the drawing-room, she resumed her - work alone, in the presence of the dead, among the roses and the tapers. - </p> - <p> - Morange was still walking the drawing-room like a lost, wandering phantom. - Mathieu remained standing there, while Marianne sat down near the folding - doors. Not another word was exchanged; the spell of waiting continued amid - the oppressive silence of the dim, closed room. When some ten minutes had - elapsed, two other visitors arrived, a lady and a gentleman, whom the - Froments could not at first recognize. Morange bowed and received them in - his dazed way. Then, as the lady did not release her hold of the - gentleman’s hand, but led him along, as if he were blind, between the - articles of furniture, so that he might not knock against them, Marianne - and Mathieu realized that the new comers were the Angelins. - </p> - <p> - Since the previous winter they had sold their little house at Janville to - fix themselves in Paris, for a last misfortune had befallen them—the - failure of a great banking house had carried away almost the whole of - their modest fortune. The wife had fortunately secured a post as one of - the delegates of the Poor Relief Board, an inspectorship with various - duties, such as watching over the mothers and children assisted by the - board, and reporting thereon. And she was wont to say, with a sad smile, - that this work of looking after the little ones was something of a - consolation for her, since it was now certain that she would never have a - child of her own. As for her husband, whose eyesight was failing more and - more, he had been obliged to relinquish painting altogether, and he - dragged out his days in morose desolation, his life wrecked, annihilated. - </p> - <p> - With short steps, as if she were leading a child, Madame Angelin brought - him to an armchair near Marianne and seated him in it. He had retained the - lofty mien of a musketeer, but his features had been ravaged by anxiety, - and his hair was white, though he was only forty-four years of age. And - what memories arose at the sight of that sorrowful lady leading that - infirm, aged man, for those who had known the young couple, all tenderness - and good looks, rambling along the secluded paths of Janville, amid the - careless delights of their love. - </p> - <p> - As soon as Madame Angelin had clasped Marianne’s hands with her own - trembling fingers, she also uttered in low, stammering accents, those - despairing words: “Ah! what a frightful misfortune, an only son!” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes filled with tears, and she would not sit down before going for a - moment to see the body in the adjoining room. When she came back, sobbing - in her handkerchief, she sank into an armchair between Marianne and her - husband. He remained there motionless, staring fixedly with his dim eyes. - And silence fell again throughout the lifeless house, whither the rumble - of the works, now deserted, fireless and frozen, ascended no longer. - </p> - <p> - But Beauchene, followed by Blaise, at last made his appearance. The heavy - blow he had received seemed to have made him ten years older. It was as if - the heavens had suddenly fallen upon him. Never amid his conquering - egotism, his pride of strength and his pleasures, had he imagined such a - downfall to be possible. Never had he been willing to admit that Maurice - might be ill—such an idea was like casting a doubt upon his own - strength; he thought himself beyond the reach of thunderbolts; misfortune - would never dare to fall on him. And at the first overwhelming moment he - had found himself weak as a woman, weary and limp, his strength undermined - by his dissolute life, the slow disorganization of his faculties. He had - sobbed like a child before his dead son, all his vanity crushed, all his - calculations destroyed. The thunderbolt had sped by, and nothing remained. - In a minute his life had been swept away; the world was now all black and - void. And he remained livid, in consternation at it all, his bloated face - swollen with grief, his heavy eyelids red with tears. - </p> - <p> - When he perceived the Froments, weakness again came upon him, and he - staggered towards them with open arms, once more stifling with sobs. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! my dear friends, what a terrible blow! And I wasn’t here! When I got - here he had lost consciousness; he did not recognize me—. Is it - possible? A lad who was in such good health! I cannot believe it. It seems - to me that I must be dreaming, and that he will get up presently and come - down with me into the workshops!” - </p> - <p> - They kissed him, they pitied him, struck down like this upon his return - from some carouse or other, still intoxicated, perhaps, and tumbling into - the midst of such an awful disaster, his prostration increased by the - stupor following upon debauchery. His beard, moist with his tears, still - stank of tobacco and musk. - </p> - <p> - Although he scarcely knew the Angelins, he pressed them also in his arms. - “Ah! my poor friends, what a terrible blow! What a terrible blow!” - </p> - <p> - Then Blaise in his turn came to kiss his parents. In spite of his grief, - and the horrible night he had spent, his face retained its youthful - freshness. Yet tears coursed down his cheeks, for, working with Maurice - day by day, he had conceived real friendship for him. - </p> - <p> - The silence fell again. Morange, as if unconscious of what went on around - him, as if he were quite alone there, continued walking softly hither and - thither like a somnambulist. Beauchene, with haggard mien, went off, and - then came back carrying some little address-books. He turned about for - another moment, and finally sat down at a writing-table which had been - brought out of Maurice’s room. Little accustomed as he was to grief, he - instinctively sought to divert his mind, and began searching in the little - address-books for the purpose of drawing up a list of the persons who must - be invited to the funeral. But his eyes became blurred, and with a gesture - he summoned Blaise, who, after going into the bedchamber to glance at his - wife’s sketch, was now returning to the drawing-room. Thereupon the young - man, standing erect beside the writing-table, began to dictate the names - in a low voice; and then, amid the deep silence sounded a low and - monotonous murmur. - </p> - <p> - The minutes slowly went by. The visitors were still waiting for Constance. - At last a little door of the death-chamber slowly opened, and she entered - that chamber noiselessly, without anybody knowing that she was there. She - looked like a spectre emerging out of the darkness into the pale light of - the tapers. She had not yet wept; her face was livid, contracted, hardened - by cold rage. Her little figure, instead of bending, seemed to have grown - taller beneath the injustice of destiny, as if borne up by furious - rebellion. Yet her loss did not surprise her. She had immediately felt - that she had expected it, although but a minute before the death she had - stubbornly refused to believe it possible. But the thought of it had - remained latent within her for long months, and frightful evidence thereof - now burst forth. She suddenly heard the whispers of the unknown once more, - and understood them; she knew the meaning of those shivers which had - chilled her, those vague, terror-fraught regrets at having no other child! - And that which had been threatening her had come; irreparable destiny had - willed it that her only son, the salvation of the imperilled home, the - prince of to-morrow, who was to share his empire with her, should be swept - away like a withered leaf. It was utter downfall; she sank into an abyss. - And she remained tearless; fury dried her tears within her. Yet, good - mother that she had always been, she suffered all the torment of - motherliness exasperated, poisoned by the loss of her child. - </p> - <p> - She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profile - of her dead son resting among the flowers. And still she did not weep. She - slowly gazed over the bed, filled her eyes with the dolorous scene, then - carried them again to the paper, as if to see what would be left her of - that adored son—those few pencil strokes—when the earth should - have taken him forever. Charlotte, divining that somebody was behind her, - started and raised her head. She did not speak; she had felt frightened. - But both women exchanged a glance. And what a heart pang came to - Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of the void, the - nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other’s face, all love and - health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whence promise of the - future radiated through the fine gold of wavy hair. - </p> - <p> - But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment: words which were - being whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber, - reached her distinctly. She did not move, but remained erect behind - Charlotte, who had resumed her work. And eagerly lending ear, she - listened, not showing herself as yet, although she had already seen - Marianne and Madame Angelin seated near the doorway, almost among the - folds of the hangings. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” Madame Angelin was saying, “the poor mother had a presentiment of - it, as it were. I saw that she felt very anxious when I told her my own - sad story. There is no hope for me; and now death has passed by, and no - hope remains for her.” - </p> - <p> - Silence ensued once more; then, prompted by some connecting train of - thought, she went on: “And your next child will be your eleventh, will it - not? Eleven is not a number; you will surely end by having twelve!” - </p> - <p> - As Constance heard those words she shuddered in another fit of that fury - which dried up her tears. By glancing sideways she could see that mother - of ten children, who was now expecting yet an eleventh child. She found - her still young, still fresh, overflowing with joy and health and hope. - And she was there, like the goddess of fruitfulness, nigh to the funeral - bier at that hour of the supreme rending, when she, Constance, was bowed - down by the irretrievable loss of her only child. - </p> - <p> - But Marianne was answering Madame Angelin: “Oh I don’t think that at all - likely. Why, I’m becoming an old woman. You forget that I am already a - grandmother. Here, look at that!” - </p> - <p> - So saying, she waved her hand towards the servant of her daughter-in-law, - Charlotte, who, in accordance with the instructions she had received, was - now bringing the little Berthe in order that her mother might give her the - breast. The servant had remained at the drawing-room door, hesitating, - disliking to intrude on all that mourning; but the child good-humoredly - waved her fat little fists, and laughed lightly. And Charlotte, hearing - her, immediately rose and tripped across the salon to take the little one - into a neighboring room. - </p> - <p> - “What a pretty child!” murmured Madame Angelin. “Those little ones are - like nosegays; they bring brightness and freshness wherever they come.” - </p> - <p> - Constance for her part had been dazzled. All at once, amid the - semi-obscurity, starred by the flames of the tapers, amid the deathly - atmosphere, which the odor of the roses rendered the more oppressive, that - laughing child had set a semblance of budding springtime, the fresh, - bright atmosphere of a long promise of life. And it typified the victory - of fruitfulness; it was the child’s child, it was Marianne reviving in her - son’s daughter. A grandmother already, and she was only forty-one years - old! Marianne had smiled at that thought. But the hatchet-stroke rang out - yet more frightfully in Constance’s heart. In her case the tree was cut - down to its very root, the sole scion had been lopped off, and none would - ever sprout again. - </p> - <p> - For yet another moment she remained alone amid that nothingness, in that - room where lay her son’s remains. Then she made up her mind and passed - into the drawing-room, with the air of a frozen spectre. They all rose, - kissed her, and shivered as their lips touched her cold cheeks, which her - blood was unable to warm. Profound compassion wrung them, so frightful was - her calmness. And they sought kind words to say to her, but she curtly - stopped them. - </p> - <p> - “It is all over,” said she; “there is nothing to be said. Everything is - ended, quite ended.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Angelin sobbed, Angelin himself wiped his poor fixed, blurred eyes. - Marianne and Mathieu shed tears while retaining Constance’s hands in - theirs. And she, rigid and still unable to weep, refused consolation, - repeating in monotonous accents: “It is finished; nothing can give him - back to me. Is it not so? And thus there remains nothing; all is ended, - quite ended.” - </p> - <p> - She needed to be brave, for visitors would soon be arriving in a stream. - But a last stab in the heart was reserved for her. Beauchene, who since - her arrival had begun to cry again, could no longer see to write. - Moreover, his hand trembled, and he had to leave the writing-table and - fling himself into an armchair, saying to Blaise: “There sit down there, - and continue to write for me.” - </p> - <p> - Then Constance saw Blaise seat himself at her son’s writing-table, in his - place, dip his pen in the inkstand and begin to write with the very same - gesture that she had so often seen Maurice make. That Blaise, that son of - the Froments! What! her dear boy was not yet buried, and a Froment already - replaced him, even as vivacious, fast-growing plants overrun neighboring - barren fields. That stream of life flowing around her, intent on universal - conquest, seemed yet more threatening; grandmothers still bore children, - daughters suckled already, sons laid hands upon vacant kingdoms. And she - remained alone; she had but her unworthy, broken-down, worn-out husband - beside her; while Morange, the maniac, incessantly walking to and fro, was - like the symbolical spectre of human distress, one whose heart and - strength and reason had been carried away in the frightful death of his - only daughter. And not a sound came from the cold and empty works; the - works themselves were dead. - </p> - <p> - The funeral ceremony two days later was an imposing one. The five hundred - workmen of the establishment followed the hearse, notabilities of all - sorts made up an immense cortege. It was much noticed that an old workman, - father Moineaud, the oldest hand of the works, was one of the - pall-bearers. Indeed, people thought it touching, although the worthy old - man dragged his legs somewhat, and looked quite out of his element in a - frock coat, stiffened as he was by thirty years’ hard toil. In the - cemetery, near the grave, Mathieu felt surprised on being approached by an - old lady who alighted from one of the mourning-coaches. - </p> - <p> - “I see, my friend,” said she, “that you do not recognize me.” - </p> - <p> - He made a gesture of apology. It was Seraphine, still tall and slim, but - so fleshless, so withered that one might have thought she was a hundred - years old. Cecile had warned Mathieu of it, yet if he had not seen her - himself he would never have believed that her proud insolent beauty, which - had seemed to defy time and excesses, could have faded so swiftly. What - frightful, withering blast could have swept over her? - </p> - <p> - “Ah! my friend,” she continued, “I am more dead than the poor fellow whom - they are about to lower into that grave. Come and have a chat with me some - day. You are the only person to whom I can tell everything.” - </p> - <p> - The coffin was lowered, the ropes gave out a creaking sound, and there - came a little thud—the last. Beauchene, supported by a relative, - looked on with dim, vacant eyes. Constance, who had had the bitter courage - to come, and had now wept all the tears in her body, almost fainted. She - was carried away, driven back to her home, which would now forever be - empty, like one of those stricken fields that remain barren, fated to - perpetual sterility. Mother earth had taken back her all. - </p> - <p> - And at Chantebled Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, increased, and - multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal battle which life - wages against death, thanks to that continual increase, both of offspring - and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, their joy and - their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame, desire divine and - fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. - And their energy did the rest—that will of action, that quiet - bravery in the presence of the labor that is requisite, the labor that has - made and that regulates the world. - </p> - <p> - Still, during those two years it was not without constant battling that - victory remained to them. At last it was complete. Piece by piece Seguin - had sold the entire estate, of which Mathieu was now king, thanks to his - prudent system of conquest, that of increasing his empire by degrees as he - gradually felt himself stronger. The fortune which the idler had disdained - and dissipated had passed into the hands of the toiler, the creator. There - were 1250 acres, spreading from horizon to horizon; there were woods - intersected by broad meadows, where flocks and herds pastured; there was - fat land overflowing with harvests, in the place of marshes that had been - drained; there was other land, each year of increasing fertility, in the - place of the moors which the captured springs now irrigated. The - Lepailleurs’ uncultivated enclosure alone remained, as if to bear witness - to the prodigy, the great human effort which had quickened that desert of - sand and mud, whose crops would henceforth nourish so many happy people. - Mathieu devoured no other man’s share; he had brought his share into - being, increasing the common wealth, subjugating yet another small portion - of this vast world, which is still so scantily peopled and so badly - utilized for human happiness. The farm, the homestead, had sprung up and - grown in the centre of the estate like a prosperous township, with - inhabitants, servants, and live stock, a perfect focus of ardent triumphal - life. And what sovereign power was that of the happy fruitfulness which - had never wearied of creating, which had yielded all these beings and - things that had been increasing and multiplying for twelve years past, - that invading town which was but a family’s expansion, those trees, those - plants, those grain crops, those fruits whose nourishing stream ever rose - under the dazzling sun! All pain and all tears were forgotten in that joy - of creation, the accomplishment of due labor, the conquest of the future - conducting to the infinite of Action. - </p> - <p> - Then, while Mathieu completed his work of conquest, Marianne during those - two years had the happiness of seeing a daughter born to her son Blaise, - even while she herself was expecting another child. The branches of the - huge tree had begun to fork, pending the time when they would ramify - endlessly, like the branches of some great royal oak spreading afar over - the soil. There would be her children’s children, her grandchildren’s - children, the whole posterity increasing from generation to generation. - And yet how carefully and lovingly she still assembled around her her own - first brood, from Blaise and Denis the twins, now one-and-twenty, to the - last born, the wee creature who sucked in life from her bosom with greedy - lips. There were some of all ages in the brood—a big fellow, who was - already a father; others who went to school; others who still had to be - dressed in the morning; there were boys, Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, and - another; there were girls, Rose, nearly old enough to marry; Claire, - Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the last of whom could scarcely toddle. - And it was a sight to see them roam over the estate like a troop of colts, - following one another at varied pace, according to their growth. She knew - that she could not keep them all tied to her apron-strings; it would be - sufficient happiness if the farm kept two or three beside her; she - resigned herself to seeing the younger ones go off some day to conquer - other lands. Such was the law of expansion; the earth was the heritage of - the most numerous race. Since they had number on their side, they would - have strength also; the world would belong to them. The parents themselves - had felt stronger, more united at the advent of each fresh child. If in - spite of terrible cares they had always conquered, it was because their - love, their toil, the ceaseless travail of their heart and will, gave them - the victory. Fruitfulness is the great conqueress; from her come the - pacific heroes who subjugate the world by peopling it. And this time - especially, when at the lapse of those two years Marianne gave birth to a - boy, Nicolas, her eleventh child, Mathieu embraced her passionately, - triumphing over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child; yet more - wealth and power; yet an additional force born into the world; another - field ready for to-morrow’s harvest. - </p> - <p> - And ‘twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness - spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over - destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child - was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, and - ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XV - </h2> - <p> - AMID the deep mourning life slowly resumed its course at the Beauchene - works. One effect of the terrible blow which had fallen on Beauchene was - that for some weeks he remained quietly at home. Indeed, he seemed to have - profited by the terrible lesson, for he no longer coined lies, no longer - invented pressing business journeys as a pretext for dissipation. He even - set to work once more, and busied himself about the factory, coming down - every morning as in his younger days. And in Blaise he found an active and - devoted lieutenant, on whom he each day cast more and more of the heavier - work. Intimates were most struck, however, by the manner in which - Beauchene and his wife drew together again. Constance was most attentive - to her husband; Beauchene no longer left her, and they seemed to agree - well together, leading a very retired life in their quiet house, where - only relatives were now received. - </p> - <p> - Constance, on the morrow of Maurice’s sudden death, was like one who has - just lost a limb. It seemed to her that she was no longer whole; she felt - ashamed of being, as it were, disfigured. Mingled, too, with her loving - sorrow for Maurice there was humiliation at the thought that she was no - longer a mother, that she no longer had any heir-apparent to her kingdom - beside her. To think that she had been so stubbornly determined to have - but one son, one child, in order that he might become the sole master of - the family fortune, the all-powerful monarch of the future. Death had - stolen him from her, and the establishment now seemed to be less her own, - particularly since that fellow Blaise and his wife and his child, - representing those fruitful and all-invading Froments, were installed - there. She could no longer console herself for having welcomed and lodged - them, and her one passionate, all-absorbing desire was to have another - son, and thereby reconquer her empire. - </p> - <p> - This it was which led to her reconciliation with her husband, and for six - months they lived together on the best of terms. Then, however, came - another six months, and it was evident that they no longer agreed so well - together, for Beauchene took himself off at times under the pretext of - seeking fresh air, and Constance remained at home, feverish, her eyes red - with weeping. - </p> - <p> - One day Mathieu, who had come to Grenelle to see his daughter-in-law, - Charlotte, was lingering in the garden playing with little Berthe, who had - climbed upon his knees, when he was surprised by the sudden approach of - Constance, who must have seen him from her windows. She invented a pretext - to draw him into the house, and kept him there nearly a quarter of an hour - before she could make up her mind to speak her thoughts. Then, all at - once, she began: “My dear Mathieu, you must forgive me for mentioning a - painful matter, but there are reasons why I should do so. Nearly fifteen - years ago, I know it for a fact, my husband had a child by a girl who was - employed at the works. And I also know that you acted as his intermediary - on that occasion, and made certain arrangements with respect to that girl - and her child—a boy, was it not?” - </p> - <p> - She paused for a reply. But Mathieu, stupefied at finding her so well - informed, and at a loss to understand why she spoke to him of that sorry - affair after the lapse of so many years, could only make a gesture by - which he betrayed both his surprise and his anxiety. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said she, “I do not address any reproach to you; I am convinced that - your motives were quite friendly, even affectionate, and that you wished - to hush up a scandal which might have been very unpleasant for me. - Moreover, I do not desire to indulge in recriminations after so long a - time. My desire is simply for information. For a long time I did not care - to investigate the statements whereby I was informed of the affair. But - the recollection of it comes back to me and haunts me persistently, and it - is natural that I should apply to you. I have never spoken a word on the - subject to my husband, and indeed it is best for our tranquillity that I - should not attempt to extort a detailed confession from him. One - circumstance which has induced me to speak to you is that on an occasion - when I accompanied Madame Angelin to a house in the Rue de Miromesnil, I - perceived you there with that girl, who had another child in her arms. So - you have not lost sight of her, and you must know what she is doing, and - whether her first child is alive, and in that case where he is, and how he - is situated.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu still refrained from replying, for Constance’s increasing - feverishness put him on his guard, and impelled him to seek the motive of - such a strange application on the part of one who was as a rule so proud - and so discreet. What could be happening? Why did she strive to provoke - confidential revelations which might have far-reaching effects? Then, as - she closely scanned him with her keen eyes, he sought to answer her with - kind, evasive words. - </p> - <p> - “You greatly embarrass me. And, besides, I know nothing likely to interest - you. What good would it do yourself or your husband to stir up all the - dead past? Take my advice, forget what people may have told you—you - are so sensible and prudent—” - </p> - <p> - But she interrupted him, caught hold of his hands, and held them in her - warm, quivering grasp. Never before had she so behaved, forgetting and - surrendering herself so passionately. “I repeat,” said she, “that nobody - has anything to fear from me—neither my husband, nor that girl, nor - the child. Cannot you understand me? I am simply tormented; I suffer at - knowing nothing. Yes, it seems to me that I shall feel more at ease when I - know the truth. It is for myself that I question you, for my own peace of - mind.... Ah! if I could only tell you, if I could tell you!” - </p> - <p> - He began to divine many things; it was unnecessary for her to be more - explicit. He knew that during the past year she and her husband had been - hoping for the advent of a second child, and that none had come. As a - woman, Constance felt no jealousy of Norine, but as a mother she was - jealous of her son. She could not drive the thought of that child from her - mind; it ever and ever returned thither like a mocking insult now that her - hopes of replacing Maurice were fading fast. Day by day did she dream more - and more passionately of the other woman’s son, wondering where he was, - what had become of him, whether he were healthy, and whether he resembled - his father. - </p> - <p> - “I assure you, my dear Mathieu,” she resumed, “that you will really bring - me relief by answering me. Is he alive? Tell me simply whether he is - alive. But do not tell me a lie. If he is dead I think that I shall feel - calmer. And yet, good heavens! I certainly wish him no evil.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu, who felt deeply touched, told her the simple truth. - </p> - <p> - “Since you insist on it, for the benefit of your peace of mind, and since - it is to remain entirely between us and to have no effect on your home, I - see no reason why I should not confide to you what I know. But that is - very little. The child was left at the Foundling Hospital in my presence. - Since then the mother, having never asked for news, has received none. I - need not add that your husband is equally ignorant, for he always refused - to have anything to do with the child. Is the lad still alive? Where is - he? Those are things which I cannot tell you. A long inquiry would be - necessary. If, however, you wish for my opinion, I think it probable that - he is dead, for the mortality among these poor cast-off children is very - great.” - </p> - <p> - Constance looked at him fixedly. “You are telling me the real truth? You - are hiding nothing?” she asked. And as he began to protest, she went on: - “Yes, yes, I have confidence in you. And so you believe that he is dead! - Ah! to think of all those children who die, when so many women would be - happy to save one, to have one for themselves. Well, if you haven’t been - able to tell me anything positive, you have at least done your best. Thank - you.” - </p> - <p> - During the ensuing months Mathieu often found himself alone with - Constance, but she never reverted to the subject. She seemed to set her - energy on forgetting all about it, though he divined that it still haunted - her. Meantime things went from bad to worse in the Beauchene household. - The husband gradually went back to his former life of debauchery, in spite - of all the efforts of Constance to keep him near her. She, for her part, - clung to her fixed idea, and before long she consulted Boutan. There was a - terrible scene that day between husband and wife in the doctor’s presence. - Constance raked up the story of Norine and cast it in Beauchene’s teeth, - while he upbraided her in a variety of ways. However, Boutan’s advice, - though followed for a time, proved unavailing, and she at last lost - confidence in him. Then she spent months and months in consulting one and - another. She placed herself in the hands of Madame Bourdieu, she even went - to see La Rouche, she applied to all sorts of charlatans, exasperated to - fury at finding that there was no real succor for her. She might long ago - have had a family had she so chosen. But she had elected otherwise, - setting all her egotism and pride on that only son whom death had snatched - away; and now the motherhood she longed for was denied her. - </p> - <p> - For nearly two years did Constance battle, and at last in despair she was - seized with the idea of consulting Dr. Gaude. He told her the brutal - truth; it was useless for her to address herself to charlatans; she would - simply be robbed by them; there was absolutely no hope for her. And Gaude - uttered those decisive words in a light, jesting way, as though surprised - and amused by her profound grief. She almost fainted on the stairs as she - left his flat, and for a moment indeed death seemed welcome. But by a - great effort of will she recovered self-possession, the courage to face - the life of loneliness that now lay before her. Moreover, another idea - vaguely dawned upon her, and the first time she found herself alone with - Mathieu she again spoke to him of Norine’s boy. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me,” said she, “for reverting to a painful subject, but I am - suffering too much now that I know there is no hope for me. I am haunted - by the thought of that illegitimate child of my husband’s. Will you do me - a great service? Make the inquiry you once spoke to me about, try to find - out if he is alive or dead. I feel that when I know the facts peace may - perhaps return to me.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu was almost on the point of answering her that, even if this child - were found again, it could hardly cure her of her grief at having no child - of her own. He had divined her agony at seeing Blaise take Maurice’s place - at the works now that Beauchene had resumed his dissolute life, and daily - intrusted the young man with more and more authority. Blaise’s home was - prospering too; Charlotte had now given birth to a second child, a boy, - and thus fruitfulness was invading the place and usurpation becoming more - and more likely, since Constance could never more have an heir to bar the - road of conquest. Without penetrating her singular feelings, Mathieu - fancied that she perhaps wished to sound him to ascertain if he were not - behind Blaise, urging on the work of spoliation. She possibly imagined - that her request would make him anxious, and that he would refuse to make - the necessary researches. At this idea he decided to do as she desired, if - only to show her that he was above all the base calculations of ambition. - </p> - <p> - “I am at your disposal, cousin,” said he. “It is enough for me that this - inquiry may give you a little relief. But if the lad is alive, am I to - bring him to you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! no, no, I do not ask that!” And then, gesticulating almost wildly, - she stammered: “I don’t know what I want, but I suffer so dreadfully that - I am scarce able to live!” - </p> - <p> - In point of fact a tempest raged within her, but she really had no settled - plan. One could hardly say that she really thought of that boy as a - possible heir. In spite of her hatred of all conquerors from without, was - it likely that she would accept him as a conqueror, in the face of her - outraged womanly feelings and her bourgeois horror of illegitimacy? And - yet if he were not her son, he was at least her husband’s. And perhaps an - idea of saving her empire by placing the works in the hands of that heir - was dimly rising within her, above all her prejudices and her rancor. But - however that might be, her feelings for the time remained confused, and - the only clear thing was her desperate torment at being now and forever - childless, a torment which goaded her on to seek another’s child with the - wild idea of making that child in some slight degree her own. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, however, asked her, “Am I to inform Beauchene of the steps I - take?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you as you please,” she answered. “Still, that would be the best.” - </p> - <p> - That same evening there came a complete rupture between herself and her - husband. She threw in Beauchene’s face all the contempt and loathing that - she had felt for him for years. Hopeless as she was, she revenged herself - by telling him everything that she had on her heart and mind. And her slim - dark figure, upborne by bitter rage, assumed such redoubtable proportions - in his eyes that he felt frightened by her and fled. Henceforth they were - husband and wife in name only. It was logic on the march, it was the - inevitable disorganization of a household reaching its climax, it was - rebellion against nature’s law and indulgence in vice leading to the - gradual decline of a man of intelligence, it was a hard worker sinking - into the sloth of so-called pleasure; and then, death having snatched away - the only son, the home broke to pieces—the wife—fated to - childlessness, and the husband driven away by her, rolling through - debauchery towards final ruin. - </p> - <p> - But Mathieu, keeping his promise to Constance, discreetly began his - researches. And before he even consulted Beauchene it occurred to him to - apply at the Foundling Hospital. If, as he anticipated, the child were - dead, the affair would go no further. Fortunately enough he remembered all - the particulars: the two names, Alexandre-Honore, given to the child, the - exact date of the deposit at the hospital, indeed all the little incidents - of the day when he had driven thither with La Couteau. And when he was - received by the director of the establishment, and had explained to him - the real motives of his inquiries, at the same time giving his name, he - was surprised by the promptness and precision of the answer: - Alexandre-Honore, put out to nurse with the woman Loiseau at Rougemont, - had first kept cows, and had then tried the calling of a locksmith; but - for three months past he had been in apprenticeship with a wheelwright, a - certain Montoir, residing at Saint-Pierre, a hamlet in the vicinity of - Rougemont. Thus the lad lived; he was fifteen years old, and that was all. - Mathieu could obtain no further information respecting either his physical - health or his morality. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu found himself in the street again, slightly dazed, he - remembered that La Couteau had told him that the child would be sent to - Rougemont. He had always pictured it dying there, carried off by the - hurricane which killed so many babes, and lying in the silent village - cemetery paved with little Parisians. To find the boy alive, saved from - the massacre, came like a surprise of destiny, and brought vague anguish, - a fear of some terrible catastrophe to Mathieu’s heart. At the same time, - since the boy was living, and he now knew where to seek him, he felt that - he must warn Beauchene. The matter was becoming serious, and it seemed to - him that he ought not to carry the inquiry any further without the - father’s authorization. - </p> - <p> - That same day, then, before returning to Chantebled, he repaired to the - factory, where he was lucky enough to find Beauchene, whom Blaise’s - absence on business had detained there by force. Thus he was in a very bad - humor, puffing and yawning and half asleep. It was nearly three o’clock, - and he declared that he could never digest his lunch properly unless he - went out afterwards. The truth was that since his rupture with his wife he - had been devoting his afternoons to paying attentions to a girl serving at - a beer-house. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! my good fellow,” he muttered as he stretched himself. “My blood is - evidently thickening. I must bestir myself, or else I shall be in a bad - way.” - </p> - <p> - However, he woke up when Mathieu had explained the motive of his visit. At - first he could scarcely understand it, for the affair seemed to him so - extraordinary, so idiotic. - </p> - <p> - “Eh? What do you say? It was my wife who spoke to you about that child? It - is she who has taken it into her head to collect information and start a - search?” - </p> - <p> - His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violent that - he could scarcely stutter. When he heard, however, of the mission with - which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded: “She is mad! I - tell you that she is raving mad! Were such fancies ever seen? Every - morning she invents something fresh to distract me!” - </p> - <p> - Without heeding this interruption, Mathieu quietly finished his narrative: - “And so I have just come back from the Foundling Hospital, where I learnt - that the boy is alive. I have his address—and now what am I to do?” - </p> - <p> - This was the final blow. Beauchene clenched his fists and raised his arms - in exasperation. “Ah! well, here’s a nice state of things! But why on - earth does she want to trouble me about that boy? He isn’t hers! Why can’t - she leave us alone, the boy and me? It’s my affair. And I ask you if it is - at all proper for my wife to send you running about after him? Besides, I - hope that you are not going to bring him to her. What on earth could we do - with that little peasant, who may have every vice? Just picture him coming - between us. I tell you that she is mad, mad, mad!” - </p> - <p> - He had begun to walk angrily to and fro. All at once he stopped: “My dear - fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead.” - </p> - <p> - But he turned pale and recoiled. Constance stood on the threshold and had - heard him. For some time past she had been in the habit of stealthily - prowling around the offices, like one on the watch for something. For a - moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which both men displayed, she - remained silent. Then, without even addressing her husband, she asked: “He - is alive, is he not?” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu could but tell her the truth. He answered with a nod. Then - Beauchene, in despair, made a final effort: “Come, be reasonable, my dear. - As I was saying only just now, we don’t even know what this youngster’s - character is. You surely don’t want to upset our life for the mere - pleasure of doing so?” - </p> - <p> - Standing there, lean and frigid, she gave him a harsh glance; then, - turning her back on him, she demanded the child’s name, and the names of - the wheelwright and the locality. “Good, you say Alexandre-Honore, with - Montoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados. - Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavor to - procure me some precise information about this boy’s habits and - disposition. Be prudent, too; don’t give anybody’s name. And thanks for - what you have done already; thanks for all you are doing for me.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon she took herself off without giving any further explanation, - without even telling her husband of the vague plans she was forming. - Beneath her crushing contempt he had grown calm again. Why should he spoil - his life of egotistical pleasure by resisting that mad creature? All that - he need do was to put on his hat and betake himself to his usual - diversions. And so he ended by shrugging his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “After all, let her pick him up if she chooses, it won’t be my doing. Act - as she asks you, my dear fellow; continue your researches and try to - content her. Perhaps she will then leave me in peace. But I’ve had quite - enough of it for to-day; good-by, I’m going out.” - </p> - <p> - With the view of obtaining some information of Rougemont, Mathieu at first - thought of applying to La Couteau, if he could find her again; for which - purpose it occurred to him that he might call on Madame Bourdieu in the - Rue de Miromesnil. But another and more certain means suggested itself. He - had been led to renew his intercourse with the Seguins, of whom he had for - a time lost sight; and, much to his surprise, he had found Valentine’s - former maid, Celeste, in the Avenue d’Antin once more. Through this woman, - he thought, he might reach La Couteau direct. - </p> - <p> - The renewal of the intercourse between the Froments and the Seguins was - due to a very happy chance. Mathieu’s son Ambroise, on leaving college, - had entered the employment of an uncle of Seguin’s, Thomas du Hordel, one - of the wealthiest commission merchants in Paris; and this old man, who, - despite his years, remained very sturdy, and still directed his business - with all the fire of youth, had conceived a growing fondness for Ambroise, - who had great mental endowments and a real genius for commerce. Du - Hordel’s own children had consisted of two daughters, one of whom had died - young, while the other had married a madman, who had lodged a bullet in - his head and had left her childless and crazy like himself. This partially - explained the deep grandfatherly interest which Du Hordel took in young - Ambroise, who was the handsomest of all the Froments, with a clear - complexion, large black eyes, brown hair that curled naturally, and - manners of much refinement and elegance. But the old man was further - captivated by the young fellow’s spirit of enterprise, the four modern - languages which he spoke so readily, and the evident mastery which he - would some day show in the management of a business which extended over - the five parts of the world. In his childhood, among his brothers and - sisters, Ambroise had always been the boldest, most captivating and - self-assertive. The others might be better than he, but he reigned over - them like a handsome, ambitious, greedy boy, a future man of gayety and - conquest. And this indeed he proved to be; by the charm of his victorious - intellect he conquered old Du Hordel in a few months, even as later on he - was destined to vanquish everybody and everything much as he pleased. His - strength lay in his power of pleasing and his power of action, a blending - of grace with the most assiduous industry. - </p> - <p> - About this time Seguin and his uncle, who had never set foot in the house - of the Avenue d’Antin since insanity had reigned there, drew together - again. Their apparent reconciliation was the outcome of a drama shrouded - in secrecy. Seguin, hard up and in debt, cast off by Nora, who divined his - approaching ruin, and preyed upon by other voracious creatures, had ended - by committing, on the turf, one of those indelicate actions which honest - people call thefts. Du Hordel, on being apprised of the matter, had - hastened forward and had paid what was due in order to avoid a frightful - scandal. And he was so upset by the extraordinary muddle in which he found - his nephew’s home, once all prosperity, that remorse came upon him as if - he were in some degree responsible for what had happened, since he had - egotistically kept away from his relatives for his own peace’s sake. But - he was more particularly won over by his grandniece Andree, now a - delicious young girl well-nigh eighteen years of age, and therefore - marriageable. She alone sufficed to attract him to the house, and he was - greatly distressed by the dangerous state of abandonment in which he found - her. - </p> - <p> - Her father continued dragging out his worthless life away from home. Her - mother, Valentine, had just emerged from a frightful crisis, her final - rupture with Santerre, who had made up his mind to marry a very wealthy - old lady, which, after all, was the logical destiny of such a crafty - exploiter of women, one who behind his affectation of cultured pessimism - had the vilest and greediest of natures. Valentine, distracted by this - rupture, had now thrown herself into religion, and, like her husband, - disappeared from the house for whole days. She was said to be an active - helpmate of old Count de Navarede, the president of a society of Catholic - propaganda. Gaston, her son, having left Saint-Cyr three months - previously, was now at the Cavalry School of Saumur, so fired with passion - for a military career that he already spoke of remaining a bachelor, since - a soldier’s sword should be his only love, his only spouse. Then Lucie, - now nineteen years old, and full of mystical exaltation, had already - entered an Ursuline convent for her novitiate. And in the big empty home, - whence father, mother, brother and sister fled, there remained but the - gentle and adorable Andree, exposed to all the blasts of insanity which - even now swept through the household, and so distressed by loneliness, - that her uncle, Du Hordel, full of compassionate affection, conceived the - idea of giving her a husband in the person of young Ambroise, the future - conqueror. - </p> - <p> - This plan was helped on by the renewed presence of Celeste the maid. Eight - years had elapsed since Valentine had been obliged to dismiss this woman - for immorality; and during those eight years Celeste, weary of service, - had tried a number of equivocal callings of which she did not speak. She - had ended by turning up at Rougemont, her native place, in bad health and - such a state of wretchedness, that for the sake of a living she went out - as a charwoman there. Then she gradually recovered her health, and - accumulated a little stock of clothes, thanks to the protection of the - village priest, whom she won over by an affectation of extreme piety. It - was at Rougemont, no doubt, that she planned her return to the Seguins, of - whose vicissitudes she was informed by La Couteau, the latter having kept - up her intercourse with Madame Menoux, the little haberdasher of the - neighborhood. - </p> - <p> - Valentine, shortly after her rupture with Santerre, one day of furious - despair, when she had again dismissed all her servants, was surprised by - the arrival of Celeste, who showed herself so repentant, so devoted, and - so serious-minded, that her former mistress felt touched. She made her - weep on reminding her of her faults, and asking her to swear before God - that she would never repeat them; for Celeste now went to confession and - partook of the holy communion, and carried with her a certificate from the - Cure of Rougemont vouching for her deep piety and high morality. This - certificate acted decisively on Valentine, who, unwilling to remain at - home, and weary of the troubles of housekeeping, understood what precious - help she might derive from this woman. On her side Celeste certainly - relied upon power being surrendered to her. Two months later, by favoring - Lucie’s excessive partiality to religious practices, she had helped her - into a convent. Gaston showed himself only when he secured a few days’ - leave. And so Andree alone remained at home, impeding by her presence the - great general pillage that Celeste dreamt of. The maid therefore became a - most active worker on behalf of her young mistress’s marriage. - </p> - <p> - Andree, it should be said, was comprised in Ambroise’s universal conquest. - She had met him at her uncle Du Hordel’s house for a year before it - occurred to the latter to marry them. She was a very gentle girl, a little - golden-haired sheep, as her mother sometimes said. And that handsome, - smiling young man, who evinced so much kindness towards her, became the - subject of her thoughts and hopes whenever she suffered from loneliness - and abandonment. Thus, when her uncle prudently questioned her, she flung - herself into his arms, weeping big tears of gratitude and confession. - Valentine, on being approached, at first manifested some surprise. What, a - son of the Froments! Those Froments had already taken Chantebled from - them, and did they now want to take one of their daughters? Then, amid the - collapse of fortune and household, she could find no reasonable objection - to urge. She had never been attached to Andree. She accused La Catiche, - the nurse, of having made the child her own. That gentle, docile, - emotional little sheep was not a Seguin, she often remarked. Then, while - feigning to defend the girl, Celeste embittered her mother against her, - and inspired her with a desire to see the marriage promptly concluded, in - order that she might free herself from her last cares and live as she - wished. Thus, after a long chat with Mathieu, who promised his consent, it - remained only for Du Hordel to assure himself of Seguin’s approval before - an application in due form was made. It was difficult, however, to find - Seguin in a suitable frame of mind. So weeks were lost, and it became - necessary to pacify Ambroise, who was very much in love, and was doubtless - warned by his all-invading genius that this loving and simple girl would - bring him a kingdom in her apron. - </p> - <p> - One day when Mathieu was passing along the Avenue d’Antin, it occurred to - him to call at the house to ascertain if Seguin had re-appeared there, for - he had suddenly taken himself off without warning, and had gone, so it was - believed, to Italy. Then, as Mathieu found himself alone with Celeste, the - opportunity seemed to him an excellent one to discover La Couteau’s - whereabouts. He asked for news of her, saying that a friend of his was in - need of a good nurse. - </p> - <p> - “Well, monsieur, you are in luck’s way,” the maid replied; “La Couteau is - to bring a child home to our neighbor, Madame Menoux, this very day. It is - nearly four o’clock now, and that is the time when she promised to come. - You know Madame Menoux’s place, do you not? It is the third shop in the - first street on the left.” Then she apologized for being unable to conduct - him thither: “I am alone,” she said; “we still have no news of the master. - On Wednesdays Madame presides at the meeting of her society, and - Mademoiselle Andree has just gone out walking with her uncle.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu hastily repaired to Madame Menoux’s shop. From a distance he saw - her standing on the threshold; age had made her thinner than ever; at - forty she was as slim as a young girl, with a long and pointed face. - Silent labor consumed her; for twenty years she had been desperately - selling bits of cotton and packages of needles without ever making a - fortune, but pleased, nevertheless, at being able to add her modest gains - to her husband’s monthly salary in order to provide him with sundry little - comforts. His rheumatism would no doubt soon compel him to relinquish his - post as a museum attendant, and how would they be able to manage with his - pension of a few hundred francs per annum if she did not keep up her - business? Moreover, they had met with no luck. Their first child had died, - and some years had elapsed before the birth of a second boy, whom they had - greeted with delight, no doubt, though he would prove a heavy burden to - them, especially as they had now decided to take him back from the - country. Thus Mathieu found the worthy woman in a state of great emotion, - waiting for the child on the threshold of her shop, and watching the - corner of the avenue. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! it was Celeste who sent you, monsieur! No, La Couteau hasn’t come - yet. I’m quite astonished at it; I expect her every moment. Will you - kindly step inside, monsieur, and sit down?” - </p> - <p> - He refused the only chair which blocked up the narrow passage where - scarcely three customers could have stood in a row. Behind a glass - partition one perceived the dim back shop, which served as kitchen and - dining-room and bedchamber, and which received only a little air from a - damp inner yard which suggested a sewer shaft. - </p> - <p> - “As you see, monsieur, we have scarcely any room,” continued Madame - Menoux; “but then we pay only eight hundred francs rent, and where else - could we find a shop at that price? And besides, I have been here for - nearly twenty years, and have worked up a little regular custom in the - neighborhood. Oh! I don’t complain of the place myself, I’m not big, there - is always sufficient room for me. And as my husband comes home only in the - evening, and then sits down in his armchair to smoke his pipe, he isn’t so - much inconvenienced. I do all I can for him, and he is reasonable enough - not to ask me to do more. But with a child I fear that it will be - impossible to get on here.” - </p> - <p> - The recollection of her first boy, her little Pierre, returned to her, and - her eyes filled with tears. “Ah! monsieur, that was ten years ago, and I - can still see La Couteau bringing him back to me, just as she’ll be - bringing the other by and by. I was told so many tales; there was such - good air at Rougemont, and the children led such healthy lives, and my boy - had such rosy cheeks, that I ended by leaving him there till he was five - years old, regretting that I had no room for him here. And no, you can’t - have an idea of all the presents that the nurse wheedled out of me, of all - the money that I paid! It was ruination! And then, all at once, I had just - time to send for the boy, and he was brought back to me as thin and pale - and weak, as if he had never tasted good bread in his life. Two months - later he died in my arms. His father fell ill over it, and if we hadn’t - been attached to one another, I think we should both have gone and drowned - ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - Scarce wiping her eyes she feverishly returned to the threshold, and again - cast a passionate expectant glance towards the avenue. And when she came - back, having seen nothing, she resumed: “So you will understand our - emotion when, two years ago, though I was thirty-seven, I again had a - little boy. We were wild with delight, like a young married couple. But - what a lot of trouble and worry! We had to put the little fellow out to - nurse as we let the other one, since we could not possibly keep him here. - And even after swearing that he should not go to Rougemont we ended by - saying that we at least knew the place, and that he would not be worse off - there than elsewhere. Only we sent him to La Vimeux, for we wouldn’t hear - any more of La Loiseau since she sent Pierre back in such a fearful state. - And this time, as the little fellow is now two years old, I was determined - to have him home again, though I don’t even know where I shall put him. - I’ve been waiting for an hour now, and I can’t help trembling, for I - always fear some catastrophe.” - </p> - <p> - She could not remain in the shop, but remained standing by the doorway, - with her neck outstretched and her eyes fixed on the street corner. All at - once a deep cry came from her: “Ah! here they are!” - </p> - <p> - Leisurely, and with a sour, harassed air, La Couteau came in and placed - the sleeping child in Madame Menoux’s arms, saying as she did so: “Well, - your George is a tidy weight, I can tell you. You won’t say that I’ve - brought you this one back like a skeleton.” - </p> - <p> - Quivering, her legs sinking beneath her for very joy, the mother had been - obliged to sit down, keeping her child on her knees, kissing him, - examining him, all haste to see if he were in good health and likely to - live. He had a fat and rather pale face, and seemed big, though puffy. - When she had unfastened his wraps, her hands trembling the while with - nervousness, she found that he was pot-bellied, with small legs and arms. - </p> - <p> - “He is very big about the body,” she murmured, ceasing to smile, and - turning gloomy with renewed fears. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes! complain away!” said La Couteau. “The other was too thin; this - one will be too fat. Mothers are never satisfied!” - </p> - <p> - At the first glance Mathieu had detected that the child was one of those - who are fed on pap, stuffed for economy’s sake with bread and water, and - fated to all the stomachic complaints of early childhood. And at the sight - of the poor little fellow, Rougemont, the frightful slaughter-place, with - its daily massacre of the innocents, arose in his memory, such as it had - been described to him in years long past. There was La Loiseau, whose - habits were so abominably filthy that her nurslings rotted as on a manure - heap; there was La Vimeux, who never purchased a drop of milk, but picked - up all the village crusts and made bran porridge for her charges as if - they had been pigs; there was La Gavette too, who, being always in the - fields, left her nurslings in the charge of a paralytic old man, who - sometimes let them fall into the fire; and there was La Cauchois, who, - having nobody to watch the babes, contented herself with tying them in - their cradles, leaving them in the company of fowls which came in bands to - peck at their eyes. And the scythe of death swept by; there was wholesale - assassination; doors were left wide open before rows of cradles, in order - to make room for fresh bundles despatched from Paris. Yet all did not die; - here, for instance, was one brought home again. But even when they came - back alive they carried with them the germs of death, and another hecatomb - ensued, another sacrifice to the monstrous god of social egotism. - </p> - <p> - “I’m tired out; I must sit down,” resumed La Couteau, seating herself on - the narrow bench behind the counter. “Ah! what a trade! And to think that - we are always received as if we were heartless criminals and thieves!” - </p> - <p> - She also had become withered, her sunburnt, tanned face suggesting more - than ever the beak of a bird of prey. But her eyes remained very keen, - sharpened as it were by ferocity. She no doubt failed to get rich fast - enough, for she continued wailing, complaining of her calling, of the - increasing avarice of parents, of the demands of the authorities, of the - warfare which was being declared against nurse-agents on all sides. Yes, - it was a lost calling, said she, and really God must have abandoned her - that she should still be compelled to carry it on at forty-five years of - age. “It will end by killing me,” she added; “I shall always get more - kicks than money at it. How unjust it is! Here have I brought you back a - superb child, and yet you look anything but pleased—it’s enough to - disgust one of doing one’s best!” - </p> - <p> - In thus complaining her object perhaps was to extract from the haberdasher - as large a present as possible. Madame Menoux was certainly disturbed by - it all. Her boy woke up and began to wail loudly, and it became necessary - to give him a little lukewarm milk. At last, when the accounts were - settled, the nurse-agent, seeing that she would have ten francs for - herself, grew calmer. She was about to take her leave when Madame Menoux, - pointing to Mathieu, exclaimed: “This gentleman wished to speak to you on - business.” - </p> - <p> - Although La Couteau had not seen the gentleman for several years past, she - had recognized him perfectly well. Still she had not even turned towards - him, for she knew him to be mixed up in so many matters that his - discretion was a certainty. And so she contented herself with saying: “If - monsieur will kindly explain to me what it is I shall be quite at his - service.” - </p> - <p> - “I will accompany you,” replied Mathieu; “we can speak together as we walk - along.” - </p> - <p> - “Very good, that will suit me well, for I am rather in a hurry.” - </p> - <p> - Once outside, Mathieu resolved that he would try no ruses with her. The - best course was to tell her plainly what he wanted, and then to buy her - silence. At the first words he spoke she understood him. She well - remembered Norine’s child, although in her time she had carried dozens of - children to the Foundling Hospital. The particular circumstances of that - case, however, the conversation which had taken place, her drive with - Mathieu in a cab, had all remained engraved on her memory. Moreover, she - had found that child again, at Rougemont, five days later; and she even - remembered that her friend the hospital-attendant had left it with La - Loiseau. But she had occupied herself no more about it afterwards; and she - believed that it was now dead, like so many others. When she heard Mathieu - speak of the hamlet of Saint-Pierre, of Montoir the wheelwright, and of - Alexandre-Honore, now fifteen, who must be in apprenticeship there, she - evinced great surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you must be mistaken, monsieur,” she said; “I know Montoir at - Saint-Pierre very well. And he certainly has a lad from the Foundling, of - the age you mention, at his place. But that lad came from La Cauchois; he - is a big carroty fellow named Richard, who arrived at our village some - days before the other. I know who his mother was; she was an English woman - called Amy, who stopped more than once at Madame Bourdieu’s. That - ginger-haired lad is certainly not your Norine’s boy. Alexandre-Honore was - dark.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then,” replied Mathieu, “there must be another apprentice at the - wheelwright’s. My information is precise, it was given me officially.” - </p> - <p> - After a moment’s perplexity La Couteau made a gesture of ignorance, and - admitted that Mathieu might be right. “It’s possible,” said she; “perhaps - Montoir has two apprentices. He does a good business, and as I haven’t - been to Saint-Pierre for some months now I can say nothing certain. Well, - and what do you desire of me, monsieur?” - </p> - <p> - He then gave her very clear instructions. She was to obtain the most - precise information possible about the lad’s health, disposition, and - conduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him, - whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth. Briefly, the - inquiry was to be complete. But, above all things, she was to carry it on - in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boy himself - nor the folks of the district. There must be absolute secrecy. - </p> - <p> - “All that is easy,” replied La Couteau, “I understand perfectly, and you - can rely on me. I shall need a little time, however, and the best plan - will be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I next come - to Paris. And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, at two - o’clock, at Broquette’s office in the Rue Roquepine. I am quite at home - there, and the place is like a tomb.” - </p> - <p> - Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchene works with his son - Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her and questioned - him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what steps he had - taken. When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau for the Wednesday - of the ensuing week, she said to him in her resolute way: “Come and fetch - me. I wish to question that woman myself. I want to be quite certain on - the matter.” - </p> - <p> - In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette’s nurse-office in the Rue - Roquepine had remained the same as formerly, except that Madame Broquette - was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie. The sudden loss - of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed such a decorative presence - and so ably represented the high morality and respectability of the - establishment, had at first seemed a severe one. But it so happened that - Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creature that she was, gorged with - novel-reading, also proved in her way a distinguished figurehead for the - office. She was already thirty and was still unmarried, feeling indeed - nothing but loathing for all the mothers laden with whining children by - whom she was surrounded. Moreover, M. Broquette, her father, though now - more than five-and-seventy, secretly remained the all-powerful, energetic - director of the place, discharging all needful police duties, drilling new - nurses like recruits, remaining ever on the watch and incessantly - perambulating the three floors of his suspicious, dingy lodging-house. - </p> - <p> - La Couteau was waiting for Mathieu in the doorway. On perceiving - Constance, whom she did not know, for she had never previously met her, - she seemed surprised. Who could that lady be? what had she to do with the - affair? However, she promptly extinguished the bright gleam of curiosity - which for a moment lighted up her eyes; and as Herminie, with - distinguished nonchalance, was at that moment exhibiting a party of nurses - to two gentlemen in the office, she took her visitors into the empty - refectory, where the atmosphere was as usual tainted by a horrible stench - of cookery. - </p> - <p> - “You must excuse me, monsieur and madame,” she exclaimed, “but there is no - other room free just now. The place is full.” - </p> - <p> - Then she carried her keen glances from Mathieu to Constance, preferring to - wait until she was questioned, since another person was now in the secret. - </p> - <p> - “You can speak out,” said Mathieu. “Did you make the inquiries I spoke to - you about?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, monsieur. They were made, and properly made, I think.” - </p> - <p> - “Then tell us the result: I repeat that you can speak freely before this - lady.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! monsieur, it won’t take me long. You were quite right: there were two - apprentices at the wheelwright’s at Saint-Pierre, and one of them was - Alexandre-Honore, the pretty blonde’s child, the same that we took - together over yonder. He had been there, I found, barely two months, after - trying three or four other callings, and that explains my ignorance of the - circumstance. Only he’s a lad who can stay nowhere, and so three weeks ago - he took himself off.” - </p> - <p> - Constance could not restrain an exclamation of anxiety: “What! took - himself off?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, madame, I mean that he ran away, and this time it is quite certain - that he has left the district, for he disappeared with three hundred - francs belonging to Montoir, his master.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau’s dry voice rang as if it were an axe dealing a deadly blow. - Although she could not understand the lady’s sudden pallor and despairing - emotion, she certainly seemed to derive cruel enjoyment from it. - </p> - <p> - “Are you quite sure of your information?” resumed Constance, struggling - against the facts. “That is perhaps mere village tittle-tattle.” - </p> - <p> - “Tittle-tattle, madame? Oh! when I undertake to do anything I do it - properly. I spoke to the gendarmes. They have scoured the whole district, - and it is certain that Alexandre-Honore left no address behind him when he - went off with those three hundred francs. He is still on the run. As for - that I’ll stake my name on it.” - </p> - <p> - This was indeed a hard blow for Constance. That lad, whom she fancied she - had found again, of whom she dreamt incessantly, and on whom she had based - so many unacknowledgable plans of vengeance, escaped her, vanished once - more into the unknown! She was distracted by it as by some pitiless stroke - of fate, some fresh and irreparable defeat. However, she continued the - interrogatory. - </p> - <p> - “Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed to - question everybody.” - </p> - <p> - “That is precisely what I did, madame. I saw the schoolmaster, and I spoke - to the other persons who had employed the lad. They all told me that he - was a good-for-nothing. The schoolmaster remembered that he had been a - liar and a bully. Now he’s a thief; that makes him perfect. I can’t say - otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plain truth.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady’s - suffering increased. And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang at - each fresh accusation, as if her husband’s illegitimate child had become - in some degree her own! She ended indeed by silencing the nurse-agent. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you. The boy is no longer at Rougemont, that is all we wished to - know.” - </p> - <p> - La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, in order - to give him his money’s worth. - </p> - <p> - “I also made the other apprentice talk a bit,” said she; “you know, that - big carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about. He’s another whom - I wouldn’t willingly trust. But it’s certain that he doesn’t know where - his companion has gone. The gendarmes think that Alexandre is in Paris.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her a - bank-note for fifty francs—a gift which brought a smile to her face - and rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, “as discreetly - silent as the grave.” Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, and - Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another’s hands in the - kitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her native dirt, - Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to follow her - companion away. Once in the street, instead of entering the cab which was - waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau’s final words. - </p> - <p> - “Did you hear?” she exclaimed. “That wretched lad may be in Paris.” - </p> - <p> - “That is probable enough; they all end by stranding here.” - </p> - <p> - Constance again hesitated, reflected, and finally made up her mind to say - in a somewhat tremulous voice: “And the mother, my friend; you know where - she lives, don’t you? Did you not tell me that you had concerned yourself - about her?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I did.” - </p> - <p> - “Then listen—and above all, don’t be astonished; pity me, for I am - really suffering. An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems to me - that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother. Perhaps he is - with her, or she may at least know where he lodges. Oh! don’t tell me that - it is impossible. On the contrary, everything is possible.” - </p> - <p> - Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmness now - giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he would make - inquiries. Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, but continued - gazing at the pavement. And when she once more raised her eyes, she spoke - to him entreatingly, in an embarrassed, humble manner: “Do you know what - we ought to do? Excuse me, but it is a service I shall never forget. If I - could only know the truth at once it might calm me a little. Well, let us - drive to that woman’s now. Oh! I won’t go up; you can go alone, while I - wait in the cab at the street corner. And perhaps you will obtain some - news.” - </p> - <p> - It was an insane idea, and he was at first minded to prove this to her. - Then, on looking at her, she seemed to him so wretched, so painfully - tortured, that without a word, making indeed but a kindly gesture of - compassion, he consented. And the cab carried them away. - </p> - <p> - The large room in which Norine and Cecile lived together was at Grenelle, - near the Champ de Mars, in a street at the end of the Rue de la - Federation. They had been there for nearly six years now, and in the - earlier days had experienced much worry and wretchedness. But the child - whom they had to feed and save had on his side saved them also. The - motherly feelings slumbering in Norine’s heart had awakened with - passionate intensity for that poor little one as soon as she had given him - the breast and learnt to watch over him and kiss him. And it was also - wondrous to see how that unfortunate creature Cecile regarded the child as - in some degree her own. He had indeed two mothers, whose thoughts were for - him alone. If Norine, during the first few months, had often wearied of - spending her days in pasting little boxes together, if even thoughts of - flight had at times come to her, she had always been restrained by the - puny arms that were clasped around her neck. And now she had grown calm, - sensible, diligent, and very expert at the light work which Cecile had - taught her. It was a sight to see them both, gay and closely united in - their little home, which was like a convent cell, spending their days at - their little table; while between them was their child, their one source - of life, of hard-working courage and happiness. - </p> - <p> - Since they had been living thus they had made but one good friend, and - this was Madame Angelin. As a delegate of the Poor Relief Service, - intrusted with one of the Grenelle districts, Madame Angelin had found - Norine among the pensioners over whom she was appointed to watch. A - feeling of affection for the two mothers, as she called the sisters, had - sprung up within her, and she had succeeded in inducing the authorities to - prolong the child’s allowance of thirty francs a month for a period of - three years. Then she had obtained scholastic assistance for him, not to - mention frequent presents which she brought—clothes, linen, and even - money—for apart from official matters, charitable people often - intrusted her with fairly large sums, which she distributed among the most - meritorious of the poor mothers whom she visited. And even nowadays she - occasionally called on the sisters, well pleased to spend an hour in that - nook of quiet toil, which the laughter and the play of the child - enlivened. She there felt herself to be far away from the world, and - suffered less from her own misfortunes. And Norine kissed her hands, - declaring that without her the little household of the two mothers would - never have managed to exist. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu appeared there, cries of delight arose. He also was a friend, - a saviour—the one who, by first taking and furnishing the large - room, had founded the household. It was a very clean room, almost - coquettish with its white curtains, and rendered very cheerful by its two - large windows, which admitted the golden radiance of the afternoon sun. - Norine and Cecile were working at the table, cutting out cardboard and - pasting it together, while the little one, who had come home from school, - sat between them on a high chair, gravely handling a pair of scissors and - fully persuaded that he was helping them. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! is it you? How kind of you to come to see us! Nobody has called for - five days past. Oh! we don’t complain of it. We are so happy alone - together! Since Irma married a clerk she has treated us with disdain. - Euphrasie can no longer come down her stairs. Victor and his wife live so - far away. And as for that rascal Alfred, he only comes up here to see if - he can find something to steal. Mamma called five days ago to tell us that - papa had narrowly escaped being killed at the works on the previous day. - Poor mamma! she is so worn out that before long she won’t be able to take - a step.” - </p> - <p> - While the sisters thus rattled on both together, one beginning a sentence - and the other finishing it, Mathieu looked at Norine, who, thanks to that - peaceful and regular life, had regained in her thirty-sixth year a - freshness of complexion that suggested a superb, mature fruit gilded by - the sun. And even the slender Cecile had acquired strength, the strength - which love’s energy can impart even to a childish form. - </p> - <p> - All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: “Oh! he has - hurt himself, the poor little fellow.” And at once she snatched the - scissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood at - the tip of one of his fingers. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! good Heavens,” murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, “I feared - that he had slit his hand.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose by - fulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to him - that it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the young - woman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of work which - she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, only revealing - the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a moment when, after - reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honore, it became necessary for - him to add that the boy was living. - </p> - <p> - The mother looked at Mathieu in evident consternation. “He is living, - living! Why do you tell me that? I was so pleased at knowing nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “No doubt; but it is best that you should know. I have even been assured - that he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have found - you, and have come to see you.” - </p> - <p> - At this she lost all self-possession. “What! Have come to see me! Nobody - has been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don’t - want him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling on me - like that—a lad I don’t know and don’t care for! Oh! no, no; prevent - it, I beg of you; I couldn’t—I couldn’t bear it!” - </p> - <p> - With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and had - caught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as if - to shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by his - resurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the younger - lad’s place. - </p> - <p> - “No, no!” she cried. “I have but one child; there is only one I love; I - don’t want any other.” - </p> - <p> - Cecile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister to - reason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turn him - out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for the - abandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. It - became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that he - regarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exact - truth, he spoke of the elder lad’s disappearance, adding, however, that he - must be ignorant even of his mother’s name. Thus, when he left the - sisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their little - boxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrusted the - scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men. - </p> - <p> - Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, was - looking out of the cab window, watching the house-door. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” she asked, quivering, as soon as Mathieu was near her. - </p> - <p> - “Well, the mother knows nothing and has seen nobody. It was a foregone - conclusion.” - </p> - <p> - She sank down as if from some supreme collapse, and her ashen face became - quite distorted. “You are right, it was certain,” said she; “still one - always hopes.” And with a gesture of despair she added: “It is all ended - now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an address - in order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to have - lost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as she - asked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he replied that - he wished to call on the Seguins. The fear of finding herself alone again - so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave her the idea - of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for some time past. - </p> - <p> - “Get in,” she said to Mathieu; “we will go to the Avenue d’Antin - together.” - </p> - <p> - The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they had not a - word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching their - destination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: “You must give my - husband the good news, and tell him that the boy has disappeared. Ah! what - a relief for him!” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, on calling in the Avenue d’Antin, had hoped to find the Seguins - assembled there. Seguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knew whence, - a week previously, when Andree’s hand had been formally asked of him; and - after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evinced great - willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediately been fixed - for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marry off their - daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might take place at - Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. This being - arranged, Ambroise was accepted as fiance, and to his great delight was - able to call at the Seguins’ every day, about five o’clock, to pay his - court according to established usage. It was on account of this that - Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home. - </p> - <p> - When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her that - Madame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Seguin, the - man replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at home - with her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs. - </p> - <p> - “What! are you left all alone?” exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving the young - couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room on the first - floor, which Seguin had once called his “cabinet.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes, we are alone in the house,” Andree answered with a charming - laugh. “We are very pleased at it.” - </p> - <p> - They looked adorable, thus seated side by side—she so gentle, of - such tender beauty—he with all the fascinating charm that was - blended with his strength. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t Celeste there at any rate?” again inquired Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “No, she has disappeared we don’t know where.” And again they laughed like - free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonely forest. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you cannot be very lively all alone like this.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! we don’t feel at all bored, we have so many things to talk about. And - then we look at one another. And there is never an end to it all.” - </p> - <p> - Though her heart bled, Constance could not help admiring them. Ah, to - think of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home all was - blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destined to - increase forever! For this again was a conquest—those two children - left free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuous mansion - which to-morrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, Constance - turned towards Mathieu: “Are you not also marrying your eldest daughter?” - she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Rose,” Mathieu gayly responded. “We shall have a grand fete at - Chantebled next May! You must all of you come there.” - </p> - <p> - ‘Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life proved - victorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Seguins, and now their - very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beauchene works - themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise. - </p> - <p> - “We will go,” she answered, quivering. “And may your good luck continue—that - is what I wish you.” - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XVI - </h2> - <p> - AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was to prove, - so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, it had - occurred to Mathieu’s daughter Rose to gather the whole family together - one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for the ceremony. She and - her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were to repair to Janville - station in the morning to meet the other affianced pair, Ambroise and - Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to the farm where they would - all lunch together. It would be a kind of wedding rehearsal, she exclaimed - with her hearty laugh; they would be able to arrange the programme for the - great day. And her idea enraptured her to such a point, she seemed to - anticipate so much delight from this preliminary festival, that Mathieu - and Marianne consented to it. - </p> - <p> - Rose’s marriage was like the supreme blossoming of years of prosperity, - and brought a finishing touch to the happiness of the home. She was the - prettiest of Mathieu’s daughters, with dark brown hair, round gilded - cheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable of - dispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeed to - be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busy life. But - beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing from morning till - night there was much common sense and energy of affection, as her choice - of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu had engaged the - services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmer of the - neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionate interest in - the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working there with rare - activity and intelligence. He had no means of his own at all. Rose, who - had grown up near him, knew however that he was her father’s preferred - assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expiration of his - military service she, divining that he loved her, forced him to - acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished to remain - near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all her happiness. - Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeply touched, they - signified their approval of a choice in which affection for themselves had - so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawn yet closer, and - increase of joy came to the home. - </p> - <p> - So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointed Sunday - Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, Madame Seguin, - to Janville by the ten o’clock train. A couple of hours previously Rose - had already begun a battle with the object of prevailing upon the whole - family to repair to the railway station to meet the affianced pair. - </p> - <p> - “But come, my children, it is unreasonable,” Marianne gently exclaimed. - “It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolas - here, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouring the - roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take all the - others if you like, and your father shall lead the way.” - </p> - <p> - Rose, however, still merrily laughing, clung to her plan. “No, no, mamma, - you must come as well; everybody must come; it was promised. Ambroise and - Andree, you see, are like a royal couple from a neighboring kingdom. My - brother Ambroise, having won the hand of a foreign princess, is going to - present her to us. And so, to do them the honors of our own empire, we, - Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the whole Court. You - form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah what a fine sight - it will be when we spread out through the country on our way home again!” - </p> - <p> - Marianne, amused by her daughter’s overflowing gayety, ended by laughing - and giving way. - </p> - <p> - “This will be the order of the march,” resumed Rose. “Oh! I’ve planned - everything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go on - our bicycles—that is the most modern style. We will also take my - maids of honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, - eleven, nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very - well behind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, and - will do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort. All the - rest of the Court will have to pack itself into the chariot—I mean - the big family wagon, in which there is room for eight. You, as Queen - Mother, may keep your last little prince, Nicolas, on your knees. Papa - will only have to carry himself proudly, as befits the head of a dynasty. - And my brother Gervais, that young Hercules of seventeen, shall drive, - with Claire, who at fifteen is so remarkable for common sense, beside him - on the box-seat. As for the illustrious twins, those high and mighty - lords, Denis and Blaise, we will call for them at Janville, since they are - waiting for us there, at Madame Desvignes’.” - </p> - <p> - Thus did Rose rattle on, exulting over the scheme she had devised. She - danced, sang, clapped her hands, and finally exclaimed: “Ah! for a pretty - cortege this will be fine indeed.” - </p> - <p> - She was animated by such joyous haste that she made the party start much - sooner than was necessary, and they reached Janville at half-past nine. It - was true, however, that they had to call for the others there. The house - in which Madame Desvignes had taken refuge after her husband’s death, and - which she had now occupied for some twelve years, living there in a very - quiet retired way on the scanty income she had managed to save, was the - first in the village, on the high road. For a week past her elder daughter - Charlotte, Blaise’s wife, had come to stay there with her children, Berthe - and Christophe, who needed change of air; and on the previous evening they - had been joined by Blaise, who was well pleased to spend Sunday with them. - </p> - <p> - Madame Desvignes’ younger daughter, Marthe, was delighted whenever her - sister thus came to spend a few weeks in the old home, bringing her little - ones with her, and once more occupying the room which had belonged to her - in her girlish days. All the laughter and playfulness of the past came - back again, and the one dream of worthy Madame Desvignes, amid her pride - at being a grandmamma, was of completing her life-work, hitherto so - prudently carried on, by marrying off Marthe in her turn. As a matter of - fact it had seemed likely that there might be three instead of two - weddings at Chantebled that spring. Denis, who, since leaving a scientific - school had embarked in fresh technical studies, often slept at the farm - and nearly every Sunday he saw Marthe, who was of the same age as Rose and - her constant companion. The young girl, a pretty blonde like her sister - Charlotte, but of a less impulsive and more practical nature, had indeed - attracted Denis, and, dowerless though she was, he had made up his mind to - marry her, since he had discovered that she possessed the sterling - qualities that help one on to fortune. But in their chats together both - evinced good sense and serene confidence, without sign of undue haste. - Particularly was this the case with Denis, who was very methodical in his - ways and unwilling to place a woman’s happiness in question until he could - offer her an assured position. Thus, of their own accord, they had - postponed their marriage, quietly and smilingly resisting the passionate - assaults of Rose, whom the idea of three weddings on the same day had - greatly excited. At the same time, Denis continued visiting Madame - Desvignes, who, on her side, equally prudent and confident, received him - much as if he were her son. That morning he had even quitted the farm at - seven o’clock, saying that he meant to surprise Blaise in bed; and thus he - also was to be met at Janville. - </p> - <p> - As it happened, the fete of Janville fell on Sunday, the second in May. - Encompassing the square in front of the railway station were roundabouts, - booths, shooting galleries, and refreshment stalls. Stormy showers during - the night had cleansed the sky, which was of a pure blue, with a flaming - sun, whose heat in fact was excessive for the season. A good many people - were already assembled on the square—all the idlers of the district, - bands of children, and peasants of the surrounding country, eager to see - the sights; and into the midst of this crowd fell the Froments—first - the bicyclists, next the wagon, and then the others who had been met at - the entry of the village. - </p> - <p> - “We are producing our little effect!” exclaimed Rose as she sprang from - her wheel. - </p> - <p> - This was incontestable. During the earlier years the whole of Janville had - looked harshly on those Froments, those bourgeois who had come nobody knew - whence, and who, with overweening conceit, had talked of making corn grow - in land where there had been nothing but crops of stones for centuries - past. Then the miracle, Mathieu’s extraordinary victory, had long hurt - people’s vanity and thereby increased their anger. But everything passes - away; one cannot regard success with rancor, and folks who grow rich - always end by being in the right. Thus, nowadays, Janville smiled - complacently on that swarming family which had grown up beside it, - forgetting that in former times each fresh birth at Chantebled had been - regarded as quite scandalous by the gossips. Besides, how could one resist - such a happy display of strength and power, such a merry invasion, when, - as on that festive Sunday, the whole family came up at a gallop, - conquering the roads, the streets, and the squares? What with the father - and mother, the eleven children—six boys and five girls—and - two grandchildren already, there were fifteen of them. The eldest boys, - the twins, were now four-and twenty, and still so much alike that people - occasionally mistook one for the other as in their cradle days, when - Marianne had been obliged to open their eyes to identify them, those of - Blaise being gray, and those of Denis black. Nicolas, the youngest boy, at - the other end of the family scale, was as yet but five years old; a - delightful little urchin was he, a precocious little man whose energy and - courage were quite amusing. And between the twins and that youngster came - the eight other children: Ambroise, the future husband, who was already on - the road to every conquest; Rose, so brimful of life; who likewise was on - the eve of marrying; Gervais, with his square brow and wrestler’s limbs, - who would soon be fighting the good fight of agriculture; Claire, who was - silent and hardworking, and lacked beauty, but possessed a strong heart - and a housewife’s sensible head. Next Gregoire, the undisciplined, - self-willed schoolboy, who was ever beating the hedges in search of - adventures; and then the three last girls: Louise, plump and good natured; - Madeleine, delicate and of dreamy mind; Marguerite, the least pretty but - the most loving of the trio. And when, behind their father and their - mother, the eleven came along one after the other, followed too by Berthe - and Christophe, representing yet another generation, it was a real - procession that one saw, as, for instance, on that fine Sunday on the - Grand Place of Janville, already crowded with holiday-making folks. And - the effect was irresistible; even those who were scarcely pleased with the - prodigious success of Chantebled felt enlivened and amused at seeing the - Froments galloping about and invading the place. So much health and mirth - and strength accompanied them, as if earth with her overflowing gifts of - life had thus profusely created them for to-morrow’s everlasting hopes. - </p> - <p> - “Let those who think themselves more numerous come forward!” Rose resumed - gayly. “And then we will count one another.” - </p> - <p> - “Come, be quiet!” said her mother, who, after alighting from the wagon, - had set Nicolas on the ground. “You will end by making people hoot us.” - </p> - <p> - “Hoot us! Why, they admire us: just look at them! How funny it is, mamma, - that you are not prouder of yourself and of us!” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I am so very proud that I fear to humiliate others.” - </p> - <p> - They all began to laugh. And Mathieu, standing near Marianne, likewise - felt proud at finding himself, as he put it, among “the sacred battalion” - of his sons and daughters. To that battalion worthy Madame Desvignes - herself belonged, since her daughter Charlotte was adding soldiers to it - and helping it to become an army. Such as it was indeed, this was only the - beginning; later on the battalion would be seen ever increasing and - multiplying, becoming a swarming victorious race, great-grandchildren - following grandchildren, till there were fifty of them, and a hundred, and - two hundred, all tending to increase the happiness and beauty of the - world. And in the mingled amazement and amusement of Janville gathered - around that fruitful family there was certainly some of the instinctive - admiration which is felt for the strength and the healthfulness which - create great nations. - </p> - <p> - “Besides, we have only friends now,” remarked Mathieu. “Everybody is - cordial with us!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, everybody!” muttered Rose. “Just look at the Lepailleurs yonder, in - front of that booth.” - </p> - <p> - The Lepailleurs were indeed there—the father, the mother, Antonin, - and Therese. In order to avoid the Froments they were pretending to take - great interest in a booth, where a number of crudely-colored china - ornaments were displayed as prizes for the winners at a “lucky-wheel.” - They no longer even exchanged courtesies with the Chantebled folks; for in - their impotent rage at such ceaseless prosperity they had availed - themselves of a petty business dispute to break off all relations. - Lepailleur regarded the creation of Chantebled as a personal insult, for - he had not forgotten his jeers and challenges with respect to those - moorlands, from which, in his opinion, one would never reap anything but - stones. And thus, when he had well examined the china ornaments, it - occurred to him to be insolent, with which object he turned round and - stared at the Froments, who, as the train they were expecting would not - arrive for another quarter of an hour, were gayly promenading through the - fair. - </p> - <p> - The miller’s bad temper had for the last two months been increased by the - return of his son Antonin to Janville under very deplorable circumstances. - This young fellow, who had set off one morning to conquer Paris, sent - there by his parents, who had a blind confidence in his fine handwriting, - had remained with Maitre Rousselet the attorney for four years as a petty - clerk, dull-witted and extremely idle. He had not made the slightest - progress in his profession, but had gradually sunk into debauchery, - cafe-life, drunkenness, gambling, and facile amours. To him the conquest - of Paris meant greedy indulgence in the coarsest pleasures such as he had - dreamt of in his village. It consumed all his money, all the supplies - which he extracted from his mother by continual promises of victory, in - which she implicitly believed, so great was her faith in him. But he ended - by grievously suffering in health, turned thin and yellow, and actually - began to lose his hair at three-and-twenty, so that his mother, full of - alarm, brought him home one day, declaring that he worked too hard, and - that she would not allow him to kill himself in that fashion. It leaked - out, however, later on, that Maitre Rousselet had summarily dismissed him. - Even before this was known his return home did not fail to make his father - growl. The miller partially guessed the truth, and if he did not openly - vent his anger, it was solely from pride, in order that he might not have - to confess his mistake with respect to the brilliant career which he had - predicted for Antonin. At home, when the doors were closed, Lepailleur - revenged himself on his wife, picking the most frightful quarrels with her - since he had discovered her frequent remittances of money to their son. - But she held her own against him, for even as she had formerly admired - him, so at present she admired her boy. She sacrificed, as it were, the - father to the son, now that the latter’s greater learning brought her - increased surprise. And so the household was all disagreement as a result - of that foolish attempt, born of vanity, to make their heir a Monsieur, a - Parisian. Antonin for his part sneered and shrugged his shoulders at it - all, idling away his time pending the day when he might be able to resume - a life of profligacy. - </p> - <p> - When the Froments passed by, it was a fine sight to see the Lepailleurs - standing there stiffly and devouring them with their eyes. The father - puckered his lips in an attempt to sneer, and the mother jerked her head - with an air of bravado. The son, standing there with his hands in his - pockets, presented a sorry sight with his bent back, his bald head, and - pale face. All three were seeking to devise something disagreeable when an - opportunity presented itself. - </p> - <p> - “Why, where is Therese?” exclaimed La Lepailleur. “She was here just now: - what has become of her? I won’t have her leave me when there are all these - people about!” - </p> - <p> - It was quite true, for the last moment Therese had disappeared. She was - now ten years old and very pretty, quite a plump little blonde, with wild - hair and black eyes which shone brightly. But she had a terribly impulsive - and wilful nature, and would run off and disappear for hours at a time, - beating the hedges and scouring the countryside in search of birds’-nests - and flowers and wild fruit. If her mother, however, made such a display of - alarm, darting hither and thither to find her, just as the Froments passed - by, it was because she had become aware of some scandalous proceedings - during the previous week. Therese’s ardent dream was to possess a bicycle, - and she desired one the more since her parents stubbornly refused to - content her, declaring in fact that those machines might do for bourgeois - but were certainly not fit for well-behaved girls. Well, one afternoon, - when she had gone as usual into the fields, her mother, returning from - market, had perceived her on a deserted strip of road, in company with - little Gregoire Froment, another young wanderer whom she often met in this - wise, in spots known only to themselves. The two made a very suitable - pair, and were ever larking and rambling along the paths, under the - leaves, beside the ditches. But the abominable thing was that, on this - occasion, Gregoire, having seated Therese on his own bicycle, was - supporting her at the waist and running alongside, helping her to direct - the machine. Briefly it was a real bicycle lesson which the little rascal - was giving, and which the little hussy took with all the pleasure in the - world. When Therese returned home that evening she had her ears soundly - boxed for her pains. - </p> - <p> - “Where can that little gadabout have got to?” La Lepailleur continued - shouting. “One can no sooner take one’s eyes off her than she runs away.” - </p> - <p> - Antonin, however, having peeped behind the booth containing the china - ornaments, lurched back again, still with his hands in his pockets, and - said with his vicious sneer: “Just look there, you’ll see something.” - </p> - <p> - And indeed, behind the booth, his mother again found Therese and Gregoire - together. The lad was holding his bicycle with one hand and explaining - some of the mechanism of it, while the girl, full of admiration and - covetousness, looked on with glowing eyes. Indeed she could not resist her - inclination, but laughingly let Gregoire raise her in order to seat her - for a moment on the saddle, when all at once her mother’s terrible voice - burst forth: “You wicked hussy! what are you up to there again? Just come - back at once, or I’ll settle your business for you.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu also, catching sight of the scene, sternly summoned Gregoire: - “Please to place your wheel with the others. You know what I have already - said to you, so don’t begin again.” - </p> - <p> - It was war. Lepailleur impudently growled ignoble threats, which - fortunately were lost amid the strains of a barrel organ. And the two - families separated, going off in different directions through the growing - holiday-making crowd. - </p> - <p> - “Won’t that train ever come, then?” resumed Rose, who with joyous - impatience was at every moment turning to glance at the clock of the - little railway station on the other side of the square. “We have still ten - minutes to wait: whatever shall we do?” - </p> - <p> - As it happened she had stopped in front of a hawker who stood on the - footway with a basketful of crawfish, crawling, pell-mell, at his feet. - They had certainly come from the sources of the Yeuse, three leagues away. - They were not large, but they were very tasty, for Rose herself had - occasionally caught some in the stream. And thus a greedy but also playful - fancy came to her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mamma!” she cried, “let us buy the whole basketful. It will be for - the feast of welcome, you see; it will be our present to the royal couple - we are awaiting. People won’t say that Our Majesties neglect to do things - properly when they are expecting other Majesties. And I will cook them - when we get back, and you’ll see how well I shall succeed.” - </p> - <p> - At this the others began to poke fun at her, but her parents ended by - doing as she asked, big child as she was, who in the fulness of her - happiness hardly knew what amusement to seek. However, as by way of - pastime she obstinately sought to count the crawfish, quite an affair - ensued: some of them pinched her, and she dropped them with a little - shriek; and, amid it all, the basket fell over and then the crawfish - hurriedly crawled away. The boys and girls darted in pursuit of them, - there was quite a hunt, in which even the serious members of the family at - last took part. And what with the laughter and eagerness of one and all, - the big as well as the little, the whole happy brood, the sight was so - droll and gay that the folks of Janville again drew near and - good-naturedly took their share of the amusement. - </p> - <p> - All at once, however, arose a distant rumble of wheels and an engine - whistled. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, good Heavens! here they are!” cried Rose, quite scared; “quick, - quick, or the reception will be missed.” - </p> - <p> - A scramble ensued, the owner of the crawfish was paid, and there was just - time to shut the basket and carry it to the wagon. The whole family was - already running off, invading the little station, and ranging itself in - good order along the arrival platform. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, not like that,” Rose repeated. “You don’t observe the right order - of precedence. The queen mother must be with the king her husband, and - then the princes according to their height. Frederic must place himself on - my right. And it’s for me, you know, to make the speech of welcome.” - </p> - <p> - The train stopped. When Ambroise and Andree alighted they were at first - much surprised to find that everybody had come to meet them, drawn up in a - row with solemn mien. When Rose, however began to deliver a pompous little - speech, treating her brother’s betrothed like some foreign princess, whom - she had orders to welcome in the name of the king, her father, the young - couple began to laugh, and even prolonged the joke by responding in the - same style. The railway men looked on and listened, gaping. It was a fine - farce, and the Froments were delighted at showing themselves so playful on - that warm May morning. - </p> - <p> - But Marianne suddenly raised an exclamation of surprise: “What! has not - Madame Seguin come with you? She gave me so many promises that she would.” - </p> - <p> - In the rear of Ambroise and Andree Celeste the maid had alone alighted - from the train. And she undertook to explain things: “Madame charged me,” - said she, “to say that she was really most grieved. Yesterday she still - hoped that she would be able to keep her promise. Only in the evening she - received a visit from Monsieur de Navarede, who is presiding to-day, - Sunday, at a meeting of his Society, and of course Madame could not do - otherwise than attend it. So she requested me to accompany the young - people, and everything is satisfactory, for here they are, you see.” - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact nobody regretted the absence of Valentine, who always - moped when she came into the country. And Mathieu expressed the general - opinion in a few words of polite regret: “Well, you must tell her how much - we shall miss her. And now let us be off.” - </p> - <p> - Celeste, however, intervened once more. “Excuse me, monsieur, but I cannot - remain with you. No. Madame particularly told me to go back to her at - once, as she will need me to dress her. And, besides, she is always bored - when she is alone. There is a train for Paris at a quarter past ten, is - there not? I will go back by it. Then I will be here at eight o’clock this - evening to take Mademoiselle home. We settled all that in looking through - a time-table. Till this evening, monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “Till this evening, then, it’s understood.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon, leaving the maid in the deserted little station, all the others - returned to the village square, where the wagon and the bicycles were - waiting. - </p> - <p> - “Now we are all assembled,” exclaimed Rose, “and the real fete is about to - begin. Let me organize the procession for our triumphal return to the - castle of our ancestors.” - </p> - <p> - “I am very much afraid that your procession will be soaked,” said - Marianne. “Just look at the rain approaching!” - </p> - <p> - During the last few moments there had appeared in the hitherto spotless - sky a huge, livid cloud, rising from the west and urged along by a sudden - squall. It presaged a return of the violent stormy showers of the previous - night. - </p> - <p> - “Rain! Oh, we don’t care about that,” the girl responded with an air of - superb defiance. “It will never dare to come down before we get home.” - </p> - <p> - Then, with a comical semblance of authority, she disposed her people in - the order which she had planned in her mind a week previously. And the - procession set off through the admiring village, amid the smiles of all - the good women hastening to their doorsteps, and then spread out along the - white road between the fertile fields, where bands of startled larks took - wing, carrying their clear song to the heavens. It was really magnificent. - </p> - <p> - At the head of the party were Rose and Frederic, side by side on their - bicycles, opening the nuptial march with majestic amplitude. Behind them - followed the three maids of honor, the younger sisters, Louise, Madeleine, - and Marguerite, the tallest first, the shortest last, and each on a wheel - proportioned to her growth. And with berets* on their heads, and their - hair down their backs, waving in the breeze, they looked adorable, - suggesting a flight of messenger swallows skimming over the ground and - bearing good tidings onward. As for Gregoire the page, restive and always - ready to bolt, he did not behave very well; for he actually tried to pass - the royal couple at the head of the procession, a proceeding which brought - him various severe admonitions until he fell back, as duty demanded, to - his deferential and modest post. On the other hand, as the three maids of - honor began to sing the ballad of Cinderella on her way to the palace of - Prince Charming, the royal couple condescendingly declared that the song - was appropriate and of pleasing effect, whatever might be the requirements - of etiquette. Indeed, Rose, Frederic, and Gregoire also ended by singing - the ballad, which rang out amid the serene, far-spreading countryside like - the finest music in the world. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The beret is the Pyreneean tam-o’-shanter. -</pre> - <p> - Then, at a short distance in the rear, came the chariot, the good old - family wagon, which was now crowded. According to the prearranged - programme it was Gervais who held the ribbons, with Claire beside him. The - two strong horses trotted on in their usual leisurely fashion, in spite of - all the gay whip-cracking of their driver, who also wished to contribute - to the music. Inside there were now seven people for six places, for if - the three children were small, they were at the same time so restless that - they fully took up their share of room. First, face to face, there were - Ambroise and Andree, the betrothed couple who were being honored by this - glorious welcome. Then, also face to face, there were the high and mighty - rulers of the region, Mathieu and Marianne, the latter of whom kept little - Nicolas, the last prince of the line, on her knees, he braying the while - like a little donkey, because he felt so pleased. Then the last places - were occupied by the rulers’ granddaughter and grandson, Mademoiselle - Berthe and Monsieur Christophe, who were as yet unable to walk long - distances. And the chariot rolled on with much majesty, albeit that for - fear of the rain the curtains of stout white linen had already been - half-drawn, thus giving the vehicle, at a distance, somewhat of the aspect - of a miller’s van. - </p> - <p> - Further back yet, as a sort of rear-guard, was a group on foot, composed - of Blaise, Denis, Madame Desvignes, and her daughters Charlotte and - Marthe. They had absolutely refused to take a fly, finding it more - pleasant to walk the mile and a half which separated Chantebled from - Janville. If the rain should fall, they would manage to find shelter - somewhere. Besides, Rose had declared that a suite on foot was absolutely - necessary to give the procession its full significance. Those five last - comers would represent the multitude, the great concourse of people which - follows sovereigns and acclaims them. Or else they might be the necessary - guard, the men-at-arms, who watched for the purpose of foiling a possible - attack from some felon neighbor. At the same time it unfortunately - happened that worthy Madame Desvignes could not walk very fast, so that - the rear-guard was soon distanced, to such a degree indeed that it became - merely a little lost group, far away. - </p> - <p> - Still this did not disconcert Rose, but rather made her laugh the more. At - the first bend of the road she turned her head, and when she saw her - rear-guard more than three hundred yards away she raised cries of - admiration. “Oh! just look, Frederic! What an interminable procession! - What a deal of room we take up! The cortege is becoming longer and longer, - and the road won’t be long enough for it very soon.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as the three maids of honor and the page began to jeer - impertinently, “just try to be respectful,” she said. “Count a little. - There are six of us forming the vanguard. In the chariot there are nine, - and six and nine make fifteen. Add to them the five of the rear-guard, and - we have twenty. Wherever else is such a family seen? Why, the rabbits who - watch us pass are mute with stupor and humiliation.” - </p> - <p> - Then came another laugh, and once more they all took up the song of - Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming. - </p> - <p> - It was at the bridge over the Yeuse that the first drops of rain, big - drops they were, began to fall. The big livid cloud, urged on by a - terrible wind, was galloping across the sky, filling it with the clamor of - a tempest. And almost immediately afterwards the rain-drops increased in - volume and in number, lashed by so violent a squall that the water poured - down as if by the bucketful, or as if some huge sluice-gate had suddenly - burst asunder overhead. One could no longer see twenty yards before one. - In two minutes the road was running with water like the bed of a torrent. - </p> - <p> - Then there was a <i>sauve-qui-peut</i> among the procession. It was learnt - later on that the people of the rear-guard had luckily been surprised near - a peasant’s cottage, in which they had quietly sought refuge. Then the - folks in the wagon simply drew their curtains, and halted beneath the - shelter of a wayside tree for fear lest the horses should take fright - under such a downpour. They called to the bicyclists ahead of them to stop - also, instead of obstinately remaining in such a deluge. But their words - were lost amid the rush of water. However, the little girls and the page - took a proper course in crouching beside a thick hedge, though the - betrothed couple wildly continued on their way. - </p> - <p> - Frederic, the more reasonable of the two, certainly had sense enough to - say: “This isn’t prudent on our part. Let us stop like the others, I beg - you.” - </p> - <p> - But from Rose, all excitement, transported by her blissful fever, and - insensible, so it seemed, to the pelting of the rain, he only drew this - answer: “Pooh! what does it matter, now that we are soaking? It is by - stopping that we might do ourselves harm. Let us make haste, all haste. In - three minutes we shall be at home and able to make fine sport of those - laggards when they arrive in another quarter of an hour.” - </p> - <p> - They had just crossed the Yeuse bridge, and they swept on side by side, - although the road was far from easy, being a continual ascent for a - thousand yards or so between rows of lofty poplars. - </p> - <p> - “I assure you that we are doing wrong,” the young man repeated. “They will - blame me, and they will be right.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! well,” cried she, “I’m amusing myself. This bicycle bath is quite - funny. Leave me, then, if you don’t love me enough to follow me.” - </p> - <p> - He followed her, however, pressed close beside her, and sought to shelter - her a little from the slanting rain. And it was a wild, mad race on the - part of that young couple, almost linked together, their elbows touching - as they sped on and on, as if lifted from the ground, carried off by all - that rushing, howling water which poured down so ragefully. It was as - though a thunder-blast bore them along. But at the very moment when they - sprang from their bicycles in the yard of the farm the rain ceased, and - the sky became blue once more. - </p> - <p> - Rose was laughing like a lunatic, and looked very flushed, but she was - soaked to such a point that water streamed from her clothes, her hair, her - hands. You might have taken her for some fairy of the springs who had - overturned her urn on herself. - </p> - <p> - “Well, the fete is complete,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “All the same, - we are the first home.” - </p> - <p> - She then darted upstairs to comb her hair and change her gown. But to gain - just a few minutes, eager as she was to cook the crawfish, she did not - take the trouble to put on dry linen. She wished the pot to be on the fire - with the water, the white wine, the carrots and spices, before the family - arrived. And she came and went, attending to the fire and filling the - whole kitchen with her gay activity, like a good housewife who was glad to - display her accomplishments, while her betrothed, who had also come - downstairs again after changing his clothes, watched her with a kind of - religious admiration. - </p> - <p> - At last, when the whole family had arrived, the folks of the brake and the - pedestrians also, there came a rather sharp explanation. Mathieu and - Marianne were angry, so greatly had they been alarmed by that rush through - the storm. - </p> - <p> - “There was no sense in it, my girl,” Marianne repeated. “Did you at least - change your linen?” - </p> - <p> - “Why yes, why yes!” replied Rose. “Where are the crawfish?” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu meantime was lecturing Frederic. “You might have broken your - necks,” said he; “and, besides, it is by no means good to get soaked with - cold water when one is hot. You ought to have stopped her.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, she insisted on going on, and whenever she insists on anything, you - know, I haven’t the strength to prevent her.” - </p> - <p> - At last Rose, in her pretty way, put an end to the reproaches. “Come, - that’s enough scolding; I did wrong, no doubt. But won’t anybody - compliment me on my <i>court-bouillon</i>? Have you ever known crawfish to - smell as nice as that?” - </p> - <p> - The lunch was wonderfully gay. As they were twenty, and wished to have a - real rehearsal of the wedding feast, the table had been set in a large - gallery adjoining the ordinary dining-room. This gallery was still bare, - but throughout the meal they talked incessantly of how they would - embellish it with shrubs, garlands of foliage, and clumps of flowers. - During the dessert they even sent for a ladder with the view of indicating - on the walls the main lines of the decorations. - </p> - <p> - For a moment or so Rose, previously so talkative, had lapsed into silence. - She had eaten heartily, but all the color had left her face, which had - assumed a waxy pallor under her heavy hair, which was still damp. And when - she wished to ascend the ladder herself to indicate how some ornament - should be placed, her legs suddenly failed her, she staggered, and then - fainted away. - </p> - <p> - Everybody was in consternation, but she was promptly placed in a chair, - where for a few minutes longer she remained unconscious. Then, on coming - to her senses, she remained for a moment silent, oppressed as by a feeling - of pain, and apparently failing to understand what had taken place. - Mathieu and Marianne, terribly upset, pressed her with questions, anxious - as they were to know if she felt better. She had evidently caught cold, - and this was the fine result of her foolish ride. - </p> - <p> - By degrees the girl recovered her composure, and again smiled. She then - explained that she now felt no pain, but that it had suddenly seemed to - her as if a heavy paving-stone were lying on her chest; then this weight - had melted away, leaving her better able to breathe. And, indeed, she was - soon on her feet once more, and finished giving her views respecting the - decoration of the gallery, in such wise that the others ended by feeling - reassured, and the afternoon passed away joyously in the making of all - sorts of splendid plans. Little was eaten at dinner, for they had done too - much honor to the crawfish at noon. And at nine o’clock, as soon as - Celeste arrived for Andree, the gathering broke up. Ambroise was returning - to Paris that same evening. Blaise and Denis were to take the seven - o’clock train the following morning. And Rose, after accompanying Madame - Desvignes and her daughters to the road, called to them through the - darkness: “Au revoir, come back soon.” She was again full of gayety at the - thought of the general rendezvous which the family had arranged for the - approaching weddings. - </p> - <p> - Neither Mathieu nor Marianne went to bed at once, however. Though they did - not even speak of it together, they thought that Rose looked very strange, - as if, indeed, she were intoxicated. She had again staggered on returning - to the house, and though she only complained of some slight oppression, - they prevailed on her to go to bed. After she had retired to her room, - which adjoined their own, Marianne went several times to see if she were - well wrapped up and were sleeping peacefully, while Mathieu remained - anxiously thoughtful beside the lamp. At last the girl fell asleep, and - the parents, leaving the door of communication open, then exchanged a few - words in an undertone, in their desire to tranquillize each other. It - would surely be nothing; a good night’s rest would suffice to restore Rose - to her wonted health. Then in their turn they went to bed, the whole farm - lapsed into silence, surrendering itself to slumber until the first - cockcrow. But all at once, about four o’clock, shortly before daybreak, a - stifled call, “Mamma! mamma!” awoke both Mathieu and Marianne, and they - sprang out of bed, barefooted, shivering, and groping for the candle. Rose - was again stifling, struggling against another attack of extreme violence. - For the second time, however, she soon regained consciousness and appeared - relieved, and thus the parents, great as was their distress, preferred to - summon nobody but to wait till daylight. Their alarm was caused - particularly by the great change they noticed in their daughter’s - appearance; her face was swollen and distorted, as if some evil power had - transformed her in the night. But she fell asleep again, in a state of - great prostration; and they no longer stirred for fear of disturbing her - slumber. They remained there watching and waiting, listening to the - revival of life in the farm around them as the daylight gradually - increased. Time went by; five and then six o’clock struck. And at about - twenty minutes to seven Mathieu, on looking into the yard, and there - catching sight of Denis, who was to return to Paris by the seven o’clock - train, hastened down to tell him to call upon Boutan and beg the doctor to - come at once. Then, as soon as his son had started, he rejoined Marianne - upstairs, still unwilling to call or warn anybody. But a third attack - followed, and this time it was the thunderbolt. - </p> - <p> - Rose had half risen in bed, her arms thrown out, her mouth distended as - she gasped “Mamma! mamma!” - </p> - <p> - Then in a sudden fit of revolt, a last flash of life, she sprang from her - bed and stepped towards the window, whose panes were all aglow with the - rising sun. And for a moment she leant there, her legs bare, her shoulders - bare, and her heavy hair falling over her like a royal mantle. Never had - she looked more beautiful, more dazzling, full of strength and love. - </p> - <p> - But she murmured: “Oh! how I suffer! It is all over, I am going to die.” - </p> - <p> - Her father darted towards her; her mother sustained her, throwing her arms - around her like invincible armor which would shield her from all harm. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t talk like that, you unhappy girl! It is nothing; it is only another - attack which will pass away. Get into bed again, for mercy’s sake. Your - old friend Boutan is on his way here. You will be up and well again - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, I am going to die; it is all over.” - </p> - <p> - She fell back in their arms; they only had time to lay her on her bed. And - the thunderbolt fell: without a word, without a glance, in a few minutes - she died of congestion of the lungs. - </p> - <p> - Ah! the imbecile thunderbolt! Ah! the scythe, which with a single stroke - blindly cuts down a whole springtide! It was all so brutally sudden, so - utterly unexpected, that at first the stupefaction of Marianne and Mathieu - was greater than their despair. In response to their cries the whole farm - hastened up, the fearful news filled the place, and then all sank into the - deep silence of death—all work, all life ceasing. And the other - children were there, scared and overcome: little Nicolas, who did not yet - understand things; Gregoire, the page of the previous day; Louise, - Madeleine, and Marguerite, the three maids of honor, and their elders, - Claire and Gervais, who felt the blow more deeply. And there were yet the - others journeying away, Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise, travelling to Paris - at that very moment, in ignorance of the unforeseen, frightful - hatchet-stroke which had fallen on the family. Where would the terrible - tidings reach them? In what cruel distress would they return! And the - doctor who would soon arrive too! But all at once, amid the terror and - confusion, there rang out the cries of Frederic, the poor dead girl’s - affianced lover. He shrieked his despair aloud, he was half mad, he wished - to kill himself, saying that he was the murderer and that he ought to have - prevented Rose from so rashly riding home through the storm! He had to be - led away and watched for fear of some fresh misfortune. His sudden frenzy - had gone to every heart; sobs burst forth and lamentations arose from the - woful parents, from the brothers, the sisters, from the whole of stricken - Chantebled, which death thus visited for the first time. - </p> - <p> - Ah, God! Rose on that bed of mourning, white, cold, and dead! She, the - fairest, the gayest, the most loved! She, before whom all the others were - ever in admiration—she of whom they were so proud, so fond! And to - think that this blow should fall in the midst of hope, bright hope in long - life and sterling happiness, but ten days before her wedding, and on the - morrow of that day of wild gayety, all jests and laughter! They could - again see her, full of life and so adorable with her happy youthful - fancies—that princely reception and that royal procession. It had - seemed as if those two coming weddings, celebrated the same day, would be - like the supreme florescence of the family’s long happiness and - prosperity. Doubtless they had often experienced trouble and had even wept - at times, but they had drawn closer together and consoled one another on - such occasions; none had ever been cut off from the good-night embraces - which healed every sore. And now the best was gone, death had come to say - that absolute joy existed for none, that the most valiant, the happiest; - never reaped the fulness of their hopes. There was no life without death. - And they paid their share of the debt of human wretchedness, paid it the - more dearly since they had made for themselves a larger sum of life. When - everything germinates and grows around one, when one has determined on - unreserved fruitfulness; on continuous creation and increase, how awful is - the recall to the ever-present dim abyss in which the world is fashioned, - on the day when misfortune falls, digs its first pit, and carries off a - loved one! It is like a sudden snapping, a rending of the hopes which - seemed to be endless, and a feeling of stupefaction comes at the discovery - that one cannot live and love forever! - </p> - <p> - Ah! how terrible were the two days that followed: the farm itself - lifeless, without sound save that of the breathing of the cattle, the - whole family gathered together, overcome by the cruel spell of waiting, - ever in tears while the poor corpse remained there under a harvest of - flowers. And there was this cruel aggravation, that on the eve of the - funeral, when the body had been laid in the coffin, it was brought down - into that gallery where they had lunched so merrily while discussing how - magnificently they might decorate it for the two weddings. It was there - that the last funeral watch, the last wake, took place, and there were no - evergreen shrubs, no garlands of foliage, merely four tapers which burnt - there amid a wealth of white roses gathered in the morning, but already - fading. Neither the mother nor the father was willing to go to bed that - night. They remained, side by side, near the child whom mother-earth was - taking back from them. They could see her quite little again, but sixteen - months old, at the time of their first sojourn at Chantebled in the old - tumbledown shooting-box, when she had just been weaned and they were wont - to go and cover her up at nighttime. They saw her also, later on, in - Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbing up and pulling their bed - to pieces with triumphant laughter. And they saw her yet more clearly, - growing and becoming more beautiful even as Chantebled did, as if, indeed, - she herself bloomed with all the health and beauty of that now fruitful - land. Yet she was no more, and whenever the thought returned to them that - they would never see her again, their hands sought one another, met in a - woful clasp, while from their crushed and mingling hearts it seemed as if - all life, all future, were flowing away to nihility. Now that a breach had - been made, would not every other happiness be carried off in turn? And - though the ten other children were there, from the little one five years - old to the twins who were four-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered - in tears around their sleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion - rendering funeral honors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted - them: their hearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, - carrying away with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare - gallery which the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose - upon that death watch, that last leave-taking. - </p> - <p> - Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread out along - the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, that road - over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All the relations - of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had come to pay a - tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, this time, the - cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped with white and - blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The whole family was - present; the mother and the sisters had declared that they would only quit - their loved one when she had been lowered into her last resting-place. And - after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, the Seguins, and - others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcome by suffering, no - longer recognized people amid their tears. They only remembered on the - morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed it were really Morange—that - silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman, who had wept while pressing - their hands. And in like fashion Mathieu fancied that, in some horrible - dream, he had seen Constance’s spare figure and bony profile drawing near - to him in the cemetery after the coffin had been lowered into the grave, - and addressing vague words of consolation to him, though he fancied that - her eyes flashed the while as if with abominable exultation. - </p> - <p> - What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her words must - have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourning - relative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which she had - spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then in bitter - fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebled might - continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, were now - stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhaps departed - forever! Mathieu shuddered; his faith in the future was shaken; he was - haunted by a fear of seeing prosperity and fruitfulness vanish, now that - there was that open breach. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XVII - </h2> - <p> - A YEAR later the first child born to Ambroise and Andree, a boy, little - Leonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietly six - weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be the first - outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recovered from the - terrible shock of their eldest daughter’s death. Moreover, it was arranged - that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch at the parents’ - home, and that one and all should afterwards be free to return to his or - her avocations. It was impossible for the whole family to come, and, - indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, only the twins, Denis - and Blaise, and the latter’s wife Charlotte, were expected, together with - the godparents. Beauchene, the godfather, had selected Madame Seguin as - his <i>commere</i>, for, since the death of Maurice, Constance shuddered - at the bare thought of touching a child. At the same time she had promised - to be present at the lunch, and thus there would be ten of them, - sufficient to fill the little dining-room of the modest flat in the Rue de - La Boetie, where the young couple resided pending fortune’s arrival. - </p> - <p> - It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had been - unwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, they - ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of that little - grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early in the winter - a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had lost his little - Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attack of croup. - Charlotte, however, was already at that time again <i>enceinte</i>, and - thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraught with - emotion. - </p> - <p> - The little flat in the Rue de La Boetie seemed very bright and fragrant; - it was perfumed by the fair grace of Andree and illumined by the - victorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm in arm, - had set out so bravely to conquer the world. During the lunch, too, there - was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchene, who gave the - greatest attention to his <i>commere</i> Valentine, jesting and paying her - the most extravagant court, which afforded her much amusement, prone as - she still was to play a girlish part, though she was already forty-five - and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone remained grave, scarce - condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint smile, while a shadow of - deep pain passed over her withered face every time that she glanced round - that gay table, whence new strength, based on the invincible future, arose - in spite of all the recent mourning. - </p> - <p> - At about three o’clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow - Beauchene to take any more Chartreuse. - </p> - <p> - “It’s true, he is right, my children,” Beauchene ended by exclaiming in a - docile way. “We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely necessary - that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you of Denis, for - we need his help over a big building affair. That’s how we are, we others, - we don’t shirk duty.” - </p> - <p> - Constance had also risen. “The carriage must be waiting,” said she; “will - you take it?” - </p> - <p> - “No, no, we will go on foot. A walk will clear our heads.” - </p> - <p> - The sky was overcast, and as it grew darker and darker Ambroise, going to - the window, exclaimed: “You will get wet.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shall - have time to get to the works.” - </p> - <p> - It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with her in - the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilion adjoining - the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and could quietly - return to the Avenue d’Antin, which was close by, as soon as the sky might - clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had just yielded to - Andree’s affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spend the whole day - and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train. Thus the fete - would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured at the prospect. - </p> - <p> - The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, a mistake - which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all the mirth - promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and, looking - at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him “Blaise, my friend, will - you give me my boa? I must have left it in the ante-room.” - </p> - <p> - Everybody began to laugh, but she failed to understand the reason. And it - was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis when he - brought her the boa: “I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are very amiable.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, so - droll did her quiet assurance seem to them. What was the matter, then? Why - did they all laugh at her in that fashion? She ended by suspecting that - she had made a mistake, and looked more attentively at the twins. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes, it isn’t Blaise, but Denis! But it can’t be helped. I am always - mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in the same - fashion.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Marianne, in her obliging way, in order to take any sting away - from the laughter, repeated the well-known family story of how she - herself, when the twins were children and slept together, had been wont to - awake them in order to identify them by the different color of their eyes. - The others, Beauchene and Valentine, then intervened and recalled - circumstances under which they also had mistaken the twins one for the - other, so perfect was their resemblance on certain occasions, in certain - lights. And it was amid all this gay animation that the company separated - after exchanging all sorts of embraces and handshakes. - </p> - <p> - Once in the brougham, Constance spoke but seldom to Charlotte, taking as a - pretext a violent headache which the prolonged lunch had increased. With a - weary air and her eyes half closed she began to reflect. After Rose’s - death, and when little Christophe likewise had been carried off, a revival - of hope had come to her, for all at once she had felt quite young again. - But when she consulted Boutan on the matter he dealt her a final blow by - informing her that her hopes were quite illusive. Thus, for two months - now, her rage and despair had been increasing. That very morning at that - christening, and now in that carriage beside that young woman who was - again expecting to become a mother, it was this which poisoned her mind, - filled her with jealousy and spite, and rendered her capable of any evil - deed. The loss of her son, the childlessness to which she was condemned, - all threw her into a state of morbid perversity, fraught with dreams of - some monstrous vengeance which she dared not even confess to herself. She - accused the whole world of being in league to crush her. Her husband was - the most cowardly and idiotic of traitors, for he betrayed her by letting - some fresh part of the works pass day by day into the hands of that fellow - Blaise, whose wife no sooner lost a child than she had another. She, - Constance, was enraged also at seeing her husband so gay and happy, since - she had left him to his own base courses. He still retained his air of - victorious superiority, declaring that he had remained unchanged, and - there was truth in this; for though, instead of being an active master as - formerly, he now too often showed himself a senile prowler, on the high - road to paralysis, he yet continued to be a practical egotist, one who - drew from life the greatest sum of enjoyment possible. He was following - his destined road, and if he took to Blaise it was simply because he was - delighted to have found an intelligent, hard-working young man who spared - him all the cares and worries that were too heavy for his weary shoulders, - while still earning for him the money which he needed for his pleasures. - Constance knew that something in the way of a partnership arrangement was - about to be concluded. Indeed, her husband must have already received a - large sum to enable him to make good certain losses and expenses which he - had hidden from her. And closing her eyes as the brougham rolled along, - she poisoned her mind by ruminating all these things, scarce able to - refrain from venting her fury by throwing herself upon that young woman - Charlotte, well-loved and fruitful spouse, who sat beside her. - </p> - <p> - Then the thought of Denis occurred to her. Why was he being taken to the - works? Did he also mean to rob her? Yet she knew that he had refused to - join his brother, as in his opinion there was not room for two at the - establishment of the Boulevard de Grenelle. Indeed, Denis’s ambition was - to direct some huge works by himself; he possessed an extensive knowledge - of mechanics, and this it was that rendered him a valuable adviser - whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine had to be - prepared at the Beauchene factory. Constance promptly dismissed him from - her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason to fear him; he was a - mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, would establish himself at the - other end of France. Then once more the thought of Blaise came back to - her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenly occurred to her that if - she made haste home she would be able to see Morange alone in his office - and ascertain many things from him before the others arrived. It was - evident that the accountant must know something of the partnership scheme, - even if it were as yet only in a preliminary stage. Thereupon she became - impassioned, eager to arrive, certain as she felt of obtaining - confidential information from Morange, whom she deemed to be devoted to - her. - </p> - <p> - As the carriage rolled over the Jena bridge she opened her eyes and looked - out. “<i>Mon Dieu</i>!” said she, “what a time this brougham takes! If the - rain would only fall it would, perhaps, relieve my head a little.” - </p> - <p> - She was thinking, however, that a sharp shower would give her more time, - as it would compel the three men, Beauchene, Denis, and Blaise, to seek - shelter in some doorway. And when the carriage reached the works she - hastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion to the - little pavilion. - </p> - <p> - “You will excuse me, won’t you, my dear?” said she; “you only have to turn - the street corner.” - </p> - <p> - When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, took - hold of Constance’s hand and retained it for a few moments in her own. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” she replied, “and many thanks. You are too kind. When you see - my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he grows anxious at - the slightest thing.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many - professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission. Then - they parted. “Au revoir, till to-morrow “—“Yes, yes, till to-morrow, - au revoir.” - </p> - <p> - Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife - Valerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yet - it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for he - had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired life, - giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. On the other - hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct painstaking - accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it were to the - office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning for thirty years - past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter had carried off with - them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, all that he had - momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes—a large fortune and a - luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, who had relapsed - into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothing beyond his humble - daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner to which he was - accustomed. It was suspected, however, that he led a mysterious maniacal - life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in that flat of the Boulevard - de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refused to quit. His servant had - orders to admit nobody, and she herself knew nothing. If he gave her free - admittance to the dining- and drawing-rooms, he did not allow her to set - foot in his own bedroom, formerly shared by Valerie, nor in that which - Reine had occupied. He himself alone entered these chambers, which he - regarded as sanctuaries, of which he was the sole priest. Under pretence - of sweeping or dusting, he would shut himself up in one or the other of - them for hours at a time. It was in vain that the servant tried to glance - inside, in vain that she listened at the doors when he spent his holidays - at home; she saw nothing and heard nothing. Nobody could have told what - relics those chapels contained, nor with what religious cult he honored - them. Another cause of surprise was his niggardly, avaricious life, which, - as time went on, had become more and more pronounced, in such wise that - his only expenses were his rental of sixteen hundred francs, the wages he - paid to his servant, and the few pence per day which she with difficulty - extracted from him to defray the cost of food and housekeeping. His salary - had now risen to eight thousand francs a year, and he certainly did not - spend half of it. What became, then, of his big savings, the money which - he refused to devote to enjoyment? In what secret hole, and for what - purpose, what secret passion, did he conceal it? Nobody could tell. But - amid it all he remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, continued - very cleanly in his habits, keeping his beard, which was now white as - snow, very carefully tended. And he came to his office every morning with - a little smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in this man of - regular methodical life revealed the collapse within him, all the ashes - and smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart. - </p> - <p> - By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and - Morange. When, after his daughter’s death, she had seen him return to the - works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which some - covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destined to live - five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, and could - never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, for he, as she - repeated to herself, had lost his only child. “Ah, God! so such a - catastrophe was possible.” Then, on being stricken herself, on - experiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping, - incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother - in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none - other. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and the - pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, face to - face, sharing each other’s woe. Later on she had profited by this intimacy - to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at the factory, of - which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularly since she had - suspected the latter of bad management, blunders and debts, that she - endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, even a spy, who might - aid her to secure as much control of the business as possible. And this - was why she was so anxious to return to the factory that day, and profit - by the opportunity to see Morange privately, persuaded as she was that she - would induce him to speak out in the absence of his superiors. - </p> - <p> - She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She found the - accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, and leaning - over the everlasting ledger which was open before him. - </p> - <p> - “Why, is the christening finished?” he exclaimed in astonishment. - </p> - <p> - Forthwith she explained her presence in such a way as to enable her to - speak of what she had at heart. “Why, yes. That is to say, I came away - because I had such a dreadful headache. The others have remained yonder. - And as we are alone here together it occurred to me that it might do me - good to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I am - not happy, not happy at all.” - </p> - <p> - She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had been - restraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quite - upset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself, - Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might have a - fainting fit. But she prevented him. - </p> - <p> - “I have only you left me, my friend,” said she. “Everybody else forsakes - me, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks are - bent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything when I - lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know my torments, - you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven’s sake help me and tell - me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able to defend myself.” - </p> - <p> - On hearing her speak of his daughter Morange also had begun to weep. And - now, therefore, she might question him, it was certain that he would - answer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the common grief - which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement was indeed on - the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchene, only it was not - precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchene having drawn large sums from - the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could not - confess—a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored—had - been obliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active - lieutenant who managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to - find somebody willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man had - offered it himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, who - advanced the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in his son’s - name. And now, with the view of putting everything in order, it had been - resolved that the property should be divided into six parts, and that one - of these parts or shares should be attributed to Blaise as reimbursement - for the loan. Thus the young fellow would possess an interest of one sixth - in the establishment, unless indeed Beauchene should buy him out again - within a stipulated period. The danger was that, instead of freeing - himself in this fashion, Beauchene might yield to the temptation of - selling the other parts one by one, now that he was gliding down a path of - folly and extravagance. - </p> - <p> - Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. “Is this signed?” - she asked. - </p> - <p> - “No, not yet. But the papers are ready and will be signed shortly. - Moreover, it is a reasonable and necessary solution of the difficulty.” - </p> - <p> - She was evidently of another opinion. A feeling of revolt possessed her, - and she strove to think of some decisive means of preventing the ruin and - shame which in her opinion threatened her. “My God, what am I to do? How - can I act?” she gasped; and then, in her rage at finding no device, at - being powerless, this cry escaped her: “Ah! that scoundrel Blaise!” - </p> - <p> - Worthy Morange was quite moved by it. Still he had not fully understood. - And so, in his quiet way, he endeavored to calm Constance, explaining that - Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances in question he - had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that he could to stifle - scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. And as Constance had - risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, and anxious that the three men - might not find her there on their arrival, the accountant likewise quitted - his chair, and accompanied her along the gallery which she had to follow - in order to return to her house. - </p> - <p> - “I give you my word of honor, madame,” said Morange, “that the young man - has made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass through - my hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if I had - entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should have - endeavored to requite your kindness by warning you.” - </p> - <p> - She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to get - rid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun to fall - violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds had overspread - the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, though four o’clock had - scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that in presence of such a - deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. So she hastened her - steps, still followed, however, by the accountant. - </p> - <p> - “For instance,” he continued, “when it was a question of drawing up the - agreement—” - </p> - <p> - But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stopped - her, pulling her back as if in terror. - </p> - <p> - “Take care!” he gasped. - </p> - <p> - There was a great cavity before them. Here, at the end of the gallery, - before reaching the corridor which communicated with the private house, - there was a steam lift of great power, which was principally used for - lowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a rule on - certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. When the - appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there to superintend - the operations. - </p> - <p> - “Take care! take care!” Morange repeated, shuddering with terror. - </p> - <p> - The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was no - barrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearful - plunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness had - become so complete in the gallery that they had walked on without seeing - anything before them. Another step would have hurled them to destruction. - It was little short of miraculous that the accountant should have become - anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in that corner, where he had - divined rather than perceived the abyss. - </p> - <p> - Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought to - free herself from his wild grasp. - </p> - <p> - “But look!” he cried. - </p> - <p> - And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. It - descended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a well of - darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vague - outlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern, a - distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth and horror - of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching. - </p> - <p> - And now Morange burst into a temper. “It is idiotic!” he exclaimed. “Why - don’t they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a man - expressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post so - long as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth can the - rascal be up to?” - </p> - <p> - The accountant again approached the hole, and shouted down it in a fury: - “Bonnard!” - </p> - <p> - No reply came: the pit remained bottomless, black and void. - </p> - <p> - “Bonnard! Bonnard!” - </p> - <p> - And still nothing was heard, not a sound; the damp breath of the darkness - alone ascended as from the deep silence of the tomb. - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Morange resorted to action. “I must go down; I must find - Bonnard. Can you picture us falling through that hole to the very bottom? - No, no, this cannot be allowed. Either he must close this trap or return - to his post. What can he be doing? Where can he be?” - </p> - <p> - Morange had already betaken himself to a little winding staircase, by - which one reached every floor beside the lift, when in a voice which - gradually grew more indistinct, he again called: “I beg you, madame, pray - wait for me; remain there to warn anybody who might pass.” - </p> - <p> - Constance was alone. The dull rattle of the rain on the glass above her - continued, but a little livid light was appearing as a gust of wind - carried off the clouds. And in that pale light Blaise suddenly appeared at - the end of the gallery. He had just returned to the factory with Denis and - Beauchene, and had left his companions together for a moment, in order to - go to the workshops to procure some information they required. - Preoccupied, absorbed once more in his work, he came along with an easy - step, his head somewhat bent. And when Constance saw him thus appear, all - that she felt in her heart was the smart of rancor, a renewal of her anger - at what she had learnt of that agreement which was to be signed on the - morrow and which would despoil her. That enemy who was in her home and - worked against her, a revolt of her whole being urged her to exterminate - him, and thrust him out like some usurper, all craft and falsehood. - </p> - <p> - He drew nearer. She was in the dense shadow near the wall, so that he - could not see her. But on her side, as he softly approached steeped in a - grayish light, she could see him with singular distinctness. Never before - had she so plainly divined the power of his lofty brow, the intelligence - of his eyes, the firm will of his mouth. And all at once she was struck - with fulgural certainty; he was coming towards the cavity without seeing - it and he would assuredly plunge into the depths unless she should stop - him as he passed. But a little while before, she, like himself, had come - from yonder, and would have fallen unless a friendly hand had restrained - her; and the frightful shudder of that moment yet palpitated in her veins; - she could still and ever see the damp black pit with the little lantern - far below. The whole horror of it flashed before her eyes—the ground - failing one, the sudden drop with a great shriek, and the smash a moment - afterwards. - </p> - <p> - Blaise drew yet nearer. But certainly such a thing was impossible; she - would prevent it, since a little motion of her hand would suffice. Would - she not always have time to stretch out her arms when he was there before - her? And yet from the recesses of her being a very clear and frigid voice - seemed to ascend, articulating brief words which rang in her ears as if - repeated by a trumpet blast. If he should die it would be all over, the - factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterly lamented that she - could devise no obstacle had merely to let this helpful chance take its - own course. And this, indeed, was what the voice said, what it repeated - with keen insistence, never adding another syllable. After that there - would be nothing. After that there would merely remain the shattered - remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit of darkness splashed with blood, - in which she discerned, foresaw nothing more. What would happen on the - morrow? She did not wish to know; indeed there would be no morrow. It was - solely the brutal immediate fact which the imperious voice demanded. He - dead, it would be all over, he would never possess the works. - </p> - <p> - He drew nearer still. And within her now there raged a frightful battle. - How long did it last—days? years? Doubtless but a few seconds. She - was still resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she - felt that she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment came for - the decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, became - materialized within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger. She - hungered for that finish, hungered to the point of suffering, seized by - one of those sudden desperate longings which beget crime; such as when a - passer-by is despoiled and throttled at the corner of a street. It seemed - to her that if she could not satisfy her craving she herself must lose her - life. A consuming passion, a mad desire for that man’s annihilation filled - her as she saw him approach. She could now see him still more plainly and - the sight of him exasperated her. His forehead, his eyes, his lips - tortured her like some hateful spectacle. Another step, yet one more, then - another, and he would be before her. Yes, yet another step, and she was - already stretching out her hand in readiness to stop him as soon as he - should brush past. - </p> - <p> - He came along. What was it that happened? O God! When he was there, so - absorbed in his thoughts that he brushed against her without feeling her, - she turned to stone. Her hand became icy cold, she could not lift it, it - hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever a great cold - shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, while she was - deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of her being. All - demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained intense, - invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner voice which - robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead and he would - never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and breathless - against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his light - breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his neck. He - had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had raised a call - she might still have changed the course of destiny even at that last - moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she was - clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, took yet - a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over that friendly - ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he was in thoughts - of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a loud, terrible - cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash down below in the - depths of the black darkness. - </p> - <p> - Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still - listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss. She - could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewed rage. - And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-entered her - drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had she desired - that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do with it. Most - certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If it had been - possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apart from her, for - assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassured her. Yes, - indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her past life spread - out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Never had she sinned, - never until that day had any consciousness of guilt weighed upon her - conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she had remained upright amidst - all the excesses of her husband. An impassioned mother, she had been - ascending her calvary ever since her son’s death. And this recollection of - Maurice alone drew her for a moment from her callousness, choked her with - a rising sob, as if in that direction lay her madness, the vainly sought - explanation of the crime. Vertigo again fell upon her, the thought of her - dead son and of the other being master in his place, all her perverted - passion for that only son of hers, the despoiled prince, all her poisoned, - fermenting rage which had unhinged and maddened her, even to the point of - murder. Had that monstrous vegetation growing within her reached her brain - then? A rush of blood suffices at times to bedim a conscience. But she - obstinately clung to the view that she had been absent; she forced back - her tears and remained frigid. No remorse came to her. It was done, and - ‘twas good that it should be done. It was necessary. She had not pushed - him, he himself had fallen. Had she not been there he would have fallen - just the same. And so since she had not been there, since both her brain - and her heart had been absent, it did not concern her. And ever and ever - resounded the words which absolved her and chanted her victory; he was - dead, and would never possess the works. - </p> - <p> - Erect in the middle of the drawing-room, Constance listened, straining her - ears. Why was it that she heard nothing? How long they were in going down - to pick him up! Anxiously waiting for the tumult which she expected, the - clamor of horror which would assuredly rise from the works, the heavy - footsteps, the loud calls, she held her breath, quivering at the - slightest, faintest sound. Several minutes still elapsed, and the cosey - quietude of her drawing-room pleased her. That room was like an asylum of - bourgeois rectitude, luxurious dignity, in which she felt protected, - saved. Some little objects on which her eyes lighted, a pocket - scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife of burnished silver - left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, almost surprised - at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some new and particular - meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived that her hands were icy - cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing to warm them a little. Why - was it, too, that she now felt so tired? It seemed to her as if she had - just returned from some long walk, from some accident, from some affray in - which she had been bruised. She felt within her also a tendency to - somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, as if she had feasted too copiously - off some spicy dish, after too great a hunger. Amid the fatigue which - benumbed her limbs she desired nothing more; apart from her sleepiness all - that she felt was a kind of astonishment that things should be as they - were. However, she had again begun to listen, repeating that if that - frightful silence continued, she would certainly sink upon a chair, close - her eyes, and sleep. And at last it seemed to her that she detected a - faint sound, scarcely a breath, far away. - </p> - <p> - What was it? No, there was nothing yet. Perhaps she had dreamt that - horrible scene, perhaps it had all been a nightmare; that man marching on, - that black pit, that loud cry of terror! Since she heard nothing, perhaps - nothing had really happened. Were it true a clamor would have ascended - from below in a growing wave of sound, and a distracted rush up the - staircase and along the passages would have brought her the news. Then - again she detected the faint distant sound, which seemed to draw a little - nearer. It was not the tramping of a crowd; it seemed to be a mere - footfall, perhaps that of some pedestrian on the quay. Yet no; it came - from the works, and now it was quite distinct; it ascended steps and then - sped along a passage. And the steps became quicker, and a panting could be - heard, so tragical that she at last divined that the horror was at hand. - All at once the door was violently flung open. Morange entered. He was - alone, beside himself, with livid face and scarce able to stammer. - </p> - <p> - “He still breathes, but his head is smashed; it is all over.” - </p> - <p> - “What ails you?” she asked. “What is the matter?” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her, agape. He had hastened upstairs at a run to ask her for - an explanation, for he had quite lost his poor head over that - unaccountable catastrophe. And the apparent ignorance and tranquillity in - which he found Constance completed his dismay. - </p> - <p> - “But I left you near the trap,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Near the trap, yes. You went down, and I immediately came up here.” - </p> - <p> - “But before I went down,” he resumed with despairing violence, “I begged - you to wait for me and keep a watch on the hole, so that nobody might fall - through it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! dear no. You said nothing to me, or, at all events, I heard nothing, - understood nothing of that kind.” - </p> - <p> - In his terror he peered into her eyes. Assuredly she was lying. Calm as - she might appear, he could detect her voice trembling. Besides, it was - evident she must still have been there, since he had not even had time to - get below before it happened. And all at once he recalled their - conversation, the questions she had asked him and her cry of hatred - against the unfortunate young fellow who had now been picked up, covered - with blood, in the depths of that abyss. Beneath the gust of horror which - chilled him, Morange could only find these words: “Well, madame, poor - Blaise came just behind you and broke his skull.” - </p> - <p> - Her demeanor was perfect; her hands quivered as she raised them, and it - was in a halting voice that she exclaimed: “Good Lord! good Lord, what a - frightful misfortune.” - </p> - <p> - But at that moment an uproar arose through the house. The drawing-room - door had remained open, and the voices and footsteps of a number of people - drew nearer, became each moment more distinct. Orders were being given on - the stairs, men were straining and drawing breath, there were all the - signs of the approach of some cumbrous burden, carried as gently as - possible. - </p> - <p> - “What! is he being brought up here to me?” exclaimed Constance turning - pale, and her involuntary cry would have sufficed to enlighten the - accountant had he needed it. “He is being brought to me here!” - </p> - <p> - It was not Morange who answered; he was stupefied by the blow. But - Beauchene abruptly appeared preceding the body, and he likewise was livid - and beside himself, to such a degree did this sudden visit of death thrill - him with fear, in his need of happy life. - </p> - <p> - “Morange will have told you of the frightful catastrophe, my dear,” said - he. “Fortunately Denis was there, for the question of responsibility - towards his family. And it was Denis, too, who, just as we were about to - carry the poor fellow home to the pavilion, opposed it, saying that, given - his wife’s condition, we should kill her if we carried him to her in this - dying state. And so the only course was to bring him here, was it not?” - </p> - <p> - Then he quitted his wife with a gesture of bewilderment, and returned to - the landing, where one could hear him repeating in a quivering voice: - “Gently, gently, take care of the balusters.” - </p> - <p> - The lugubrious train entered the drawing-room. Blaise had been laid on a - stretcher provided with a mattress. Denis, as pale as linen, followed, - supporting the pillow on which rested his brother’s head. A little - streamlet of blood coursed over the dying man’s brow, his eyes were - closed. And four factory hands held the shafts of the stretcher. Their - heavy shoes crushed down the carpet, and fragile articles of furniture - were thrust aside anyhow to open a passage for this invasion of horror and - of fright. - </p> - <p> - Amid his bewilderment, an idea occurred to Beauchene, who continued to - direct the operation. - </p> - <p> - “No, no, don’t leave him there. There is a bed in the next room. We will - take him up very gently with the mattress, and lay him with it on the - bed.” - </p> - <p> - It was Maurice’s room; it was the bed in which Maurice had died, and which - Constance with maternal piety had kept unchanged, consecrating the room to - her son’s memory. But what could she say? How could she prevent Blaise - from dying there in his turn, killed by her? - </p> - <p> - The abomination of it all, the vengeance of destiny which exacted this - sacrilege, filled her with such a feeling of revolt that at the moment - when vertigo was about to seize her and the flooring began to flee from - beneath her feet, she was lashed by it and kept erect. And then she - displayed extraordinary strength, will, and insolent courage. When the - stricken man passed before her, her puny little frame stiffened and grew. - She looked at him, and her yellow face remained motionless, save for a - flutter of her eyelids and an involuntary nervous twinge on the left side - of her mouth, which forced a slight grimace. But that was all, and again - she became perfect both in words and gesture, doing and saying what was - necessary without lavishness, but like one simply thunderstruck by the - suddenness of the catastrophe. - </p> - <p> - However, the orders had been carried out in the bedroom, and the bearers - withdrew greatly upset. Down below, directly the accident had been - discovered, old Moineaud had been told to take a cab and hasten to Dr. - Boutan’s to bring him back with a surgeon, if one could be found on the - way. - </p> - <p> - “All the same, I prefer to have him here rather than in the basement,” - Beauchene repeated mechanically as he stood before the bed. “He still - breathes. There! see, it is quite apparent. Who knows? Perhaps Boutan may - be able to pull him through, after all.” - </p> - <p> - Denis, however, entertained no illusions. He had taken one of his - brother’s cold yielding hands in his own and he could feel that it was - again becoming a mere thing, as if broken, wrenched away from life in that - great fall. For a moment he remained motionless beside the death-bed, with - the mad hope they he might, perhaps, by his clasp infuse a little of the - blood in his own heart into the veins of the dying man. Was not that blood - common to them both? Had not their twin brotherhood drunk life from the - same source? It was the other half of himself that was about to die. Down - below, after raising a loud cry of heartrending distress, he had said - nothing. Now all at once he spoke. - </p> - <p> - “One must go to Ambroise’s to warn my mother and father. Since he still - breathes, perhaps they will arrive soon enough to embrace him.” - </p> - <p> - “Shall I go to fetch them?” Beauchene good-naturedly inquired. - </p> - <p> - “No, no! thanks. I did at first think of asking that service of you, but I - have reflected. Nobody but myself can break this horrible news to mamma. - And nothing must be done as yet with regard to Charlotte. We will see - about that by and by, when I come back. I only hope that death will have a - little patience, so that I may find my poor brother still alive.” - </p> - <p> - He leant forward and kissed Blaise, who with his eyes closed remained - motionless, still breathing faintly. Then distractedly Denis printed - another kiss upon his hand and hurried off. - </p> - <p> - Constance meantime was busying herself, calling the maid, and requesting - her to bring some warm water in order that they might wash the sufferer’s - blood-stained brow. It was impossible to think of taking off his jacket; - they had to content themselves with doing the little they could to improve - his appearance pending the arrival of the doctor. And during these - preparations, Beauchene, haunted, worried by the accident, again began to - speak of it. - </p> - <p> - “It is incomprehensible. One can hardly believe such a stupid mischance to - be possible. Down below the transmission gearing gets out of order, and - this prevents the mechanician from sending the trap up again. Then, up - above, Bonnard gets angry, calls, and at last decides to go down in a fury - when he finds that nobody answers him. Then Morange arrives, flies into a - temper, and goes down in his turn, exasperated at receiving no answer to - his calls for Bonnard. Poor Bonnard! he’s sobbing; he wanted to kill - himself when he saw the fine result of his absence.” - </p> - <p> - At this point Beauchene abruptly broke off and turned to Constance. “But - what about you?” he asked. “Morange told me that he had left you up above - near the trap.” - </p> - <p> - She was standing in front of her husband, in the full light which came - through the window. And again did her eyelids beat while a little nervous - twinge slightly twisted her mouth on the left side. That was all. - </p> - <p> - “I? Why I had gone down the passage. I came back here at once, as Morange - knows very well.” - </p> - <p> - A moment previously, Morange, annihilated, his legs failing him, had sunk - upon a chair. Incapable of rendering any help, he sat there silent, - awaiting the end. When he heard Constance lie in that quiet fashion, he - looked at her. The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it. And at - that moment he felt a craving to proclaim it, to cry it aloud. - </p> - <p> - “Why, he thought that he had begged you to remain there on the watch,” - Beauchene resumed, addressing his wife. - </p> - <p> - “At all events his words never reached me,” Constance duly answered. - “Should I have moved if he had asked me to do that?” And turning towards - the accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyes upon - him. “Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, you said - nothing to me, and I went on my way.” - </p> - <p> - Beneath those pale eyes, keen as steel, which dived into his own, Morange - was seized with abject fear. All his weakness, his cowardice of heart - returned. Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime? He pictured the - consequences. And then, too, he no longer knew if he were right or not; - his poor maniacal mind was lost. - </p> - <p> - “It is possible,” he stammered, “I may simply have thought I spoke. And it - must be so since it can’t be otherwise.” - </p> - <p> - Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude. The - complicity demanded was accepted. For a moment he thought of rising to see - if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare. Deep peacefulness fell upon - the room. - </p> - <p> - Ah! how great was the anguish, the torture in the cab, when Blaise brought - Mathieu and Marianne back with him. He had at first spoken to them simply - of an accident, a rather serious fall. But as the vehicle rolled along he - had lost his self-possession, weeping and confessing the truth in response - to their despairing questions. Thus, when they at last reached the - factory, they doubted no longer, their child was dead. Work had just been - stopped, and they recalled their visit to the place on the morrow of - Maurice’s death. They were returning to the same stillness, the same - grave-like silence. All the rumbling life had suddenly ceased, the - machines were cold and mute, the workshops darkened and deserted. Not a - sound remained, not a soul, not a puff of that steam which was like the - very breath of the place. He who had watched over its work was dead, and - it was dead like him. Then their affright increased when they passed from - the factory to the house amid that absolute solitude, the gallery steeped - in slumber, the staircase quivering, all the doors upstairs open, as in - some uninhabited place long since deserted. In the ante-room they found no - servant. And it was indeed in the same tragedy of sudden death that they - again participated, only this time it was their own son whom they were to - find in the same room, on the same bed, frigid, pale, and lifeless. - </p> - <p> - Blaise had just expired. Boutan was there at the head of the bed, holding - the inanimate hand in which the final pulsation of blood was dying away. - And when he saw Mathieu and Marianne, who had instinctively crossed the - disorderly drawing-room, rushing into that bedchamber whose odor of - nihility they recognized, he could but murmur in a voice full of sobs: - </p> - <p> - “My poor friends, embrace him; you will yet have a little of his last - breath.” - </p> - <p> - That breath had scarce ceased, and the unhappy mother, the unhappy father, - had already sprung forward, kissing those lips that exhaled the final - quiver of life, and sobbing and crying their distress aloud. Their Blaise - was dead. Like Rose, he had died suddenly, a year later, on a day of - festivity. Their heart wound, scarce closed as yet, opened afresh with a - tragic rending. Amid their long felicity this was the second time that - they were thus terribly recalled to human wretchedness; this was the - second hatchet stroke which fell on the flourishing, healthy, happy - family. And their fright increased. Had they not yet finished paying their - accumulated debt to misfortune? Was slow destruction now arriving with - blow following blow? Already since Rose had quitted them, her bier strewn - with flowers, they had feared to see their prosperity and fruitfulness - checked and interrupted now that there was an open breach. And to-day, - through that bloody breach, their Blaise departed in the most frightful of - fashions, crushed as it were by the jealous anger of destiny. And now what - other of their children would be torn away from them on the morrow to pay - in turn the ransom of their happiness? - </p> - <p> - Mathieu and Marianne long remained sobbing on their knees beside the bed. - Constance stood a few paces away, silent, with an air of quivering - desolation. Beauchene, as if to combat that fear of death which made him - shiver, had a moment previously seated himself at the little writing-table - formerly used by Maurice, which had been left in the drawing-room like a - souvenir. And he then strove to draw up a notice to his workpeople, to - inform them that the factory would remain closed until the day after the - funeral. He was vainly seeking words when he perceived Denis coming out of - the bedroom, where he had wept all his tears and set his whole heart in - the last kiss which he had bestowed on his departed brother. Beauchene - called him, as if desirous of diverting him from his gloomy thoughts. - “There, sit down here and continue this,” said he. - </p> - <p> - Constance, in her turn entering the drawing-room, heard those words. They - were virtually the same as the words which her husband had pronounced when - making Blaise seat himself at that same table of Maurice’s, on the day - when he had given him the place of that poor boy, whose body almost seemed - to be still lying on the bed in the adjoining room. And she recoiled with - fright on seeing Denis seated there and writing. Had not Blaise - resuscitated? Even as she had mistaken the twins one for the other that - very afternoon on rising from the gay baptismal lunch, so now again she - saw Blaise in Denis, the pair of them so similar physically that in former - times their parents had only been able to distinguish them by the - different color of their eyes. And thus it was as if Blaise returned and - resumed his place; Blaise, who would possess the works although she had - killed him. She had made a mistake; dead as he was, he would nevertheless - have the works. She had killed one of those Froments, but behold another - was born. When one died his brother filled up the breach. And her crime - then appeared to her such a useless one, such a stupid one, that she was - aghast at it, the hair on the nape of her neck standing up, while she - burst into a cold sweat of fear, and recoiled as from a spectre. - </p> - <p> - “It is a notice for the workpeople,” Beauchene repeated. “We will have it - posted at the entrance.” - </p> - <p> - She wished to be brave, and, approaching her husband, she said to him: - “Draw it up yourself. Why give Blaise the trouble at such a moment as - this?” - </p> - <p> - She had said “Blaise”; and once more an icy sensation of horror came over - her. Unconsciously she had heard herself saying yonder, in the ante-room: - “Blaise, where did I put my boa?” And it was Denis who had brought it to - her. Of what use had it been for her to kill Blaise, since Denis was - there? When death mows down a soldier of life, another is always ready to - take the vacant post of combat. - </p> - <p> - But a last defeat awaited her. Mathieu and Marianne reappeared, while - Morange, seized with a need of motion, came and went with an air of - stupefaction, quite losing his wits amid his dreadful sufferings, those - awful things which could but unhinge his narrow mind. - </p> - <p> - “I am going down,” stammered Marianne, trying to wipe away her tears and - to remain erect. “I wish to see Charlotte, and prepare and tell her of the - misfortune. I alone can find the words to say, so that she may not die of - the shock, circumstanced as she is.” - </p> - <p> - But Mathieu, full of anxiety, sought to detain his wife, and spare her - this fresh trial. “No, I beg you,” he said; “Denis will go, or I will go - myself.” - </p> - <p> - With gentle obstinacy, however, she still went towards the stairs. “I am - the only one who can tell her of it, I assure you—I shall have - strength—” - </p> - <p> - But all at once she staggered and fainted. It became necessary to lay her - on a sofa in the drawing-room. And when she recovered consciousness, her - face remained quite white and distorted, and an attack of nausea came upon - her. Then, as Constance, with an air of anxious solicitude, rang for her - maid and sent for her little medicine-chest, Mathieu confessed the truth, - which hitherto had been kept secret; Marianne, like Charlotte, was <i>enceinte</i>. - It confused her a little, he said, since she was now three-and-forty years - old; and so they had not mentioned it. “Ah! poor brave wife!” he added. - “She wished to spare our daughter-in-law too great a shock; I trust that - she herself will not be struck down by it.” - </p> - <p> - <i>Enceinte</i>, good heavens! As Constance heard this, it seemed as if a - bludgeon were falling on her to make her defeat complete. And so, even if - she should now let Denis, in his turn, kill himself, another Froment was - coming who would replace him. There was ever another and another of that - race—a swarming of strength, an endless fountain of life, against - which it became impossible to battle. Amid her stupefaction at finding the - breach repaired when scarce opened, Constance realized her powerlessness - and nothingness, childless as she was fated to remain. And she felt - vanquished, overcome with awe, swept away as it were herself; thrust aside - by the victorious flow of everlasting Fruitfulness. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XVIII - </h2> - <p> - FOURTEEN months later there was a festival at Chantebled. Denis, who had - taken Blaise’s place at the factory, was married to Marthe Desvignes. And - after all the grievous mourning this was the first smile, the bright warm - sun of springtime, so to say, following severe winter. Mathieu and - Marianne, hitherto grief-stricken and clad in black, displayed a gayety - tinged with soft emotion in presence of the sempiternal renewal of life. - The mother had been willing to don less gloomy a gown, and the father had - agreed to defer no longer a marriage that had long since been resolved - upon, and was necessitated by all sorts of considerations. For more than - two years now Rose had been sleeping in the little cemetery of Janville, - and for more than a year Blaise had joined her there, beneath flowers - which were ever fresh. And the souvenir of the dear dead ones, whom they - all visited, and who had remained alive in all their hearts, was to - participate in the coming festival. It was as if they themselves had - decided with their parents that the hour for the espousals had struck, and - that regret for their loss ought no longer to bar the joy of growth and - increase. - </p> - <p> - Denis’s installation at the Beauchene works in his brother’s place had - come about quite naturally. If he had not gone thither on leaving the - science school where he had spent three years, it was simply because the - position was at that time already held by Blaise. All his technical - studies marked him out for the post. In a single day he had fitted himself - for it, and he simply had to take up his quarters in the little pavilion, - Charlotte having fled to Chantebled with her little Berthe directly after - the horrible catastrophe. It should be added that Denis’ entry into the - establishment offered a convenient solution with regard to the large sum - of money lent to Beauchene, which, it had been arranged, should be - reimbursed by a sixth share in the factory. That money came from the - family, and one brother simply took the place of the other, signing the - agreement which the deceased would have signed. With a delicate rectitude, - however, Denis insisted that out of his share of the profits an annuity - should be assigned to Charlotte, his brother’s widow. - </p> - <p> - Thus matters were settled in a week, in the manner that circumstances - logically demanded, and without possibility of discussion. Constance, - bewildered and overwhelmed, was not even able to struggle. Her husband - reduced her to silence by repeating: “What would you have me do? I must - have somebody to help me, and it is just as well to take Denis as a - stranger. Besides, if he worries me I will buy him out within a year and - give him his dismissal!” - </p> - <p> - At this Constance remained silent to avoid casting his ignominy in his - face, amid her despair at feeling the walls of the house crumble and fall, - bit by bit, upon her. - </p> - <p> - Once installed at the works, Denis considered that the time had come to - carry out the matrimonial plans which he had long since arranged with - Marthe Desvignes. The latter, Charlotte’s younger sister and at one time - the inseparable friend of Rose, had been waiting for him for nearly three - years now, with her bright smile and air of affectionate good sense. They - had known one another since childhood, and had exchanged many a vow along - the lonely paths of Janville. But they had said to one another that they - would do nothing prematurely, that for the happiness of a whole lifetime - one might well wait until one was old enough and strong enough to - undertake family duties. Some people were greatly astonished that a young - man whose future was so promising, and whose position at twenty-six years - of age was already a superb one, should thus obstinately espouse a - penniless girl. Mathieu and Marianne smiled, however, and consented, - knowing their son’s good reasons. He had no desire to marry a rich girl - who would cost him more than she brought, and he was delighted at having - discovered a pretty, healthy, and very sensible and skilful young woman, - who would be at all times his companion, helpmate, and consoler. He feared - no surprises with her, for he had studied her; she united charm and good - sense with kindliness, all that was requisite for the happiness of a - household. And he himself was very good-natured, prudent, and sensible, - and she knew it and willingly took his arm to tread life’s path with him, - certain as she felt that they would thus walk on together until life’s end - should be reached, ever advancing with the same tranquil step under the - divine and limpid sun of reason merged in love. - </p> - <p> - Great preparations were made at Chantebled on the day before the wedding. - Nevertheless, the ceremony was to remain of an intimate character, on - account of the recent mourning. The only guests, apart from members of the - family, were the Seguins and the Beauchenes, and even the latter were - cousins. So there would scarcely be more than a score of them altogether, - and only a lunch was to be given. One matter which gave them some brief - concern was to decide where to set the table, and how to decorate it. - Those early days of July were so bright and warm that they resolved to - place it out of doors under the trees. There was a fitting and delightful - spot in front of the old shooting-box, the primitive pavilion, which had - been their first residence on their arrival in the Janville district. That - pavilion was indeed like the family nest, the hearth whence it had - radiated over the surrounding region. As the pavilion had threatened ruin, - Mathieu had repaired and enlarged it with the idea of retiring thither - with Marianne, and Charlotte and her children, as soon as he should cede - the farm to his son Gervais, that being his intention. He was, indeed, - pleased with the idea of living in retirement like a patriarch, like a - king who had willingly abdicated, but whose wise counsel was still sought - and accepted. In place of the former wild garden a large lawn now - stretched before the pavilion, surrounded by some beautiful trees, elms - and hornbeams. These Mathieu had planted, and he had watched them grow; - thus they seemed to him to be almost part of his flesh. But his real - favorite was an oak tree, nearly twenty years of age and already sturdy, - which stood in the centre of the lawn, where he had planted it with - Marianne, who had held the slender sapling in position while he plied his - spade on the day when they had founded their domain of Chantebled. And - near this oak, which thus belonged to their robust family, there was a - basin of living water, fed by the captured springs of the plateau—water - whose crystalline song made the spot one of continual joy. - </p> - <p> - It was here then that a council was held on the day before the wedding. - Mathieu and Marianne repaired thither to see what preparations would be - necessary, and they found Charlotte with a sketch-book on her knees, - rapidly finishing an impression of the oak tree. - </p> - <p> - “What is that—a surprise?” they asked. - </p> - <p> - She smiled with some confusion. “Yes, yes, a surprise; you will see.” - </p> - <p> - Then she confessed that for a fortnight past she had been designing in - water colors a series of menu cards for the wedding feast. And, prettily - and lovingly enough, her idea had been to depict children’s games and - children’s heads; indeed, all the members of the family in their childish - days. She had taken their likenesses from old photographs, and her sketch - of the oak tree was to serve as a background for the portraits of the two - youngest scions of the house—little Benjamin and little Guillaume. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu and Marianne were delighted with that fleet procession of little - faces all white and pink which they perfectly recognized as they saw them - pass before their eyes. There were the twins nestling in their cradle, - locked in one another’s arms; there was Rose, the dear lost one, in her - little shift; there were Ambroise and Gervais, bare, and wrestling on a - patch of grass; there were Gregoire and Nicolas birdnesting; there were - Claire and the three other girls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, - romping about the farm, quarrelling with the fowls, springing upon the - horses’ backs. But what particularly touched Marianne was the sketch of - her last-born, little Benjamin, now nine months old, whom Charlotte had - depicted reclining under the oak tree in the same little carriage as her - own son Guillaume, who was virtually of the same age, having been born but - eight days later. - </p> - <p> - “The uncle and the nephew,” said Mathieu jestingly. “All the same, the - uncle is the elder by a week.” - </p> - <p> - As Marianne stood there smiling, soft tears came into her eyes, and the - sketch shook in her happy hands. - </p> - <p> - “The dears!” said she; “my son and grandson. With those dear little ones I - am once again a mother and a grandmother. Ah, yes! those two are the - supreme consolation; they have helped to heal the wound; it is they who - have brought us back hope and courage.” - </p> - <p> - This was true. How overwhelming had been the mourning and sadness of the - early days when Charlotte, fleeing the factory, had sought refuge at the - farm! The tragedy by which Blaise had been carried off had nearly killed - her. Her first solace was to see that her daughter Berthe, who had been - rather sickly in Paris, regained bright rosy cheeks amid the open air of - Chantebled. Moreover, she had settled her life: she would spend her - remaining years, in that hospitable house, devoting herself to her two - children, and happy in having so affectionate a grandmother and - grandfather to help and sustain her. She had always shown herself to be - somewhat apart from life, possessed of a dreamy nature, only asking to - love and to be loved in return. - </p> - <p> - So by degrees she settled down once more, installed beside her - grandparents in the old pavilion, which Mathieu fitted up for the three of - them. And wishing to occupy herself, irrespective of her income from the - factory, she even set to work again and painted miniatures, which a dealer - in Paris readily purchased. But her grief was mostly healed by her little - Guillaume, that child bequeathed to her by her dead husband, in whom he - resuscitated. And it was much the same with Marianne since the birth of - Benjamin. A new son had replaced the one she had lost, and helped to fill - the void in her heart. The two women, the two mothers, found infinite - solace in nursing those babes. For them they forgot themselves; they - reared them together, watching them grow side by side; they gave them the - breast at the same hours, and it was their desire to see them both become - very strong, very handsome, and very good. Although one mother was almost - twice as old as the other, they became, as it were, sisters. The same - nourishing milk flowed from both their fruitful bosoms. And gleams of - light penetrated their mourning: they began to laugh when they saw those - little cherubs laugh, and nothing could have been gayer than the sight of - that mother-in-law and that daughter-in-law side by side, almost mingling, - having but one cradle between them, amid an unceasing florescence of - maternity. - </p> - <p> - “Be careful,” Mathieu suddenly said to Charlotte; “hide your drawings, - here are Gervais and Claire coming about the table.” - </p> - <p> - Gervais at nineteen years of age was quite a colossus, the tallest and the - strongest of the family, with short, curly black hair, large bright eyes, - and a full broad-featured face. He had remained his father’s favorite son, - the son of the fertile earth, the one in whom Mathieu fostered a love for - the estate, a passion for skilful agriculture, in order that later on the - young man might continue the good work which had been begun. Mathieu - already disburdened himself on Gervais of a part of his duties, and was - only waiting to see him married to give him the control of the whole farm. - And he often thought of adjoining to him Claire when she found a husband - in some worthy, sturdy fellow who would assume part of the labor. Two men - agreeing well would be none too many for an enterprise which was - increasing in importance every day. Since Marianne had again been nursing, - Claire had been attending to her work. Though she had no beauty, she was - of vigorous health and quite strong for her seventeen years. She busied - herself more particularly with cookery and household affairs, but she also - kept the accounts, being shrewd-witted and very economically inclined, on - which account the prodigals of the family often made fun of her. - </p> - <p> - “And so it’s here that the table is to be set,” said Gervais; “I shall - have to see that the lawn is mowed then.” - </p> - <p> - On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be at table - and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having called to Frederic - to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing the arrangements. - After Rose’s death, Frederic, her betrothed, had continued working beside - Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comrade and helper. For - some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed that he was revolving - around Claire, as though, since he had lost the elder girl, he were - willing to content himself with the younger one, who was far less - beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. This had at - first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget their dear daughter? - Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought came to them that the - family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the young fellow’s heart would - not roam in search of love elsewhere, but would remain with them. So - closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, for in Frederic, when - Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervais would find the - brother-in-law and partner that he needed. - </p> - <p> - The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasion - burst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, and - loose hair waved in the sunshine. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” cried Louise, “there are no roses.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” repeated Madeleine, “not a single white rose.” - </p> - <p> - “And,” added Marguerite, “we have inspected all the bushes. There are no - white roses, only red ones.” - </p> - <p> - Thirteen, eleven, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise, plump - and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim and pretty, spent - hours at her piano, her eyes full of dreaminess; Marguerite, whose nose - was rather too large and whose lips were thick, had beautiful golden hair. - She would pick up little birds at winter time and warm them with her - hands. And the three of, them, after scouring the back garden, where - flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up in despair at their - vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was the end of everything! - What could they offer to the bride? And what could they set upon the - table? - </p> - <p> - Behind the three girls, however, appeared Gregoire, with jeering mien, and - his hands in his pockets. At fifteen he was very malicious, the most - turbulent, worrying member of the family, a lad inclined to the most - diabolical devices. His pointed nose and his thin lips denoted also his - adventurous spirit, his will power, and his skill in effecting his object. - And, apparently much amused by his sisters’ disappointment, he forgot - himself and exclaimed, by way of teasing them: “Why, I know where there - are some white roses, and fine ones, too.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is that?” asked Mathieu. - </p> - <p> - “Why, at the mill, near the wheel, in the little enclosure. There are - three big bushes which are quite white, with roses as big as cabbages.” - </p> - <p> - Then he flushed and became confused, for his father was eyeing him - severely. - </p> - <p> - “What! do you still prowl round the mill?” said Mathieu. “I had forbidden - you to do so. As you know that there are white roses in the enclosure you - must have gone in, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “No; I looked over the wall.” - </p> - <p> - “You climbed up the wall, that’s the finishing touch! So you want to land - me in trouble with those Lepailleurs, who are decidedly very foolish and - very malicious people. There is really a devil in you, my boy.” - </p> - <p> - That which Gregoire left unsaid was that he repaired to the enclosure in - order that he might there join Therese, the miller’s fair-haired daughter - with the droll, laughing face, who was also a terribly adventurous damsel - for her thirteen years. True, their meetings were but childish play, but - at the end of the enclosure, under the apple trees, there was a delightful - nook where one could laugh and chat and amuse oneself at one’s ease. - </p> - <p> - “Well, just listen to me,” Mathieu resumed. “I won’t have you going to - play with Therese again. She is a pretty little girl, no doubt. But that - house is not a place for you to go to. It seems that they fight one - another there now.” - </p> - <p> - This was a fact. When that young scamp Antonin had recovered his health, - he had been tormented by a longing to return to Paris, and had done all he - could with that object, in view of resuming a life of idleness and - dissipation. Lepailleur, greatly irritated at having been duped by his - son, had at first violently opposed his plans. But what could he do in the - country with that idle fellow, whom he himself had taught to hate the - earth and to sneer at the old rotting mill. Besides, he now had his wife - against him. She was ever admiring her son’s learning, and so stubborn was - her faith in him that she was convinced that he would this time secure a - good position in the capital. Thus the father had been obliged to give - way, and Antonin was now finally wrecking his life while filling some - petty employment at a merchant’s in the Rue du Mail. But, on the other - hand, the quarrelling increased in the home, particularly whenever - Lepailleur suspected his wife of robbing him in order to send money to - that big lazybones, their son. From the bridge over the Yeuse on certain - days one could hear oaths and blows flying about. And here again was - family life destroyed, strength wasted, and happiness spoilt. - </p> - <p> - Carried off by perfect anger, Mathieu continued: “To think of it; people - who had everything needful to be happy! How can one be so stupid? How can - one seek wretchedness for oneself with such obstinacy? As for that idea of - theirs of an only son, and their vanity in wanting to make a gentleman of - him, ah! well, they have succeeded finely! They must be extremely pleased - to-day! It is just like Lepailleur’s hatred of the earth, his - old-fashioned system of cultivation, his obstinacy in leaving his bit of - moorland barren and refusing to sell it to me, no doubt by way of - protesting against our success! Can you imagine anything so stupid? And - it’s just like his mill; all folly and idleness he stands still, looking - at it fall into ruins. He at least had a reason for that in former times; - he used to say that as the region had almost renounced corn-growing, the - peasants did not bring him enough grain to set his mill-stones working. - But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows on all sides, surely he - ought to have pulled down his old wheel and have replaced it by a good - engine. Ah! if I were in his place I would already have a new and bigger - mill there, making all use of the water of the Yeuse, and connecting it - with Janville railway station by a line of rails, which would not cost so - much to lay down.” - </p> - <p> - Gregoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall on - another than himself. And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters were - still greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying: - “Well, for the table to-morrow morning you must gather those which are the - lightest in color—the pale pink ones; they will do very well.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by adding gayly: - “Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find. They will symbolize the - blood of life!” - </p> - <p> - Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all the - preparations, when other little feet came tripping through the grass. - Nicolas, quite proud of his seven years, was leading his niece Berthe, a - big girl of six. They agreed very well together. That day they had - remained indoors playing at “fathers and mothers” near the cradle occupied - by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies. But all at once - the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment. And Nicolas and Berthe, - quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch the two mothers. - </p> - <p> - “Mamma!” called Nicolas, “Benjamin’s asking for you. He’s thirsty.” - </p> - <p> - “Mamma, mamma!” repeated Berthe, “Guillaume’s thirsty. Come quick, he’s in - a hurry.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne and Charlotte laughed. True enough, the morrow’s wedding had made - them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house. - </p> - <p> - On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated in affectionate - intimacy. There were but one-and-twenty at table under the oak tree in the - middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, seemed like a - hall of verdure. The whole family was present: first those of the farm, - then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wife Andree, who had - brought their little Leonce with them. And apart from the family proper, - there were only the few invited relatives, Beauchene and Constance, Seguin - and Valentine, with, of course, Madame Desvignes, the bride’s mother. - There were twenty-one at table, as has been said; but besides those - one-and-twenty there were three very little ones present: Leonce, who at - fifteen months had just been weaned, and Benjamin and Guillaume, who still - took the breast. Their little carriages had been drawn up near, so that - they also belonged to the party, which was thus a round two dozen. And the - table, flowery with roses, sent forth a delightful perfume under the rain - of summer sunbeams which flecked it with gold athwart the cool shady - foliage. From one horizon to the other stretched the wondrous tent of - azure of the triumphant July sky. And Marthe’s white bridal gown, and the - bright dresses of the girls, big and little; all those gay frocks, and all - that fine youthful health, seemed like the very florescence of that green - nook of happiness. They lunched joyously, and ended by clinking glasses in - country fashion, while wishing all sorts of prosperity to the bridal pair - and to everybody present. - </p> - <p> - Then, while the servants were removing the cloth, Seguin, who affected an - interest in horse-breeding and cattle-raising, wished Mathieu to show him - his stables. He had talked nothing but horseflesh during the meal, and was - particularly desirous of seeing some big farm-horses, whose great strength - had been praised by his host. He persuaded Beauchene to join him in the - inspection, and the three men were starting, when Constance and Valentine, - somewhat inquisitive with respect to that farm, the great growth of which - still filled them with stupefaction, decided to follow, leaving the rest - of the family installed under the trees, amid the smiling peacefulness of - that fine afternoon. - </p> - <p> - The cow-houses and stables were on the right hand. But in order to reach - them one had to cross the great yard, whence the entire estate could be - seen. And here there was a halt, a sudden stopping inspired by admiration, - so grandly did the work accomplished show forth under the sun. They had - known that land dry and sterile, covered with mere scrub; they beheld it - now one sea of waving corn, of crops whose growth increased at each - successive season. Up yonder, on the old marshy plateau, the fertility was - such, thanks to the humus amassed during long centuries, that Mathieu did - not even manure the ground as yet. Then, to right and to left, the former - sandy slopes spread out all greenery, fertilized by the springs which ever - brought them increase of fruitfulness. And the very woods afar off, - skilfully arranged, aired by broad clearings, seemed to possess more sap, - as if all the surrounding growth of life had instilled additional vigor - into them. With this vigor, this power, indeed, the whole domain was - instinct; it was creation, man’s labor fertilizing sterile soil, and - drawing from it a wealth of nourishment for expanding humanity, the - conqueror of the world. - </p> - <p> - There was a long spell of silence. At last Seguin, in his dry shrill - voice, with a tinge of bitterness born of his own ruin, remarked: “You - have done a good stroke of business. I should never have believed it - possible.” - </p> - <p> - Then they walked on again. But in the sheds, the cow-houses, the - sheep-cotes, and all round, the sensation of strength and power yet - increased. Creation was there continuing; the cattle, the sheep, the - fowls, the rabbits, all that dwelt and swarmed there were incessantly - increasing and multiplying. Each year the ark became too small, and fresh - pens and fresh buildings were required. Life increased life; on all sides - there were fresh broods, fresh flocks, fresh herds; all the conquering - wealth of inexhaustible fruitfulness. - </p> - <p> - When they reached the stables Seguin greatly admired the big draught - horses, and praised them with the expressions of a connoisseur. Then he - returned to the subject of breeding, and cited some extraordinary results - that one of his friends obtained by certain crosses. So far as the animal - kingdom was concerned his ideas were sound enough, but when he came to the - consideration of human kind he was as erratic as ever. As they walked back - from the stables he began to descant on the population question, - denouncing the century, and repeating all his old theories. Perhaps it was - jealous rancor that impelled him to protest against the victory of life - which the whole farm around him proclaimed so loudly. Depopulation! why, - it did not extend fast enough. Paris, which wished to die, so people said, - was really taking its time about it. All the same, he noticed some good - symptoms, for bankruptcy was increasing on all sides—in science, - politics, literature, and even art. Liberty was already dead. Democracy, - by exasperating ambitious instincts and setting classes in conflict for - power, was rapidly leading to a social collapse. Only the poor still had - large families; the elite, the people of wealth and intelligence, had - fewer and fewer children, so that, before final annihilation came, there - might still be a last period of acceptable civilization, in which there - would remain only a few men and women of supreme refinement, content with - perfumes for sustenance and mere breath for enjoyment. He, however, was - disgusted, for he now felt certain that he would not see that period since - it was so slow in coming. - </p> - <p> - “If only Christianity would return to the primitive faith,” he continued, - “and condemn woman as an impure, diabolical, and harmful creature, we - might go and lead holy lives in the desert, and in that way bring the - world to an end much sooner. But the political Catholicism of nowadays, - anxious to keep alive itself, allows and regulates marriage, with the view - of maintaining things as they are. Oh! you will say, of course, that I - myself married and that I have children, which is true; but I am pleased - to think that they will redeem my fault. Gaston says that a soldier’s only - wife ought to be his sword, and so he intends to remain single; and as - Lucie, on her side, has taken the veil at the Ursulines, I feel quite at - ease. My race is, so to say, already extinct, and that delights me.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu listened with a smile. He was acquainted with that more or less - literary form of pessimism. In former days all such views, as, for - instance, the struggle of civilization against the birth-rate, and the - relative childlessness of the most intelligent and able members of the - community, had disturbed him. But since he had fought the cause of love he - had found another faith. Thus he contented himself with saying rather - maliciously: “But you forget your daughter Andree and her little boy - Leonce.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! Andree!” replied Seguin, waving his hand as if she did not belong to - him. - </p> - <p> - Valentine, however, had stopped short, gazing at him fixedly. Since their - household had been wrecked and they had been leading lives apart, she no - longer tolerated his sudden attacks of insane brutality and jealousy. By - reason also of the squandering of their fortune she had a hold on him, for - he feared that she might ask for certain accounts to be rendered her. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he granted, “there is Andree; but then girls don’t count.” - </p> - <p> - They were walking on again when Beauchene, who had hitherto contented - himself with puffing and chewing his cigar, for reserve was imposed upon - him by the frightful drama of his own family life, was unable to remain - silent any longer. Forgetful, relapsing into the extraordinary - unconsciousness which always set him erect, like a victorious superior - man, he spoke out loudly and boldly: - </p> - <p> - “I don’t belong to Seguin’s school, but, all the same, he says some true - things. That population question greatly interests me even now, and I can - flatter myself that I know it fully. Well, it is evident that Malthus was - right. It is not allowable for people to have families without knowing how - they will be able to nourish them. If the poor die of starvation it is - their fault, and not ours.” - </p> - <p> - Then he reverted to his usual lecture on the subject. The governing - classes alone were reasonable in keeping to small families. A country - could only produce a certain supply of food, and was therefore restricted - to a certain population. People talked of the faulty division of wealth; - but it was madness to dream of an Utopia, where there would be no more - masters but only so many brothers, equal workers and sharers, who would - apportion happiness among themselves like a birthday-cake. All the evil - then came from the lack of foresight among the poor, though with brutal - frankness he admitted that employers readily availed themselves of the - circumstance that there was a surplus of children to hire labor at reduced - rates. - </p> - <p> - Then, losing all recollection of the past, infatuated, intoxicated with - his own ideas, he went on talking of himself. “People pretend that we are - not patriots because we don’t leave troops of children behind us. But that - is simply ridiculous; each serves the country in his own way. If the poor - folks give it soldiers, we give it our capital—all the proceeds of - our commerce and industry. A fine lot of good would it do the country if - we were to ruin ourselves with big families, which would hamper us, - prevent us from getting rich, and afterwards destroy whatever we create by - subdividing it. With our laws and customs there can be no substantial - fortune unless a family is limited to one son. And yes, that is necessary; - but one son—an only son—that is the only wise course; therein - lies the only possible happiness.” - </p> - <p> - It became so painful to hear him, in his position, speaking in that - fashion, that the others remained silent, full of embarrassment. And he, - thinking that he was convincing them, went on triumphantly: “Thus, I - myself—” - </p> - <p> - But at this moment Constance interrupted him. She had hitherto walked on - with bowed head amid that flow of chatter which brought her so much - torture and shame, an aggravation, as it were, of her defeat. But now she - raised her face, down which two big tears were trickling. - </p> - <p> - “Alexandre!” she said. - </p> - <p> - “What is it, my dear?” - </p> - <p> - He did not yet understand. But on seeing her tears, he ended by feeling - disturbed, in spite of all his fine assurance. He looked at the others, - and wishing to have the last word, he added: “Ah, yes! our poor child. But - particular cases have nothing to do with general theories; ideas are still - ideas.” - </p> - <p> - Silence fell between them. They were now near the lawn where the family - had remained. And for the last moment Mathieu had been thinking of - Morange, whom he had also invited to the wedding, but who had excused - himself from attending, as if he were terrified at the idea of gazing on - the joy of others, and dreaded, too, lest some sacrilegious attempt should - be made in his absence on the mysterious sanctuary where he worshipped. - Would he, Morange—so Mathieu wondered—have clung like - Beauchene to his former ideas? Would he still have defended the theory of - the only child; that hateful, calculating theory which had cost him both - his wife and his daughter? Mathieu could picture him flitting past, pale - and distracted, with the step of a maniac hastening to some mysterious - end, in which insanity would doubtless have its place. But the lugubrious - vision vanished, and then again before Mathieu’s eyes the lawn spread out - under the joyous sun, offering between its belt of foliage such a picture - of happy health and triumphant beauty, that he felt impelled to break the - mournful silence and exclaim: - </p> - <p> - “Look there! look there! Isn’t that gay; isn’t that a delightful scene—all - those dear women and dear children in that setting of verdure? It ought to - be painted to show people how healthy and beautiful life is!” - </p> - <p> - Time had not been lost on the lawn since the Beauchenes and Seguins had - gone off to visit the stables. First of all there had been a distribution - of the menu cards, which Charlotte had adorned with such delicate - water-color sketches. This surprise of hers had enraptured them all at - lunch, and they still laughed at the sight of those pretty children’s - heads. Then, while the servants cleared the table, Gregoire achieved a - great success by offering the bride a bouquet of splendid white roses, - which he drew out of a bush where he had hitherto kept it hidden. He had - doubtless been waiting for some absence of his father’s. They were the - roses of the mill; with Therese’s assistance he must have pillaged the - bushes in the enclosure. Marianne, recognizing how serious was the - transgression, wished to scold him. But what superb white roses they were, - as big as cabbages, as he himself had said! And he was entitled to triumph - over them, for they were the only white roses there, and had been secured - by himself, like the wandering urchin he was with a spice of - knight-errantry in his composition, quite ready to jump over walls and - cajole damsels in order to deck a bride with snowy blooms. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! papa won’t say anything,” he declared, with no little self-assurance; - “they are far too beautiful.” - </p> - <p> - This made the others laugh; but fresh emotion ensued, for Benjamin and - Guillaume awoke and screamed their hunger aloud. It was gayly remarked, - however, that they were quite entitled to their turn of feasting. And as - it was simply a family gathering there was no embarrassment on the part of - the mothers. Marianne took Benjamin on her knees in the shade of the oak - tree, and Charlotte placed herself with Guillaume on her right hand; - while, on her left, Andree seated herself with little Leonce, who had been - weaned a week previously, but was still very fond of caresses. - </p> - <p> - It was at this moment that the Beauchenes and the Seguins reappeared with - Mathieu, and stopped short, struck by the charm of the spectacle before - them. Between a framework of tall trees, under the patriarchal oak, on the - thick grass of the lawn the whole vigorous family was gathered in a group, - instinct with gayety, beauty, and strength. Gervais and Claire, ever - active, were, with Frederic, hurrying on the servants, who made no end of - serving the coffee on the table which had just been cleared. For this - table the three younger girls, half buried in a heap of flowers, tea and - blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help of knight Gregoire, - devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, the bridal pair, Denis - and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while the bride’s mother, - Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreet and infinitely - gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midst of all this that - Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, ever beautiful, with serene - strength, was giving the breast to her twelfth child, her Benjamin, and - smiling at him as he sucked away; while surrendering her other knee to - little Nicolas, who was jealous of his younger brother. And her two - daughters-in-law seemed like a continuation of herself. There was Andree - on the left with Ambroise, who had stepped up to tease his little Leonce; - and Charlotte on the right with her two children, Guillaume, who hung on - her breast, and Berthe, who had sought a place among her skirts. And here, - faith in life had yielded prosperity, ever-increasing, overflowing wealth, - all the sovereign florescence of happy fruitfulness. - </p> - <p> - Seguin, addressing himself to Marianne, asked her jestingly: “And so that - little gentleman is the fourteenth you have nursed?” - </p> - <p> - She likewise laughed. “No; I mustn’t tell fibs! I have nursed twelve, - including this one; that is the exact number.” - </p> - <p> - Beauchene, who had recovered his self-possession, could not refrain from - intervening once more: “A full dozen, eh! It is madness!” - </p> - <p> - “I share your opinion,” said Mathieu, laughing in his turn. “At all - events, if it is not madness it is extravagance, as we admit, my wife and - I, when we are alone. And we certainly don’t think that all people ought - to have such large families as ours. But, given the situation in France - nowadays, with our population dwindling and that of nearly every other - country increasing, it is hardly possible to complain of even the largest - family. Thus, even if our example be exaggerated, it remains an example, I - think, for others to think over.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne listened, still smiling, but with tears standing in her eyes. A - feeling of gentle sadness was penetrating her; her heart-wound had - reopened even amid all her joy at seeing her children assembled around - her. “Yes,” said she in a trembling voice, “there have been twelve, but I - have only ten left. Two are already sleeping yonder, waiting for us - underground.” - </p> - <p> - There was no sign of dread, however, in that evocation of the peaceful - little cemetery of Janville and the family grave in which all the children - hoped some day to be laid, one after the other, side by side. Rather did - that evocation, coming amid that gay wedding assembly, seem like a promise - of future blessed peace. The memory of the dear departed ones remained - alive, and lent to one and all a kind of loving gravity even amid their - mirth. Was it not impossible to accept life without accepting death. Each - came here to perform his task, and then, his work ended, went to join his - elders in that slumber of eternity where the great fraternity of humankind - was fulfilled. - </p> - <p> - But in presence of those jesters, Beauchene and Seguin, quite a flood of - words rose to Mathieu’s lips. He would have liked to answer them; he would - have liked to triumph over the mendacious theories which they still dared - to assert even in their hour of defeat. To fear that the earth might - become over-populated, that excess of life might produce famine, was this - not idiotic? Others only had to do as he had done: create the necessary - subsistence each time that a child was born to them. And he would have - pointed to Chantebled, his work, and to all the corn growing up under the - sun, even as his children grew. They could not be charged with having come - to consume the share of others, since each was born with his bread before - him. And millions of new beings might follow, for the earth was vast: more - than two-thirds of it still remained to be placed under cultivation, and - therein lay endless fertility for unlimited humanity. Besides, had not - every civilization, every progress, been due to the impulse of numbers? - The improvidence of the poor had alone urged revolutionary multitudes to - the conquest of truth, justice, and happiness. And with each succeeding - day the human torrent would require more kindliness, more equity, the - logical division of wealth by just laws regulating universal labor. If it - were true, too, that civilization was a check to excessive natality, this - phenomenon itself might make one hope in final equilibrium in the far-off - ages, when the earth should be entirely populated and wise enough to live - in a sort of divine immobility. But all this was pure speculation beside - the needs of the hour, the nations which must be built up afresh and - incessantly enlarged, pending the eventual definitive federation of - mankind. And it was really an example, a brave and a necessary one, that - Marianne and he were giving, in order that manners and customs, and the - idea of morality and the idea of beauty might be changed. - </p> - <p> - Full of these thoughts Mathieu was already opening his mouth to speak. But - all at once he felt how futile discussion would be in presence of that - admirable scene; that mother surrounded by such a florescence of vigorous - children; that mother nursing yet another child, under the big oak which - she had planted. She was bravely accomplishing her task—that of - perpetuating the world. And hers was the sovereign beauty. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu could think of only one thing that would express everything, and - that was to kiss her with all his heart before the whole assembly. - </p> - <p> - “There, dear wife! You are the most beautiful and the best! May all the - others do as you have done.” - </p> - <p> - Then, when Marianne had gloriously returned his kiss, there arose an - acclamation, a tempest of merry laughter. They were both of heroic mould; - it was with a great dash of heroism that they had steered their bark - onward, thanks to their full faith in life, their will of action, and the - force of their love. And Constance was at last conscious of it: she could - realize the conquering power of fruitfulness; she could already see the - Froments masters of the factory through their son Denis; masters of - Seguin’s mansion through their son Ambroise; masters, too, of all the - countryside through their other children. Numbers spelt victory. And - shrinking, consumed with a love which she could never more satisfy, full - of the bitterness of her defeat, though she yet hoped for some abominable - revenge of destiny, she—who never wept!—turned aside to hide - the big hot tears which now burnt her withered cheeks. - </p> - <p> - Meantime Benjamin and Guillaume were enjoying themselves like greedy - little men whom nothing could disturb. Had there been less laughter one - might have heard the trickling of their mothers’ milk: that little stream - flowing forth amid the torrent of sap which upraised the earth and made - the big trees quiver in the powerful July blaze. On every side fruitful - life was conveying germs, creating and nourishing. And for its eternal - work an eternal river of milk flowed through the world. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIX - </h2> - <p> - ONE Sunday morning Norine and Cecile—who, though it was rightly a - day of rest, were, nevertheless, working on either side of their little - table, pressed as they were to deliver boxes for the approaching New Year - season—received a visit which left them pale with stupor and fright. - </p> - <p> - Their unknown hidden life had hitherto followed a peaceful course, the - only battle being to make both ends meet every week, and to put by the - rent money for payment every quarter. During the eight years that the - sisters had been living together in the Rue de la Federation near the - Champ de Mars, occupying the same big room with cheerful windows, a room - whose coquettish cleanliness made them feel quite proud, Norine’s child - had grown up steadily between his two affectionate mothers. For he had - ended by confounding them together: there was Mamma Norine and there was - Mamma Cecile; and he did not exactly know whether one of the two was more - his mother than the other. It was for him alone that they both lived and - toiled, the one still a fine, good-looking woman at forty years of age, - the other yet girlish at thirty. - </p> - <p> - Now, at about ten o’clock that Sunday, there came in succession two loud - knocks at the door. When the latter was opened a short, thick-set fellow, - about eighteen, stepped in. He was dark-haired, with a square face, a hard - prominent jaw, and eyes of a pale gray. And he wore a ragged old jacket - and a gray cloth cap, discolored by long usage. - </p> - <p> - “Excuse me,” said he; “but isn’t it here that live Mesdames Moineaud, who - make cardboard boxes?” - </p> - <p> - Norine stood there looking at him with sudden uneasiness. Her heart had - contracted as if she were menaced. She had certainly seen that face - somewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, which - suddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threatening to - spoil her quiet life. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is here,” she answered. - </p> - <p> - Without any haste the young man glanced around the room. He must have - expected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted slightly. Then - his eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, had - been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his face to examine - the newcomer. And the latter concluded his examination by directing a - brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, sickly creature - who likewise felt anxious in presence of that sudden apparition of the - unknown. - </p> - <p> - “I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor,” the young man - resumed. “But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, for the - things I have to say can’t be said to everybody. It isn’t an easy matter, - and, of course, I thought it well over before I came here.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke slowly in a drawling way, and after again making sure that the - other woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his pale eyes - steadily fixed on Norine. The growing anguish with which he saw her - quivering, the appeal that she was evidently making to her memory, induced - him to prolong things for another moment. Then he spoke out: “I am the - child who was put to nurse at Rougemont; my name is Alexandre-Honore.” - </p> - <p> - There was no need for him to say anything more. The unhappy Norine began - to tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung her hands, while an ashen - hue came over her distorted features. Good heavens—Beauchene! Yes, - it was Beauchene whom he resembled, and in so striking a manner, with his - eyes of prey, his big jaw which proclaimed an enjoyer consumed by base - voracity, that she was now astonished that she had not been able to name - him at her first glance. Her legs failed her, and she had to sit down. - </p> - <p> - “So it’s you,” said Alexandre. - </p> - <p> - As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, but unable - to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and fright clutch her at - the throat, he felt the need of reassuring her a little, particularly if - he was to keep that door open to him. - </p> - <p> - “You must not upset yourself like that,” said he; “you have nothing to - fear from me; it isn’t my intention to give you any trouble. Only when I - learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that was natural, - wasn’t it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased to see me.. .. - Then, too, the truth is that I’m precious badly off. Three years ago I was - silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do little more than starve. - And on the days when one hasn’t breakfasted, one feels inclined to look up - one’s parents, even though they may have turned one into the street, for, - all the same, they can hardly be so hard-hearted as to refuse one a - plateful of soup.” - </p> - <p> - Tears rose to Norine’s eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the return of - that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow who accused - her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable to elicit from her - any response but shivers and sobs, Alexandre turned to Cecile: “You are - her sister, I know,” said he; “tell her that it’s stupid of her to go on - like that. I haven’t come to murder her. It’s funny how pleased she is to - see me! Yet I don’t make any noise, and I said nothing whatever to the - door-porter downstairs, I assure you.” - </p> - <p> - Then as Cecile, without answering him, rose to go and comfort Norine, he - again became interested in the child, who likewise felt frightened and - turned pale on seeing the grief of his two mammas. - </p> - <p> - “So that lad is my brother?” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon Norine suddenly sprang to her feet and set herself between the - child and him. A mad fear had come to her of some catastrophe, some great - collapse which would crush them all. Yet she did not wish to be harsh, she - even sought kind words, but amid it all she lost her head, carried away by - feelings of revolt, rancor, instinctive hostility. - </p> - <p> - “You came, I can understand it. But it is so cruel. What can I do? After - so many years one doesn’t know one another, one has nothing to say. And, - besides, as you can see for yourself, I’m not rich.” - </p> - <p> - Alexandre glanced round the room for the second time. “Yes, I see,” he - answered; “and my father, can’t you tell me his name?” - </p> - <p> - She remained thunderstruck by this question and turned yet paler, while he - continued: “Because if my father should have any money I should know very - well how to make him give me some. People have no right to fling children - into the gutter like that.” - </p> - <p> - All at once Norine had seen the past rise up before her: Beauchene, the - works, and her father, who now had just quitted them owing to his - infirmities, leaving his son Victor behind him. - </p> - <p> - And a sort of instinctive prudence came to her at the thought that if she - were to give up Beauchene’s name she might compromise all her happy life, - since terrible complications might ensue. The dread she felt of that - suspicious-looking lad, who reeked of idleness and vice, inspired her with - an idea: “Your father? He has long been dead,” said she. - </p> - <p> - He could have known nothing, have learnt nothing on that point, for, in - presence of the energy of her answer, he expressed no doubt whatever of - her veracity, but contented himself with making a rough gesture which - indicated how angry he felt at seeing his hungry hopes thus destroyed. - </p> - <p> - “So I’ve got to starve!” he growled. - </p> - <p> - Norine, utterly distracted, was possessed by one painful desire—a - desire that he might take himself away, and cease torturing her by his - presence, to such a degree did remorse, and pity, and fright, and horror - now wring her bleeding heart. She opened a drawer and took from it a - ten-franc piece, her savings for the last three months, with which she had - intended to buy a New Year’s present for her little boy. And giving those - ten francs to Alexandre, she said: “Listen, I can do nothing for you. We - live all three in this one room, and we scarcely earn our bread. It - grieves me very much to know that you are so unfortunately circumstanced. - But you mustn’t rely on me. Do as we do—work.” - </p> - <p> - He pocketed the ten francs, and remained there for another moment swaying - about, and saying that he had not come for money, and that he could very - well understand things. For his part he always behaved properly with - people when people behaved properly with him. And he repeated that since - she showed herself good-natured he had no idea of creating any scandal. A - mother who did what she could performed her duty, even though she might - only give a ten-sous piece. Then, as he was at last going off, he - inquired: “Won’t you kiss me?” - </p> - <p> - She kissed him, but with cold lips and lifeless heart, and the two - smacking kisses which, with noisy affectation, he gave her in return, left - her cheeks quivering. - </p> - <p> - “And au revoir, eh?” said he. “Although one may be poor and unable to keep - together, each knows now that the other’s in the land of the living. And - there is no reason why I shouldn’t come up just now and again to wish you - good day when I’m passing.” - </p> - <p> - When he had at last disappeared long silence fell amid the infinite - distress which his short stay had brought there. Norine had again sunk - upon a chair, as if overwhelmed by this catastrophe. Cecile had been - obliged to sit down in front of her, for she also was overcome. And it was - she who, amid the mournfulness of that room, which but a little while ago - had held all their happiness, spoke out the first to complain and express - her astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “But you did not ask him anything; we know nothing about him,” said she. - “Where has he come from? What is he doing? What does he want? And, in - particular, how did he manage to discover you? These were the interesting - things to learn.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! what would you have!” replied Norine. “When he told me his name he - knocked all the strength out of me; I felt as cold as ice! Oh! it’s he, - there’s no doubt of it. You recognized his likeness to his father, didn’t - you? But you are right; we know nothing, and now we shall always be living - with that threat over our heads, in fear that everything will crumble down - upon us.” - </p> - <p> - All her strength, all her courage was gone, and she began to sob, - stammering indistinctly: “To think of it! a big fellow of eighteen falling - on one like that without a word of warning! And it’s quite true that I - don’t love him, since I don’t even know him. When he kissed me I felt - nothing. I was icy cold, as if my heart were frozen. O God! O God! what - trouble to be sure, and how horrid and cruel it all is!” - </p> - <p> - Then, as her little boy, on seeing her weep, ran up and flung himself; - frightened and tearful, against her bosom, she wildly caught him in her - arms. “My poor little one! my poor little one! if only you don’t suffer by - it; if only my sin doesn’t fall on you! Ah! that would be a terrible - punishment. Really the best course is for folks to behave properly in life - if they don’t want to have a lot of trouble afterwards!” - </p> - <p> - In the evening the sisters, having grown somewhat calmer, decided that - their best course would be to write to Mathieu. Norine remembered that he - had called on her a few years previously to ask if Alexandre had not been - to see her. He alone knew all the particulars of the business, and where - to obtain information. And, indeed, as soon as the sisters’ letter reached - him Mathieu made haste to call on them in the Rue de la Federation, for he - was anxious with respect to the effect which any scandal might have at the - works, where Beauchene’s position was becoming worse every day. After - questioning Norine at length, he guessed that Alexandre must have learnt - her address through La Couteau, though he could not say precisely how this - had come about. At last, after a long month of discreet researches, - conversations with Madame Menoux, Celeste, and La Couteau herself, he was - able in some measure to explain things. The alert had certainly come from - the inquiry intrusted to the nurse-agent at Rougemont, that visit which - she had made to the hamlet of Saint-Pierre in quest of information - respecting the lad who was supposed to be in apprenticeship with Montoir - the wheelwright. She had talked too much, said too much, particularly to - the other apprentice, that Richard, another foundling, and one of such bad - instincts, too, that seven months later he had taken flight, like - Alexandre, after purloining some money from his master. Then years - elapsed, and all trace of them was lost. But later on, most assuredly they - had met one another on the Paris pavement, in such wise that the big - carroty lad had told the little dark fellow the whole story how his - relatives had caused a search to be made for him, and perhaps, too, who - his mother was, the whole interspersed with tittle-tattle and ridiculous - inventions. Still this did not explain everything, and to understand how - Alexandre had procured his mother’s actual address, Mathieu had to presume - that he had secured it from La Couteau, whom Celeste had acquainted with - so many things. Indeed, he learnt at Broquette’s nurse-agency that a - short, thickset young man with pronounced jaw-bones had come there twice - to speak to La Couteau. Nevertheless, many points remained unexplained; - the whole affair had taken place amid the tragic, murky gloom of Parisian - low life, whose mire it is not healthy to stir. Mathieu ended by resting - content with a general notion of the business, for he himself felt - frightened at the charges already hanging over those two young bandits, - who lived so precariously, dragging their idleness and their vices over - the pavement of the great city. And thus all his researches had resulted - in but one consoling certainty, which was that even if Norine the mother - was known, the father’s name and position were certainly not suspected by - anybody. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu saw Norine again on the subject he terrified her by the few - particulars which he was obliged to give her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I beg you, I beg you, do not let him come again,” she pleaded. “Find - some means; prevent him from coming here. It upsets me too dreadfully to - see him.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, of course, could do nothing in this respect. After mature - reflection he realized that the great object of his efforts must be to - prevent Alexandre from discovering Beauchene. What he had learnt of the - young man was so bad, so dreadful, that he wished to spare Constance the - pain and scandal of being blackmailed. He could see her blanching at the - thought of the ignominy of that lad whom she had so passionately desired - to find, and he felt ashamed for her sake, and deemed it more - compassionate and even necessary to bury the secret in the silence of the - grave. Still, it was only after a long fight with himself that he came to - this decision, for he felt that it was hard to have to abandon the unhappy - youth in the streets. Was it still possible to save him? He doubted it. - And besides, who would undertake the task, who would know how to instil - honest principles into that waif by teaching him to work? It all meant yet - another man cast overboard, forsaken amid the tempest, and Mathieu’s heart - bled at the thought of condemning him, though he could think of no - reasonable means of salvation. - </p> - <p> - “My opinion,” he said to Norine, “is that you should keep his father’s - name from him for the present. Later on we will see. But just now I should - fear worry for everybody.” - </p> - <p> - She eagerly acquiesced. “Oh! you need not be anxious,” she responded. “I - have already told him that his father is dead. If I were to speak out - everything would fall on my shoulders, and my great desire is to be left - in peace in my corner with my little one.” - </p> - <p> - With sorrowful mien Mathieu continued reflecting, unable to make up his - mind to utterly abandon the young man. “If he would only work, I would - find him some employment. And I would even take him on at the farm later, - when I should no longer have cause to fear that he might contaminate my - people. However, I will see what can be done; I know a wheelwright who - would doubtless employ him, and I will write to you in order that you may - tell him where to apply, when he comes back to see you.” - </p> - <p> - “What? When he comes back!” she cried in despair. “So you think that he - will come back. O God! O God! I shall never be happy again.” - </p> - <p> - He did, indeed, come back. But when she gave him the wheelwright’s address - he sneered and shrugged his shoulders. He knew all about the Paris - wheelwrights! A set of sweaters, a parcel of lazy rogues, who made poor - people toil and moil for them. Besides, he had never finished his - apprenticeship; he was only fit for running errands, in which capacity he - was willing to accept a post in a large shop. When Mathieu had procured - him such a situation, he did not remain in it a fortnight. One fine - evening he disappeared with the parcels of goods which he had been told to - deliver. In turn he tried to learn a baker’s calling, became a mason’s - hodman, secured work at the markets, but without ever fixing himself - anywhere. He simply discouraged his protector, and left all sorts of - roguery behind him for others to liquidate. It became necessary to - renounce the hope of saving him. When he turned up, as he did - periodically, emaciated, hungry, and in rags, they had to limit themselves - to providing him with the means to buy a jacket and some bread. - </p> - <p> - Thus Norine lived on in a state of mortal disquietude. For long weeks - Alexandre seemed to be dead, but she, nevertheless, started at the - slightest sound that she heard on the landing. She always felt him to be - there, and whenever he suddenly rapped on the door she recognized his - heavy knock and began to tremble as if he had come to beat her. He had - noticed how his presence reduced the unhappy woman to a state of abject - terror, and he profited by this to extract from her whatever little sums - she hid away. When she had handed him the five-franc piece which Mathieu, - as a rule, left with her for this purpose, the young rascal was not - content, but began searching for more. At times he made his appearance in - a wild, haggard state, declaring that he should certainly be sent to - prison that evening if he did not secure ten francs, and talking the while - of smashing everything in the room or else of carrying off the little - clock in order to sell it. And it was then necessary for Cecile to - intervene and turn him out of the place; for, however puny she might be, - she had a brave heart. But if he went off it was only to return a few days - later with fresh demands, threatening that he would shout his story to - everybody on the stairs if the ten francs were not given to him. One day, - when his mother had no money in the place and began to weep, he talked of - ripping up the mattress, where, said he, she probably kept her hoard. - Briefly, the sisters’ little home was becoming a perfect hell. - </p> - <p> - The greatest misfortune of all, however, was that in the Rue de la - Federation Alexandre made the acquaintance of Alfred, Norine’s youngest - brother, the last born of the Moineaud family. He was then twenty, and - thus two years the senior of his nephew. No worse prowler than he existed. - He was the genuine rough, with pale, beardless face, blinking eyes, and - twisted mouth, the real gutter-weed that sprouts up amid the Parisian - manure-heaps. At seven years of age he robbed his sisters, beating Cecile - every Saturday in order to tear her earnings from her. Mother Moineaud, - worn out with hard work and unable to exercise a constant watch over him, - had never managed to make him attend school regularly, or to keep him in - apprenticeship. He exasperated her to such a degree that she herself ended - by turning him into the streets in order to secure a little peace and - quietness at home. His big brothers kicked him about, his father was at - work from morning till evening, and the child, thus morally a waif, grew - up out of doors for a career of vice and crime among the swarms of lads - and girls of his age, who all rotted there together like apples fallen on - the ground. And as Alfred grew he became yet more corrupt; he was like the - sacrificed surplus of a poor man’s family, the surplus poured into the - gutter, the spoilt fruit which spoils all that comes into contact with it. - </p> - <p> - Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was not - even known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died at a - hospital exhausted by her long life of wretchedness and family cares which - had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at the time of her - death, but was as bent and as worn out as a centenarian. Moineaud, two - years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted by paralysis, a - lamentable wreck after fifty years of unjust toil, had been obliged to - quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its few poor sticks had - been cast to the four winds of heaven. - </p> - <p> - Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he was indebted - to Denis’s compassionate initiative. But he was sinking into second - childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and not only did he - squander his few coppers in drink, but he could not be left alone, for his - feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degree that he ran the - risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he tried to light his pipe. - At last he found himself stranded in the home of his daughters, Norine and - Cecile, the only two who had heart enough to take him in. They rented a - little closet for him, on the fifth floor of the house, over their own - room, and they nursed him and bought him food and clothes with his - pension-money, to which they added a good deal of their own. As they - remarked in their gay, courageous way, they now had two children, a little - one and a very old one, which was a heavy burden for two women who earned - but five francs a day, although they were ever making boxes from morn till - night, There was a touch of soft irony in the circumstance that old - Moineaud should have been unable to find any other refuge than the home of - his daughter Norine—that daughter whom he had formerly turned away - and cursed for her misconduct, that hussy who had dishonored him, but - whose very hands he now kissed when, for fear lest he should set the tip - of his nose ablaze, she helped him to light his pipe. - </p> - <p> - All the same, the shaky old nest of the Moineauds was destroyed, and the - whole family had flown off, dispersed chancewise. Irma alone, thanks to - her fine marriage with a clerk, lived happily, playing the part of a lady, - and so full of vanity that she no longer condescended to see her brothers - and sisters. Victor, meantime, was leading at the factory much the same - life as his father had led, working at the same mill as the other, and in - the same blind, stubborn way. He had married, and though he was under - six-and-thirty, he already had six children, three boys and three girls, - so that his wife seemed fated to much the same existence as his mother La - Moineaude. Both of them would finish broken down, and their children in - their turn would unconsciously perpetuate the swarming and accursed - starveling race. - </p> - <p> - At Euphrasie’s, destiny the inevitable showed itself more tragic still. - The wretched woman had not been lucky enough to die. She had gradually - become bedridden, quite unable to move, though she lived on and could hear - and see and understand things. From that open grave, her bed, she had - beheld the final break-up of what remained of her sorry home. She was - nothing more than a thing, insulted by her husband and tortured by Madame - Joseph, who would leave her for days together without water, and fling her - occasional crusts much as they might be flung to a sick animal whose - litter is not even changed. Terror-stricken, and full of humility amid her - downfall, Euphrasie resigned herself to everything; but the worst was that - her three children, her twin daughters and her son, being abandoned to - themselves, sank into vice, the all-corrupting life of the streets. - Benard, tired out, distracted by the wreck of his home, had taken to - drinking with Madame Joseph; and afterwards they would fight together, - break the furniture, and drive off the children, who came home muddy, in - rags, and with their pockets full of stolen things. On two occasions - Benard disappeared for a week at a time. On the third he did not come back - at all. When the rent fell due, Madame Joseph in her turn took herself - off. And then came the end. Euphrasie had to be removed to the hospital of - La Salpetriere, the last refuge of the aged and the infirm; while the - children, henceforth without a home in name, were driven into the gutter. - The boy never turned up again; it was as if he had been swallowed by some - sewer. One of the twin girls, found in the streets, died in a hospital - during the ensuing year; and the other, Toinette, a fair-haired scraggy - hussy, who, however puny she might look, was a terrible little creature - with the eyes and the teeth of a wolf, lived under the bridges, in the - depths of the stone quarries, in the dingy garrets of haunts of vice, so - that at sixteen she was already an expert thief. Her fate was similar to - Alfred’s; here was a girl morally abandoned, then contaminated by the life - of the streets, and carried off to a criminal career. And, indeed, the - uncle and the niece having met by chance, ended by consorting together, - their favorite refuge, it was thought, being the limekilns in the - direction of Les Moulineaux. - </p> - <p> - One day then it happened that Alexandre upon calling at Norine’s there - encountered Alfred, who came at times to try to extract a half-franc from - old Moineaud, his father. The two young bandits went off together, - chatted, and met again. And from that chance encounter there sprang a - band. Alexandre was living with Richard, and Alfred brought Toinette to - them. Thus they were four in number, and the customary developments - followed: begging at first, the girl putting out her hand at the - instigation of the three prowlers, who remained on the watch and drew alms - by force at nighttime from belated bourgeois encountered in dark corners; - next came vulgar vice and its wonted attendant, blackmail; and then theft, - petty larceny to begin with, the pilfering of things displayed for sale by - shopkeepers, and afterwards more serious affairs, premeditated - expeditions, mapped out like real war plans. - </p> - <p> - The band slept wherever it could; now in suspicious dingy doss-houses, now - on waste ground. In summer time there were endless saunters through the - woods of the environs, pending the arrival of night, which handed Paris - over to their predatory designs. They found themselves at the Central - Markets, among the crowds on the boulevards, in the low taverns, along the - deserted avenues—indeed, wherever they sniffed the possibility of a - stroke of luck, the chance of snatching the bread of idleness, or the - pleasures of vice. They were like a little clan of savages on the war-path - athwart civilization, living outside the pale of the laws. They suggested - young wild beasts beating the ancestral forest; they typified the human - animal relapsing into barbarism, forsaken since birth, and evincing the - ancient instincts of pillage and carnage. And like noxious weeds they grew - up sturdily, becoming bolder and bolder each day, exacting a bigger and - bigger ransom from the fools who toiled and moiled, ever extending their - thefts and marching along the road to murder. - </p> - <p> - Never should it be forgotten that the child, born chancewise, and then - cast upon the pavement, without supervision, without prop or help, rots - there and becomes a terrible ferment of social decomposition. All those - little ones thrown to the gutter, like superfluous kittens are flung into - some sewer, all those forsaken ones, those wanderers of the pavement who - beg, and thieve, and indulge in vice, form the dung-heap in which the - worst crimes germinate. Childhood left to wretchedness breeds a fearful - nucleus of infection in the tragic gloom of the depths of Paris. Those who - are thus imprudently cast into the streets yield a harvest of brigandage—that - frightful harvest of evil which makes all society totter. - </p> - <p> - When Norine, through the boasting of Alexandre and Alfred, who took - pleasure in astonishing her, began to suspect the exploits of the band, - she felt so frightened that she had a strong bolt placed upon her door. - And when night had fallen she no longer admitted any visitor until she - knew his name. Her torture had been lasting for nearly two years; she was - ever quivering with alarm at the thought of Alexandre rushing in upon her - some dark night. He was twenty now; he spoke authoritatively, and - threatened her with atrocious revenge whenever he had to retire with empty - hands. One day, in spite of Cecile, he threw himself upon the wardrobe and - carried off a bundle of linen, handkerchiefs, towels, napkins, and sheets, - intending to sell them. And the sisters did not dare to pursue him down - the stairs. Despairing, weeping, overwhelmed by it all, they had sunk down - upon their chairs. - </p> - <p> - That winter proved a very severe one; and the two poor workwomen, pillaged - in this fashion, would have perished in their sorry home of cold and - starvation, together with the dear child for whom they still did their - best, had it not been for the help which their old friend, Madame Angelin, - regularly brought them. She was still a lady-delegate of the Poor Relief - Service, and continued to watch over the children of unhappy mothers in - that terrible district of Grenelle, whose poverty is so great. But for a - long time past she had been unable to do anything officially for Norine. - If she still brought her a twenty-franc piece every month, it was because - charitable people intrusted her with fairly large amounts, knowing that - she could distribute them to advantage in the dreadful inferno which her - functions compelled her to frequent. She set her last joy and found the - great consolation of her desolate, childless life in thus remitting alms - to poor mothers whose little ones laughed at her joyously as soon as they - saw her arrive with her hands full of good things. - </p> - <p> - One day when the weather was frightful, all rain and wind, Madame Angelin - lingered for a little while in Norine’s room. It was barely two o’clock in - the afternoon, and she was just beginning her round. On her lap lay her - little bag, bulging out with the gold and the silver which she had to - distribute. Old Moineaud was there, installed on a chair and smoking his - pipe, in front of her. And she felt concerned about his needs, and - explained that she would have greatly liked to obtain a monthly relief - allowance for him. - </p> - <p> - “But if you only knew,” she added, “what suffering there is among the poor - during these winter months. We are quite swamped, we cannot give to - everybody, there are too many. And after all you are among the fortunate - ones. I find some lying like dogs on the tiled floors of their rooms, - without a scrap of coal to make a fire or even a potato to eat. And the - poor children, too, good Heavens! Children in heaps among vermin, without - shoes, without clothes, all growing up as if destined for prison or the - scaffold, unless consumption should carry them off.” - </p> - <p> - Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escape the spectacle - of all the terrifying things that she evoked, the wretchedness, the shame, - the crimes that she elbowed during her continual perambulations through - that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger. She often returned home pale and - silent, having reached the uttermost depths of human abomination, and - never daring to say all. At times she trembled and raised her eyes to - Heaven, wondering what vengeful cataclysm would swallow up that accursed - city of Paris. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” she murmured once more; “their sufferings are so great, may their - sins be forgiven them.” - </p> - <p> - Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable to - understand. At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipe from - his mouth. It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do such a thing, - and yet for fifty years he had wrestled with iron—iron in the vice - or on the anvil. - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing like good conduct,” he stammered huskily. “When a man - works he’s rewarded.” - </p> - <p> - Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but was unable - to do so. His hand, deformed by the constant use of tools, trembled too - violently. So it became necessary for Norine to rise from her chair and - help him. - </p> - <p> - “Poor father!” exclaimed Cecile, who had not ceased working, cutting out - the cardboard for the little boxes she made: “What would have become of - him if we had not given him shelter? It isn’t Irma, with her stylish hats - and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at her place.” - </p> - <p> - Meantime Norine’s little boy had taken his stand in front of Madame - Angelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good lady - called, there was some dessert at supper in the evening. He smiled at her - with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned with - tumbled sunshiny hair. And when she noticed with what a merry glance he - was waiting for her to open her little bag, she felt quite moved. - </p> - <p> - “Come and kiss me, my little friend,” said she. - </p> - <p> - She knew no sweeter reward for all that she did than the kisses of the - children in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy. When the - youngster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filled with - tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated: “No, no, you - must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy than you. I know - one who if this pretty little fellow could only be her own would willingly - accept your poverty, and paste boxes together from morning till night and - lead a recluse’s life in this one room, which he suffices to fill with - sunshine. Ah! good Heavens, if you were only willing, if we could only - change.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment she became silent, afraid that she might burst into sobs. The - wound dealt her by her childlessness had always remained open. She and her - husband were now growing old in bitter solitude in three little rooms - overlooking a courtyard in the Rue de Lille. In this retirement they - subsisted on the salary which she, the wife, received as a lady-delegate, - joined to what they had been able to save of their original fortune. The - former fan-painter of triumphant mien was now completely blind, a mere - thing, a poor suffering thing, whom his wife seated every morning in an - armchair where she still found him in the evening when she returned home - from her incessant peregrinations through the frightful misery of guilty - mothers and martyred children. He could no longer eat, he could no longer - go to bed without her help, he had only her left him, he was her child as - he would say at times with a despairing irony which made them both weep. - </p> - <p> - A child? Ah, yes! she had ended by having one, and it was he! An old - child, born of disaster; one who appeared to be eighty though he was less - than fifty years old, and who amid his black and ceaseless night ever - dreamt of sunshine during the long hours which he was compelled to spend - alone. And Madame Angelin did not only envy that poor workwoman her little - boy, she also envied her that old man smoking his pipe yonder, that infirm - relic of labor who at all events saw clearly and still lived. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t worry the lady,” said Norine to her son; for she felt anxious, - quite moved indeed, at seeing the other so disturbed, with her heart so - full. “Run away and play.” - </p> - <p> - She had learnt a little of Madame Angelin’s sad story from Mathieu. And - with the deep gratitude which she felt towards her benefactress was - blended a sort of impassioned respect, which rendered her timid and - deferent each time that she saw her arrive, tall and distinguished, ever - clad in black, and showing the remnants of her former beauty which sorrow - had wrecked already, though she was barely six-and-forty years of age. For - Norine, the lady-delegate was like some queen who had fallen from her - throne amid frightful and undeserved sufferings. - </p> - <p> - “Run away, go and play, my darling,” Norine repeated to her boy: “you are - tiring madame.” - </p> - <p> - “Tiring me, oh no!” exclaimed Madame Angelin, conquering her emotion. “On - the contrary, he does me good. Kiss me, kiss me again, my pretty fellow.” - </p> - <p> - Then she began to bestir and collect herself. - </p> - <p> - “Well, it is getting late, and I have so many places to go to between now - and this evening! This is what I can do for you.” - </p> - <p> - She was at last taking a gold coin from her little bag, but at that very - moment a heavy blow, as if dealt by a fist, resounded on the door. And - Norine turned ghastly pale, for she had recognized Alexandre’s brutal - knock. What could she do? If she did not open the door, the bandit would - go on knocking, and raise a scandal. She was obliged to open it, but - things did not take the violent tragical turn which she had feared. - Surprised at seeing a lady there, Alexandre did not even open his mouth. - He simply slipped inside, and stationed himself bolt upright against the - wall. The lady-delegate had raised her eyes and then carried them - elsewhere, understanding that this young fellow must be some friend, - probably some relative. And without thought of concealment, she went on: - </p> - <p> - “Here are twenty francs, I can’t do more. Only I promise you that I will - try to double the amount next month. It will be the rent month, and I’ve - already applied for help on all sides, and people have promised to give me - the utmost they can. But shall I ever have enough? So many applications - are made to me.” - </p> - <p> - Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with his - glittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure of - the poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the copper - money that distended its sides. Still in silence, he watched Madame - Angelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, and - then finally rose from her chair. - </p> - <p> - “Well, au revoir, till next month then,” she resumed. “I shall certainly - call on the 5th; and in all probability I shall begin my round with you. - But it’s possible that it may be rather late in the afternoon, for it - happens to be my poor husband’s name-day. And so be brave and work well.” - </p> - <p> - Norine and Cecile had likewise risen, in order to escort her to the door. - Here again there was an outpouring of gratitude, and the child once more - kissed the good lady on both cheeks with all his little heart. The - sisters, so terrified by Alexandre’s arrival, at last began to breathe - again. - </p> - <p> - In point of fact the incident terminated fairly well, for the young man - showed himself accommodating. When Cecile returned from obtaining change - for the gold, he contented himself with taking one of the four five-franc - pieces which she brought up with her. And he did not tarry to torture them - as was his wont, but immediately went off with the money he had levied, - whistling the while the air of a hunting-song. - </p> - <p> - The 5th of the ensuing month, a Saturday, was one of the gloomiest, most - rainy days of that wretched, mournful winter. Darkness fell rapidly - already at three o’clock in the afternoon, and it became almost night. At - the deserted end of Rue de la Federation there was an expanse of waste - ground, a building site, for long years enclosed by a fence, which - dampness had ended by rotting. Some of the boards were missing, and at one - part there was quite a breach. All through that afternoon, in spite of the - constantly recurring downpours, a scraggy girl remained stationed near - that breach, wrapped to her eyes in the ragged remnants of an old shawl, - doubtless for protection against the cold. She seemed to be waiting for - some chance meeting, the advent it might be of some charitably disposed - wayfarer. And her impatience was manifest, for while keeping close to the - fence like some animal lying in wait, she continually peered through the - breach, thrusting out her tapering weasel’s head and watching yonder, in - the direction of the Champ de Mars. - </p> - <p> - Hours went by, three o’clock struck, and then such dark clouds rolled over - the livid sky, that the girl herself became blurred, obscured, as if she - were some mere piece of wreckage cast into the darkness. At times she - raised her head and watched the sky darken, with eyes that glittered as if - to thank it for throwing so dense a gloom over that deserted corner, that - spot so fit for an ambuscade. And just as the rain had once more begun to - fall, a lady could be seen approaching, a lady clad in black, quite black, - under an open umbrella. While seeking to avoid the puddles in her path, - she walked on quickly, like one in a hurry, who goes about her business on - foot in order to save herself the expense of a cab. - </p> - <p> - From some precise description which she had obtained, Toinette, the girl, - appeared to recognize this lady from afar off. She was indeed none other - than Madame Angelin, coming quickly from the Rue de Lille, on her way to - the homes of her poor, with the little chain of her little bag encircling - her wrist. And when the girl espied the gleaming steel of that little - chain, she no longer had any doubts, but whistled softly. And forthwith - cries and moans arose from a dim corner of the vacant ground, while she - herself began to wail and call distressfully. - </p> - <p> - Astonished, disturbed by it all, Madame Angelin stopped short. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter, my girl?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! madame, my brother has fallen yonder and broken his leg.” - </p> - <p> - “What, fallen? What has he fallen from?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! madame, there’s a shed yonder where we sleep, because we haven’t any - home, and he was using an old ladder to try to prevent the rain from - pouring in on us, and he fell and broke his leg.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon the girl burst into sobs, asking what was to become of them, - stammering that she had been standing there in despair for the last ten - minutes, but could see nobody to help them, which was not surprising with - that terrible rain falling and the cold so bitter. And while she stammered - all this, the calls for help and the cries of pain became louder in the - depths of the waste ground. - </p> - <p> - Though Madame Angelin was terribly upset, she nevertheless hesitated, as - if distrustful. - </p> - <p> - “You must run to get a doctor, my poor child,” said she, “I can do - nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! but you can, madame; come with me, I pray you. I don’t know where - there’s a doctor to be found. Come with me, and we will pick him up, for I - can’t manage it by myself; and at all events we can lay him in the shed, - so that the rain sha’n’t pour down on him.” - </p> - <p> - This time the good woman consented, so truthful did the girl’s accents - seem to be. Constant visits to the vilest dens, where crime sprouted from - the dunghill of poverty, had made Madame Angelin brave. She was obliged to - close her umbrella when she glided through the breach in the fence in the - wake of the girl, who, slim and supple like a cat, glided on in front, - bareheaded, in her ragged shawl. - </p> - <p> - “Give me your hand, madame,” said she. “Take care, for there are some - trenches.... It’s over yonder at the end. Can you hear how he’s moaning, - poor brother?... Ah! here we are!” - </p> - <p> - Then came swift and overwhelming savagery. The three bandits, Alexandre, - Richard, and Alfred, who had been crouching low, sprang forward and threw - themselves upon Madame Angelin with such hungry, wolfish violence that she - was thrown to the ground. Alfred, however, being a coward, then left her - to the two others, and hastened with Toinette to the breach in order to - keep watch. Alexandre, who had a handkerchief rolled up, all ready, thrust - it into the poor lady’s mouth to stifle her cries. Their intention was to - stun her only and then make off with her little bag. - </p> - <p> - But the handkerchief must have slipped out, for she suddenly raised a - shriek, a loud and terrible shriek. And at that moment the others near the - breach gave the alarm whistle: some people were, doubtless, drawing near. - It was necessary to finish. Alexandre knotted the handkerchief round the - unhappy woman’s neck, while Richard with his fist forced her shriek back - into her throat. Red madness fell upon them, they both began to twist and - tighten the handkerchief, and dragged the poor creature over the muddy - ground until she stirred no more. Then, as the whistle sounded again, they - took the bag, left the body there with the handkerchief around the neck, - and galloped, all four of them, as far as the Grenelle bridge, whence they - flung the bag into the Seine, after greedily thrusting the coppers, and - the white silver, and the yellow gold into their pockets. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu read the particulars of the crime in the newspapers, he was - seized with fright and hastened to the Rue de la Federation. The murdered - woman had been promptly identified, and the circumstance that the crime - had been committed on that plot of vacant ground but a hundred yards or so - from the house where Norine and Cecile lived upset him, filled him with a - terrible presentiment. And he immediately realized that his fears were - justified when he had to knock three times at Norine’s door before Cecile, - having recognized his voice, removed the articles with which it had been - barricaded, and admitted him inside. Norine was in bed, quite ill, and as - white as her sheets. She began to sob and shuddered repeatedly as she told - him the story: Madame Angelin’s visit the previous month, and the sudden - arrival of Alexandre, who had seen the bag and had heard the promise of - further help, at a certain hour on a certain date. Besides, Norine could - have no doubts, for the handkerchief found round the victim’s neck was one - of hers which Alexandre had stolen: a handkerchief embroidered with the - initial letters of her Christian name, one of those cheap fancy things - which are sold by thousands at the big linendrapery establishments. That - handkerchief, too, was the only clew to the murderers, and it was such a - very vague one that the police were still vainly seeking the culprits, - quite lost amid a variety of scents and despairing of success. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu sat near the bed listening to Norine and feeling icy cold. Good - God! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in her - younger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming the woods - there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losing themselves - among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shade of the - pollard willows beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses sounded beneath - the branches like the twittering of song birds. And he could picture her - at a later date, already too severely punished for her lack of foresight, - in despair at remaining childless, and bowed down with grief as by slow - degrees her husband became blind, and night fell upon the little happiness - yet left to them. And all at once Mathieu also pictured that wretched - blind man, on the evening when he vainly awaited the return of his wife, - in order that she might feed him and put him to bed, old child that he - was, now motherless, forsaken, forever alone in his dark night, in which - he could only see the bloody spectre of his murdered helpmate. Ah! to - think of it, so bright a promise of radiant life, followed by such - destiny, such death! - </p> - <p> - “We did right,” muttered Mathieu, as his thoughts turned to Constance, “we - did right to keep that ruffian in ignorance of his father’s name. What a - terrible thing! We must bury the secret as deeply as possible within us.” - </p> - <p> - Norine shuddered once more. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! have no fear,” she answered, “I would die rather than speak.” - </p> - <p> - Months, years, flowed by; and never did the police discover the murderers - of the lady with the little bag. For years, too, Norine shuddered every - time that anybody knocked too roughly at her door. But Alexandre did not - reappear there. He doubtless feared that corner of the Rue de la - Federation, and remained as it were submerged in the dim unsoundable - depths of the ocean of Paris. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XX - </h2> - <p> - DURING the ten years which followed, the vigorous sprouting of the - Froments, suggestive of some healthy vegetation of joy and strength, - continued in and around the ever and ever richer domain of Chantebled. As - the sons and the daughters grew up there came fresh marriages, and more - and more children, all the promised crop, all the promised swarming of a - race of conquerors. - </p> - <p> - First it was Gervais who married Caroline Boucher, daughter of a big - farmer of the region, a fair, fine-featured, gay, strong girl, one of - those superior women born to rule over a little army of servants. On - leaving a Parisian boarding-school she had been sensible enough to feel no - shame of her family’s connection with the soil. Indeed she loved the earth - and had set herself to win from it all the sterling happiness of her life. - By way of dowry she brought an expanse of meadow-land in the direction of - Lillebonne, which enlarged the estate by some seventy acres. But she more - particularly brought her good humor, her health, her courage in rising - early, in watching over the farmyard, the dairy, the whole home, like an - energetic active housewife, who was ever bustling about, and always the - last to bed. - </p> - <p> - Then came the turn of Claire, whose marriage with Frederic Berthaud, long - since foreseen, ended by taking place. There were tears of soft emotion, - for the memory of her whom Berthaud had loved and whom he was to have - married disturbed several hearts on the wedding day when the family - skirted the little cemetery of Janville as it returned to the farm from - the municipal offices. But, after all, did not that love of former days, - that faithful fellow’s long affection, which in time had become - transferred to the younger sister, constitute as it were another link in - the ties which bound him to the Froments? He had no fortune, he brought - with him only his constant faithfulness, and the fraternity which had - sprung up between himself and Gervais during the many seasons when they - had ploughed the estate like a span of tireless oxen drawing the same - plough. His heart was one that could never be doubted, he was the helper - who had become indispensable, the husband whose advent would mean the best - of all understandings and absolute certainty of happiness. - </p> - <p> - From the day of that wedding the government of the farm was finally - settled. Though Mathieu was barely five-and-fifty he abdicated, and - transferred his authority to Gervais, that son of the earth as with a - laugh he often called him, the first of his children born at Chantebled, - the one who had never left the farm, and who had at all times given him - the support of his arm and his brain and his heart. And now Frederic in - turn would think and strive as Gervais’s devoted lieutenant, in the great - common task. Between them henceforth they would continue the father’s - work, and perfect the system of culture, procuring appliances of new - design from the Beauchene works, now ruled by Denis, and ever drawing from - the soil the largest crops that it could be induced to yield. Their wives - had likewise divided their share of authority; Claire surrendered the - duties of supervision to Caroline, who was stronger and more active than - herself, and was content to attend to the accounts, the turnover of - considerable sums of money, all that was paid away and all that was - received. The two couples seemed to have been expressly and cleverly - selected to complete one another and to accomplish the greatest sum of - work without ever the slightest fear of conflict. And, indeed, they lived - in perfect union, with only one will among them, one purpose which was - ever more and more skilfully effected—the continual increase of the - happiness and wealth of Chantebled under the beneficent sun. - </p> - <p> - At the same time, if Mathieu had renounced the actual exercise of - authority, he none the less remained the creator, the oracle who was - consulted, listened to, and obeyed. He dwelt with Marianne in the old - shooting-box which had been transformed and enlarged into a very - comfortable house. Here they lived like the founders of a dynasty who had - retired in full glory, setting their only delight in beholding around them - the development and expansion of their race, the birth and growth of their - children’s children. Leaving Claire and Gervais on one side, there were as - yet only Denis and Ambroise—the first to wing their flight abroad—engaged - in building up their fortunes in Paris. The three girls, Louise, - Madeleine, and Marguerite, who would soon be old enough to marry, still - dwelt in the happy home beside their parents, as well as the three - youngest boys, Gregoire, the free lance, Nicolas, the most stubborn and - determined of the brood, and Benjamin, who was of a dreamy nature. All - these finished growing up at the edge of the nest, so to say, with the - window of life open before them, ready for the day when they likewise - would take wing. - </p> - <p> - With them dwelt Charlotte, Blaise’s widow, and her two children, Berthe - and Guillaume, the three of them occupying an upper floor of the house - where the mother had installed her studio. She was becoming rich since her - little share in the factory profits, stipulated by Denis, had been - increasing year by year; but nevertheless, she continued working for her - dealer in miniatures. This work brought her pocket-money, she gayly said, - and would enable her to make her children a present whenever they might - marry. There was, indeed, already some thought of Berthe marrying; and - assuredly she would be the first of Mathieu and Marianne’s grandchildren - to enter into the state of matrimony. They smiled softly at the idea of - becoming great-grandparents before very long perhaps. - </p> - <p> - After the lapse of four years, Gregoire, first of the younger children, - flew away. There was a great deal of trouble, quite a little drama in - connection with the affair, which Mathieu and Marianne had for some time - been anticipating. Gregoire was anything but reasonable. Short, but - robust, with a pert face in which glittered the brightest of eyes, he had - always been the turbulent member of the family, the one who caused the - most anxiety. His childhood had been spent in playing truant in the woods - of Janville, and he had afterwards made a mere pretence of studying in - Paris, returning home full of health and spirits, but unable or unwilling - to make up his mind with respect to any particular trade or profession. - Already four-and-twenty, he knew little more than how to shoot and fish, - and trot about the country on horseback. He was certainly not more stupid - or less active than another, but he seemed bent on living and amusing - himself according to his fancy. The worst was that for some months past - all the gossips of Janville had been relating that he had renewed his - former boyish friendship with Therese Lepailleur, the miller’s daughter, - and that they were to be met of an evening in shady nooks under the - pollard-willows by the Yeuse. - </p> - <p> - One morning Mathieu, wishing to ascertain if the young coveys of - partridges were plentiful in the direction of Mareuil, took Gregoire with - him; and when they found themselves alone among the plantations of the - plateau, he began to talk to him seriously. - </p> - <p> - “You know I’m not pleased with you, my lad,” said he. “I really cannot - understand the idle life which you lead here, while all the rest of us are - hard at work. I shall wait till October since you have positively promised - me that you will then come to a decision and choose the calling which you - most fancy. But what is all this tittle-tattle which I hear about - appointments which you keep with the daughter of the Lepailleurs? Do you - wish to cause us serious worry?” - </p> - <p> - Gregoire quietly began to laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, father! You are surely not going to scold a son of yours because he - happens to be on friendly terms with a pretty girl! Why, as you may - remember, it was I who gave her her first bicycle lesson nearly ten years - ago. And you will recollect the fine white roses which she helped me to - secure in the enclosure by the mill for Denis’ wedding.” - </p> - <p> - Gregoire still laughed at the memory of that incident, and lived afresh - through all his old time sweethearting—the escapades with Therese - along the river banks, and the banquets of blackberries in undiscoverable - hiding-places, deep in the woods. And it seemed, too, that the love of - childhood had revived, and was now bursting into consuming fire, so - vividly did his cheeks glow, and so hotly did his eyes blaze as he thus - recalled those distant times. - </p> - <p> - “Poor Therese! We had been at daggers drawn for years, and all because one - evening, on coming back from the fair at Vieux-Bourg, I pushed her into a - pool of water where she dirtied her frock. It’s true that last spring we - made it up again on finding ourselves face to face in the little wood at - Monval over yonder. But come, father, do you mean to say that it’s a crime - if we take a little pleasure in speaking to one another when we meet?” - </p> - <p> - Rendered the more anxious by the fire with which Gregoire sought to defend - the girl, Mathieu spoke out plainly. - </p> - <p> - “A crime? No, if you just wish one another good day and good evening. Only - folks relate that you are to be seen at dusk with your arms round each - other’s waist, and that you go stargazing through the grass alongside the - Yeuse.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as Gregoire this time without replying laughed yet more loudly, with - the merry laugh of youth, his father gravely resumed: - </p> - <p> - “Listen, my lad, it is not at all to my taste to play the gendarme behind - my sons. But I won’t have you drawing some unpleasant business with the - Lepailleurs on us all. You know the position, they would be delighted to - give us trouble. So don’t give them occasion for complaining, leave their - daughter alone.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I take plenty of care,” cried the young man, thus suddenly confessing - the truth. “Poor girl! She has already had her ears boxed because somebody - told her father that I had been met with her. He answered that rather than - give her to me he would throw her into the river.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! you see,” concluded Mathieu. “It is understood, is it not? I shall - rely on your good behavior.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon they went their way, scouring the fields as far as the road to - Mareuil. Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started up - both to the right and to the left. The shooting would be good. Then as the - father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a long spell of - silence fell between them. They were both reflecting. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t wish that there should be any misunderstanding between us,” - Mathieu suddenly resumed; “you must not imagine that I shall prevent you - from marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you to - take an heiress. Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl. And it was - the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, in marriage - to Frederic, who was simply one of our farm hands. So I don’t look down on - Therese. On the contrary, I think her charming. She’s one of the prettiest - girls of the district—not tall, certainly, but so alert and - determined, with her little pink face shining under such a wild crop of - fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all the flour in the - mill.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, isn’t that so, father?” interrupted Gregoire enthusiastically. “And - if you only knew how affectionate and courageous she is! She’s worth a man - any day. It’s wrong of them to smack her, for she will never put up with - it. Whenever she sets her mind on anything she’s bound to do it, and it - isn’t I who can prevent her.” - </p> - <p> - Absorbed in some reflections of his own, Mathieu scarcely heard his son. - </p> - <p> - “No, no,” he resumed; “I certainly don’t look down on their mill. If it - were not for Lepailleur’s stupid obstinacy he would be drawing a fortune - from that mill nowadays. Since corn-growing has again been taken up all - over the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pile of - crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism of his wheel - which he leaves rotting under the moss. And better still, I should like to - see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway line connecting the - mill with Janville station.” - </p> - <p> - In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Gregoire listened, - again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way. - </p> - <p> - “Well, father,” the young man ended by saying, “as you wish that I should - have a calling, it’s settled. If I marry Therese, I’ll be a miller.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu protested in surprise: “No, no, I was merely talking. And besides, - you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable. So once again, - for the sake of the peace and quietness of all of us, leave Therese alone, - for we can only expect to reap worry with the Lepailleurs.” - </p> - <p> - The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm. That evening, - however, the father told the mother of the young man’s confession, and - she, who already entertained various misgivings, felt more anxious than - ever. Still a month went by without anything serious happening. - </p> - <p> - Then, one morning Marianne was astounded at finding Gregoire’s bedroom - empty. As a rule he came to kiss her. Perhaps he had risen early, and had - gone on some excursion in the environs. But she trembled slightly when she - remembered how lovingly he had twice caught her in his arms on the - previous night when they were all retiring to bed. And as she looked - inquisitively round the room she noticed on the mantelshelf a letter - addressed to her—a prettily worded letter in which the young fellow - begged her to forgive him for causing her grief, and asked her to excuse - him with his father, for it was necessary that he should leave them for a - time. Of his reasons for doing so and his purpose, however, no particulars - were given. - </p> - <p> - This family rending, this bad conduct on the part of the son who had been - the most spoilt of all, and who, in a fit of sudden folly was the first to - break the ties which united the household together, was a very painful - blow for Marianne and Mathieu. They were the more terrified since they - divined that Gregoire had not gone off alone. They pieced together the - incidents of the deplorable affair. Charlotte remembered that she had - heard Gregoire go downstairs again, almost immediately after entering his - bedroom, and before the servants had even bolted the house-doors for the - night. He had certainly rushed off to join Therese in some coppice, whence - they must have hurried away to Vieux-Bourg station which the last train to - Paris quitted at five-and-twenty minutes past midnight. And it was indeed - this which had taken place. At noon the Froments already learnt that - Lepailleur was creating a terrible scandal about the flight of Therese. He - had immediately gone to the gendarmes to shout the story to them, and - demand that they should bring the guilty hussy back, chained to her - accomplice, and both of them with gyves about their wrists. - </p> - <p> - He on his side had found a letter in his daughter’s bedroom, a plucky - letter in which she plainly said that as she had been struck again the - previous day, she had had enough of it, and was going off of her own free - will. Indeed, she added that she was taking Gregoire with her, and was - quite big and old enough, now that she was two-and-twenty, to know what - she was about. Lepailleur’s fury was largely due to this letter which he - did not dare to show abroad; besides which, his wife, ever at war with him - respecting their son Antonin, not only roundly abused Therese, but - sneeringly declared that it might all have been expected, and that he, the - father, was the cause of the gad-about’s misconduct. After that, they - engaged in fisticuffs; and for a whole week the district did nothing but - talk about the flight of one of the Chantebled lads with the girl of the - mill, to the despair of Mathieu and Marianne, the latter of whom in - particular grieved over the sorry business. - </p> - <p> - Five days later, a Sunday, matters became even worse. As the search for - the runaways remained fruitless Lepailleur, boiling over with rancor, went - up to the farm, and from the middle of the road—for he did not - venture inside—poured forth a flood of ignoble insults. It so - happened that Mathieu was absent; and Marianne had great trouble to - restrain Gervais as well as Frederic, both of whom wished to thrust the - miller’s scurrilous language back into his throat. When Mathieu came home - in the evening he was extremely vexed to hear of what had happened. - </p> - <p> - “It is impossible for this state of things to continue,” he said to his - wife, as they were retiring to rest. “It looks as if we were hiding, as if - we were guilty in the matter. I will go to see that man in the morning. - There is only one thing, and a very simple one, to be done, those unhappy - children must be married. For our part we consent, is it not so? And it is - to that man’s advantage to consent also. To-morrow the matter must be - settled.” - </p> - <p> - On the following day, Monday, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Mathieu set - out for the mill. But certain complications, a tragic drama, which he - could not possibly foresee, awaited him there. For years now a stubborn - struggle had been going on between Lepailleur and his wife with respect to - Antonin. While the farmer had grown more and more exasperated with his - son’s idleness and life of low debauchery in Paris, the latter had - supported her boy with all the obstinacy of an illiterate woman, who was - possessed of a blind faith in his fine handwriting, and felt convinced - that if he did not succeed in life it was simply because he was refused - the money necessary for that purpose. In spite of her sordid avarice in - some matters, the old woman continued bleeding herself for her son, and - even robbed the house, promptly thrusting out her claws and setting her - teeth ready to bite whenever she was caught in the act, and had to defend - some twenty-franc piece or other, which she had been on the point of - sending away. And each time the battle began afresh, to such a point - indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would some day end by - falling on their heads. - </p> - <p> - Then, all at once, Antonin, a perfect wreck at thirty-six years of age, - fell seriously ill. Lepailleur forthwith declared that if the scamp had - the audacity to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into the - water. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held the country - in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him up like a dog. - So his mother placed him with some people of Batignolles, paying for his - board and for the attendance of a doctor of the district. This had been - going on for three months or so, and every fortnight La Lepailleur went to - see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday, and on the Sunday - evening she received a telegram summoning her to Batignolles again. Thus, - on the morning of the day when Mathieu repaired to the mill, she had once - more gone to Paris after a frightful quarrel with her husband, who asked - if their good-for-nothing son ever meant to cease fooling them and - spending their money, when he had not the courage even to turn a spit of - earth. - </p> - <p> - Alone in the mill that morning Lepailleur did not cease storming. At the - slightest provocation he would have hammered his plough to pieces, or have - rushed, axe in hand, and mad with hatred, on the old wheel by way of - avenging his misfortunes. When he saw Mathieu come in he believed in some - act of bravado, and almost choked. - </p> - <p> - “Come, neighbor,” said the master of Chantebled cordially, “let us both - try to be reasonable. I’ve come to return your visit, since you called - upon me yesterday. Only, bad words never did good work, and the best - course, since this misfortune has happened, is to repair it as speedily as - possible. When would you have us marry off those bad children?” - </p> - <p> - Thunderstruck by the quiet good nature of this frontal attack, Lepailleur - did not immediately reply. He had shouted over the house roofs that he - would have no marriage at all, but rather a good lawsuit by way of sending - all the Froments to prison. Nevertheless, when it came to reflection, a - son of the big farmer of Chantebled was not to be disdained as a - son-in-law. - </p> - <p> - “Marry them, marry them,” he stammered at the first moment. “Yes, by - fastening a big stone to both their necks and throwing them together into - the river. Ah! the wretches! I’ll skin them, I will, her as well as him.” - </p> - <p> - At last, however, the miller grew calmer and was even showing a - disposition to discuss matters, when all at once an urchin of Janville - came running across the yard. - </p> - <p> - “What do you want, eh?” called the master of the premises. - </p> - <p> - “Please, Monsieur Lepailleur, it’s a telegram.” - </p> - <p> - “All right, give it here.” - </p> - <p> - The lad, well pleased with the copper he received as a gratuity, had - already gone off, and still the miller, instead of opening the telegram, - stood examining the address on it with the distrustful air of a man who - does not often receive such communications. However, he at last had to - tear it open. It contained but three words: “Your son dead”; and in that - brutal brevity, that prompt, hasty bludgeon-blow, one could detect the - mother’s cold rage and eager craving to crush without delay the man, the - father yonder, whom she accused of having caused her son’s death, even as - she had accused him of being responsible for her daughter’s flight. He - felt this full well, and staggered beneath the shock, stunned by the words - that appeared on that strip of blue paper, reading them again and again - till he ended by understanding them. Then his hands began to tremble and - he burst into oaths. - </p> - <p> - “Thunder and blazes! What again is this? Here’s the boy dying now! - Everything’s going to the devil!” - </p> - <p> - But his heart dilated and tears appeared in his eyes. Unable to remain - standing, he sank upon a chair and again obstinately read the telegram; - “Your son dead—Your son dead,” as if seeking something else, the - particulars, indeed, which the message did not contain. Perhaps the boy - had died before his mother’s arrival. Or perhaps she had arrived just - before he died. Such were his stammered comments. And he repeated a score - of times that she had taken the train at ten minutes past eleven and must - have reached Batignolles about half-past twelve. As she had handed in the - telegram at twenty minutes past one it seemed more likely that she had - found the lad already dead. - </p> - <p> - “Curse it! curse it!” he shouted; “a cursed telegram, it tells you - nothing, and it murders you! She might, at all events, have sent somebody. - I shall have to go there. Ah the whole thing’s complete, it’s more than a - man can bear!” - </p> - <p> - Lepailleur shouted those words in such accents of rageful despair that - Mathieu, full of compassion, made bold to intervene. The sudden shock of - the tragedy had staggered him, and he had hitherto waited in silence. But - now he offered his services and spoke of accompanying the other to Paris. - He had to retreat, however, for the miller rose to his feet, seized with - wild exasperation at perceiving him still there in his house. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! yes, you came; and what was it you were saying to me? That we ought - to marry off those wretched children? Well, you can see that I’m in proper - trim for a wedding! My boy’s dead! You’ve chosen your day well. Be off - with you, be off with you, I say, if you don’t want me to do something - dreadful!” - </p> - <p> - He raised his fists, quite maddened as he was by the presence of Mathieu - at that moment when his whole life was wrecked. It was terrible indeed - that this bourgeois who had made a fortune by turning himself into a - peasant should be there at the moment when he so suddenly learnt the death - of Antonin, that son whom he had dreamt of turning into a Monsieur by - filling his mind with disgust of the soil and sending him to rot of - idleness and vice in Paris! It enraged him to find that he had erred, that - the earth whom he had slandered, whom he had taxed with decrepitude and - barrenness was really a living, youthful, and fruitful spouse to the man - who knew how to love her! And nought but ruin remained around him, thanks - to his imbecile resolve to limit his family: a foul life had killed his - only son, and his only daughter had gone off with a scion of the - triumphant farm, while he was now utterly alone, weeping and howling in - his deserted mill, that mill which he had likewise disdained and which was - crumbling around him with old age. - </p> - <p> - “You hear me!” he shouted. “Therese may drag herself at my feet; but I - will never, never give her to your thief of a son! You’d like it, wouldn’t - you? so that folks might mock me all over the district, and so that you - might eat me up as you have eaten up all the others!” - </p> - <p> - This finish to it all had doubtless appeared to him, confusedly, in a - sudden threatening vision: Antonin being dead, it was Gregoire who would - possess the mill, if he should marry Therese. And he would possess the - moorland also, that enclosure, hitherto left barren with such savage - delight, and so passionately coveted by the farm. And doubtless he would - cede it to the farm as soon as he should be the master. The thought that - Chantebled might yet be increased by the fields which he, Lepailleur, had - withheld from it brought the miller’s delirious rage to a climax. - </p> - <p> - “Your son, I’ll send him to the galleys! And you, if you don’t go, I’ll - throw you out! Be off with you, be off!” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, who was very pale, slowly retired before this furious madman. But - as he went off he calmly said: “You are an unhappy man. I forgive you, for - you are in great grief. Besides, I am quite easy, sensible things always - end by taking place.” - </p> - <p> - Again, a month went by. Then, one rainy morning in October, Madame - Lepailleur was found hanging in the mill stable. There were folks at - Janville who related that Lepailleur had hung her there. The truth was - that she had given signs of melancholia ever since the death of Antonin. - Moreover, the life led at the mill was no longer bearable; day by day the - husband and wife reproached one another for their son’s death and their - daughter’s flight, battling ragefully together like two abandoned beasts - shut up in the same cage. Folks were merely astonished that such a harsh, - avaricious woman should have been willing to quit this life without taking - her goods and chattels with her. - </p> - <p> - As soon as Therese heard of her mother’s death she hastened home, - repentant, and took her place beside her father again, unwilling as she - was that he should remain alone in his two-fold bereavement. At first it - proved a terrible time for her in the company of that brutal old man who - was exasperated by what he termed his bad luck. But she was a girl of - sterling courage and prompt decision; and thus, after a few weeks, she had - made her father consent to her marriage with Gregoire, which, as Mathieu - had said, was the only sensible course. The news gave great relief at the - farm whither the prodigal son had not yet dared to return. It was believed - that the young couple, after eloping together, had lived in some out of - the way district of Paris, and it was even suspected that Ambroise, who - was liberally minded, had, in a brotherly way, helped them with his purse. - And if, on the one hand, Lepailleur consented to the marriage in a - churlish, distrustful manner—like one who deemed himself robbed, and - was simply influenced by the egotistical dread of some day finding himself - quite alone again in his gloomy house—Mathieu and Marianne, on the - other side, were delighted with an arrangement which put an end to an - equivocal situation that had caused them the greatest suffering, grieved - as they were by the rebellion of one of their children. - </p> - <p> - Curiously enough, it came to pass that Gregoire, once married and - installed at the mill in accordance with his wife’s desire, agreed with - his father-in-law far better than had been anticipated. This resulted in - particular from a certain discussion during which Lepailleur had wished to - make Gregoire swear, that, after his death, he would never dispose of the - moorland enclosure, hitherto kept uncultivated with peasant stubbornness, - to any of his brothers or sisters of the farm. Gregoire took no oath on - the subject, but gayly declared that he was not such a fool as to despoil - his wife of the best part of her inheritance, particularly as he proposed - to cultivate those moors and, within two or three years’ time, make them - the most fertile land in the district. That which belonged to him did not - belong to others, and people would soon see that he was well able to - defend the property which had fallen to his lot. Things took a similar - course with respect to the mill, where Gregoire at first contented himself - with repairing the old mechanism, for he was unwilling to upset the - miller’s habits all at once, and therefore postponed until some future - time the installation of an engine, and the laying down of a line of rails - to Janville station—all those ideas formerly propounded by Mathieu - which henceforth fermented in his audacious young mind. - </p> - <p> - In this wise, then, people found themselves in presence of a new Gregoire. - The madcap had become wise, only retaining of his youthful follies the - audacity which is needful for successful enterprise. And it must be said - that he was admirably seconded by the fair and energetic Therese. They - were both enraptured at now being free to love each other in the romantic - old mill, garlanded with ivy, pending the time when they would resolutely - fling it to the ground to install in its place the great white meal stores - and huge new mill-stones, which, with their conquering ambition, they - often dreamt of. - </p> - <p> - During the years that followed, Mathieu and Marianne witnessed other - departures. The three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, in - turn took their flight from the family nest. All three found husbands in - the district. Louise, a plump brunette, all gayety and health, with - abundant hair and large laughing eyes, married notary Mazaud of Janville, - a quiet, pensive little man, whose occasional silent smiles alone denoted - the perfect satisfaction which he felt at having found a wife of such - joyous disposition. Then Madeleine, whose chestnut tresses were tinged - with gleaming gold, and who was slimmer than her sister, and of a more - dreamy style of beauty, her character and disposition refined by her - musical tastes, made a love match which was quite a romance. Herbette, the - architect, who became her husband, was a handsome, elegant man, already - celebrated; he owned near Monvel a park-like estate, where he came to rest - at times from the fatigue of his labors in Paris. - </p> - <p> - At last, Marguerite, the least pretty of the girls—indeed, she was - quite plain, but derived a charm from her infinite goodness of heart—was - chosen in marriage by Dr. Chambouvet, a big, genial, kindly fellow, who - had inherited his father’s practice at Vieux-Bourg, where he lived in a - large white house, which had become the resort of the poor. And thus the - three girls being married, the only ones who remained with Mathieu and - Marianne in the slowly emptying nest were their two last boys, Nicolas and - Benjamin. - </p> - <p> - At the same time, however, as the youngsters flew away and installed - themselves elsewhere, there came other little ones, a constant swarming - due to the many family marriages. In eight years, Denis, who reigned at - the factory in Paris, had been presented by his wife with three children, - two boys, Lucien and Paul, and a girl, Hortense. Then Leonce, the son of - Ambroise, who was conquering such a high position in the commercial world, - now had a brother, Charles, and two little sisters, Pauline and Sophie. At - the farm, moreover, Gervais was already the father of two boys, Leon and - Henri, while Claire, his sister, could count three children, a boy, - Joseph, and two daughters, Lucile and Angele. There was also Gregoire, at - the mill, with a big boy who had received the name of Robert; and there - were also the three last married daughters—Louise, with a girl two - years old; Madeleine, with a boy six months of age; and Marguerite, who in - anticipation of a happy event, had decided to call her child Stanislas, if - it were a boy, and Christine, if it should be a girl. - </p> - <p> - Thus upon every side the family oak spread out its branches, its trunk - forking and multiplying, and boughs sprouting from boughs at each - successive season. And withal Mathieu was not yet sixty, and Marianne not - yet fifty-seven. Both still possessed flourishing health, and strength, - and gayety, and were ever in delight at seeing the family, which had - sprung from them, thus growing and spreading, invading all the country - around, even like a forest born from a single tree. - </p> - <p> - But the great and glorious festival of Chantebled at that period was the - birth of Mathieu and Marianne’s first great-grandchild—a girl, - called Angeline, daughter of their granddaughter, Berthe. In this little - girl, all pink and white, the ever-regretted Blaise seemed to live again. - So closely did she resemble him that Charlotte, his widow, already a - grandmother in her forty-second year, wept with emotion at the sight of - her. Madame Desvignes had died six months previously, passing away, even - as she had lived, gently and discreetly, at the termination of her task, - which had chiefly consisted in rearing her two daughters on the scanty - means at her disposal. Still it was she, who, before quitting the scene, - had found a husband for her granddaughter, Berthe, in the person of - Philippe Havard, a young engineer who had recently been appointed - assistant-manager at a State factory near Mareuil. It was at Chantebled, - however, that Berthe’s little Angeline was born; and on the day of the - churching, the whole family assembled together there once more to glorify - the great-grandfather and great-grandmother. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! well,” said Marianne gayly, as she stood beside the babe’s cradle, - “if the young ones fly away there are others born, and so the nest will - never be empty.” - </p> - <p> - “Never, never!” repeated Mathieu with emotion, proud as he felt of that - continual victory over solitude and death. “We shall never be left alone!” - </p> - <p> - Yet there came another departure which brought them many tears. Nicolas, - the youngest but one of their boys, who was approaching his twentieth - birthday, and thus nigh the cross-roads of life, had not yet decided which - one he would follow. He was a dark, sturdy young man, with an open, - laughing face. As a child, he had adored tales of travel and far-away - adventure, and had always evinced great courage and endurance, returning - home enraptured from interminable rambles, and never uttering complaints, - however badly his feet might be blistered. And withal he possessed a most - orderly mind, ever carefully arranging and classifying his little - belongings in his drawers, and looking down with contempt on the haphazard - way in which his sisters kept their things. - </p> - <p> - Later on, as he grew up, he became thoughtful, as if he were vainly - seeking around him some means of realizing his two-fold craving, that of - discovering some new land and organizing it properly. One of the last-born - of a numerous family, he no longer found space enough for the amplitude - and force of his desires. His brothers and sisters had already taken all - the surrounding lands, and he stifled, threatened also, as it were, with - famine, and ever sought the broad expanse that he dreamt of, where he - might grow and reap his bread. No more room, no more food! At first he - knew not in which direction to turn, but groped and hesitated for some - months. Nevertheless, his hearty laughter continued to gladden the house; - he wearied neither his father nor his mother with the care of his destiny, - for he knew that he was already strong enough to fix it himself. - </p> - <p> - There was no corner left for him at the farm where Gervais and Claire took - up all the room. At the Beauchene works Denis was all sufficient, reigning - there like a conscientious toiler, and nothing justified a younger brother - in claiming a share beside him. At the mill, too, Gregoire was as yet - barely established, and his kingdom was so small that he could not - possibly cede half of it. Thus an opening was only possible with Ambroise, - and Nicolas ended by accepting an obliging offer which the latter made to - take him on trial for a few months, by way of initiating him into the - higher branches of commerce. Ambroise’s fortune was becoming prodigious - since old uncle Du Hordel had died, leaving him his commission business. - Year by year the new master increased his trade with all the countries of - the world. Thanks to his lucky audacity and broad international views, he - was enriching himself with the spoils of the earth. And though Nicolas - again began to stifle in Ambroise’s huge store-houses, where the riches of - distant countries, the most varied climes, were collected together, it was - there that his real vocation came to him; for a voice suddenly arose, - calling him away yonder to dim, unknown regions, vast stretches of country - yet sterile, which needed to be populated, and cleared and sowed with the - crops of the future. - </p> - <p> - For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he was now - maturing. He was extremely discreet, as are all men of great energy, who - reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neither space - nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of his birth; - but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfect state, - deficient in the means needed for the heroic task of populating and - clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau, who - was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, and activity - had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, like Nicolas, she - stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confined her; for she - craved for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. An orphan, and long - dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little village haberdasher, she had - hitherto, from feelings of affection, remained cloistered in a small and - gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died, leaving her some ten thousand - francs, and her dream was to sell the little business, and go away and - really live at last. One October evening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told - one another things that they had never previously told anybody, they came - to an understanding. They resolutely took each other’s hand and plighted - their troth for life, for the hard battle of creating a new world, a new - family, somewhere on the earth’s broad surface, in those mysterious, far - away climes of which they knew so little. ‘Twas a delightful betrothal, - full of courage and faith. - </p> - <p> - Only then, everything having been settled, did Nicolas speak out, - announcing his departure to his father and mother. It was an autumn - evening, still mild, but fraught with winter’s first shiver, and the - twilight was falling. Intense grief wrung the parents’ hearts as soon as - they understood their son. This time it was not simply a young one flying - from the family nest to build his own on some neighboring tree of the - common forest; it was flight across the seas forever, severance without - hope of return. They would see their other children again, but this one - was breathing an eternal farewell. Their consent would be the share of - cruel sacrifice, that life demands, their supreme gift to life, the tithe - levied by life on their affection and their blood. To pursue its victory, - life, the perpetual conqueror, demanded this portion of their flesh, this - overplus of the numerous family, which was overflowing, spreading, - peopling the world. And what could they answer, how could they refuse? The - son who was unprovided for took himself off; nothing could be more logical - or more sensible. Far beyond the fatherland there were vast continents yet - uninhabited, and the seed which is scattered by the breezes of heaven - knows no frontiers. Beyond the race there is mankind with that endless - spreading of humanity that is leading us to the one fraternal people of - the accomplished times, when the whole earth shall be but one sole city of - truth and justice. - </p> - <p> - Moreover, quite apart from the great dream of those seers, the poets, - Nicolas, like a practical man, whatever his enthusiasm, gayly gave his - reasons for departing. He did not wish to be a parasite; he was setting - off to the conquest of another land, where he would grow the bread he - needed, since his own country had no field left for him. Besides, he took - his country with him in his blood; she it was that he wished to enlarge - afar off with unlimited increase of wealth and strength. It was ancient - Africa, the mysterious, now explored, traversed from end to end, that - attracted him. In the first instance he intended to repair to Senegal, - whence he would doubtless push on to the Soudan, to the very heart of the - virgin lands where he dreamt of a new France, an immense colonial empire, - which would rejuvenate the old Gallic race by endowing it with its due - share of the earth. And it was there that he had the ambition of carving - out a kingdom for himself, and of founding with Lisbeth another dynasty of - Froments, and a new Chantebled, covering under the hot sun a tract ten - times as extensive as the old one, and peopled with the people of his own - children. And he spoke of all this with such joyous courage that Mathieu - and Marianne ended by smiling amid their tears, despite the rending of - their poor hearts. - </p> - <p> - “Go, my lad, we cannot keep you back. Go wherever life calls you, wherever - you may live with more health and joy and strength. All that may spring - from you yonder will still be health and joy and strength derived from us, - of which we shall be proud. You are right, one must not weep, your - departure must be a fete, for the family does not separate, it simply - extends, invades, and conquers the world.” - </p> - <p> - Nevertheless, on the day of farewell, after the marriage of Nicolas and - Lisbeth there was an hour of painful emotion at Chantebled. The family had - met to share a last meal all together, and when the time came for the - young and adventurous couple to tear themselves from the maternal soil - there were those who sobbed although they had vowed to be very brave. - Nicolas and Lisbeth were going off with little means, but rich in hopes. - Apart from the ten thousand francs of the wife’s dowry they had only been - willing to take another ten thousand, just enough to provide for the first - difficulties. Might courage and labor therefore prove sturdy artisans of - conquest. - </p> - <p> - Young Benjamin, the last born of the brothers Froment, was particularly - upset by this departure. He was a delicate, good-looking child not yet - twelve years old, whom his parents greatly spoiled, thinking that he was - weak. And they were quite determined that they would at all events keep - him with them, so handsome did they find him with his soft limpid eyes and - beautiful curly hair. He was growing up in a languid way, dreamy, petted, - idle among his mother’s skirts, like the one charming weakling of that - strong, hardworking family. - </p> - <p> - “Let me kiss you again, my good Nicolas,” said he to his departing - brother. “When will you come back?” - </p> - <p> - “Never, my little Benjamin.” - </p> - <p> - The boy shuddered. - </p> - <p> - “Never, never!” he repeated. “Oh! that’s too long. Come back, come back - some day, so that I may kiss you again.” - </p> - <p> - “Never,” repeated Nicolas, turning pale himself. “Never, never.” - </p> - <p> - He had lifted up the lad, whose tears were raining fast; and then for all - came the supreme grief, the frightful moment of the hatchet-stroke, of the - separation which was to be eternal. - </p> - <p> - “Good-by, little brother! Good-by, good-by, all of you!” - </p> - <p> - While Mathieu accompanied the future conqueror to the door for the last - time wishing him victory, Benjamin in wild grief sought a refuge beside - his mother who was blinded by her tears. And she caught him up with a - passionate clasp, as if seized with fear that he also might leave her. He - was the only one now left to them in the family nest. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXI - </h2> - <p> - AT the factory, in her luxurious house on the quay, where she had long - reigned as sovereign mistress, Constance for twelve years already had been - waiting for destiny, remaining rigid and stubborn amid the continual - crumbling of her life and hopes. - </p> - <p> - During those twelve years Beauchene had pursued a downward course, the - descent of which was fatal. He was right at the bottom now, in the last - state of degradation. After beginning simply as a roving husband, - festively inclined, he had ended by living entirely away from his home, - principally in the company of two women, aunt and niece. He was now but a - pitiful human rag, fast approaching some shameful death. And large as his - fortune had been, it had not sufficed him; as he grew older he had - squandered money yet more and more lavishly, immense sums being swallowed - up in disreputable adventures, the scandal of which it had been necessary - to stifle. Thus he at last found himself poor, receiving but a small - portion of the ever-increasing profits of the works, which were in full - prosperity. - </p> - <p> - This was the disaster which brought so much suffering to Constance in her - incurable pride. Beauchene, since the death of his son, had quite - abandoned himself to a dissolute life, thinking of nothing but his - pleasures, and taking no further interest in his establishment. What was - the use of defending it, since there was no longer an heir to whom it - might be transmitted, enlarged and enriched? And thus he had surrendered - it, bit by bit, to Denis, his partner, whom, by degrees, he allowed to - become the sole master. On arriving at the works, Denis had possessed but - one of the six shares which represented the totality of the property - according to the agreement. And Beauchene had even reserved to himself the - right of repurchasing that share within a certain period. But far from - being in a position to do so before the appointed date was passed, he had - been obliged to cede yet another share to the young man, in order to free - himself of debts which he could not confess. - </p> - <p> - From that time forward it became a habit with Beauchene to cede Denis a - fresh share every two years. A third followed the second, then came the - turn of the fourth and the fifth, in such wise, indeed, that after a final - arrangement, he had not even kept a whole share for himself; but simply - some portion of the sixth. And even that was really fictitious, for Denis - had only acknowledged it in order to have a pretext for providing him with - a certain income, which, by the way, he subdivided, handing half of it to - Constance every month. - </p> - <p> - She, therefore, was ignorant of nothing. She knew that, as a matter of - fact, the works would belong to that son of the hated Froments, whenever - he might choose to close the doors on their old master, who, as it - happened, was never seen now in the workshops. True, there was a clause in - the covenant which admitted, so long as that covenant should not be - broken, the possibility of repurchasing all the shares at one and the same - time. Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent belief in a - miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven, that - kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Those twelve - years of vain waiting—and increasing decline did not seem to have - diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she would some day - triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled in presence of - the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recovered her - self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpected occurrence - would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in the right. - </p> - <p> - She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she was simply - bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon the - over-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her own - home, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of her - husband who was in the gutter—all the abomination, indeed, which had - been so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony. - However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as an - honest bourgeoise filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could not - admit that she had been in the wrong. And thus she awaited the revenge of - destiny in that luxurious house, which was far too large now that she - alone inhabited it. She only occupied the rooms on the first floor, where - she shut herself up for days together with an old serving woman, the sole - domestic that she had retained. Gowned in black, as if bent on wearing - eternal mourning for Maurice, always erect, stiff, and haughtily silent, - she never complained, although her covert exasperation had greatly - affected her heart, in such wise that she experienced at times most - terrible attacks of stifling. These she kept as secret as possible, and - one day when the old servant ventured to go for Doctor Boutan she - threatened her with dismissal. She would not even answer the doctor, and - she refused to take any remedies, certain as she felt that she would last - as long as the hope which buoyed her up. - </p> - <p> - Yet what anguish it was when she suddenly began to stifle, all alone in - the empty house, without son or husband near her! She called nobody since - she knew that nobody would come. And the attack over, with what - unconquerable obstinacy did she rise erect again, repeating that her - presence sufficed to prevent Denis from being the master, from reigning - alone in full sovereignty, and that in any case he would not have the - house and install himself in it like a conqueror, so long as she had not - sunk to death under the final collapse of the ceilings. - </p> - <p> - Amid this retired life, Constance, haunted as she was by her fixed idea, - had no other occupation than that of watching the factory, and - ascertaining what went on there day by day. Morange, whom she had made her - confidant, gave her information in all simplicity almost every evening, - when he came to speak to her for a moment after leaving his office. She - learnt everything from his lips—the successive sales of the shares - into which the property had been divided, their gradual acquisition by - Denis, and the fact that Beauchene and herself were henceforth living on - the new master’s liberality. Moreover, she so organized her system of - espionage as to make the old accountant tell her unwittingly all that he - knew of the private life led by Denis, his wife Marthe, and their - children, Lucien, Paul, and Hortense all, indeed, that was done and said - in the modest little pavilion where the young people, in spite of their - increasing fortune, were still residing, evincing no ambitious haste to - occupy the large house on the quay. They did not even seem to notice what - scanty accommodation they had in that pavilion, while she alone dwelt in - the gloomy mansion, which was so spacious that she seemed quite lost in - it. And she was enraged, too, by their deference, by the tranquil way in - which they waited for her to be no more; for she had been unable to make - them quarrel with her, and was obliged to show herself grateful for the - means they gave her, and to kiss their children, whom she hated, when they - brought her flowers. - </p> - <p> - Thus, months and years went by, and almost every evening when Morange for - a moment called on Constance, he found her in the same little silent - salon, gowned in the same black dress, and stiffened into a posture of - obstinate expectancy. Though no sign was given of destiny’s revenge, of - the patiently hoped-for fall of misfortune upon others, she never seemed - to doubt of her ultimate victory. On the contrary, when things fell more - and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defying fate, - buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced to prove that - she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior to fatigue, and ever - relying on a prodigy. - </p> - <p> - Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, the - conversation invariably began in the same way. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?” - </p> - <p> - “No, my friend, nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, the chief thing is to enjoy good health. One can wait for better - days.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! nobody enjoys good health; still one waits all the same.” - </p> - <p> - And now one evening, at the end of the twelve years, as Morange went in to - see her, he detected that the atmosphere of the little drawing-room was - changed, quivering as it were with restrained delight amid the eternal - silence. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my friend, there’s something fresh.” - </p> - <p> - “Something favorable I hope, then; something pleasant that you have been - waiting for?” - </p> - <p> - “Something that I have been waiting for—yes! What one knows how to - wait for always comes.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her in surprise, feeling almost anxious when he saw how - altered she was, with glittering eyes and quick gestures. What fulfilment - of her desires, after so many years of immutable mourning, could have - resuscitated her like that? She smiled, she breathed vigorously, as if she - were relieved of the enormous weight which had so long crushed and immured - her. But when he asked the cause of her great happiness she said: - </p> - <p> - “I will not tell you yet, my friend. Perhaps I do wrong to rejoice; for - everything is still very vague and doubtful. Only somebody told me this - morning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. When I - have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tell you - everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So have a - little patience, some evening you shall come to dinner with me here, and - we shall have the whole evening before us to chat at our ease. But ah! <i>mon - Dieu</i>! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle at last!” - </p> - <p> - More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. He - saw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did not - even question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, not to say - automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had lately completed his - sixty-ninth year; thirty years had gone by since the death of his wife - Valerie, more than twenty since his daughter Reine had joined her, and he - still ever lived on in his methodical, punctual manner, amid the downfall - of his existence. Never had man suffered more than he, passed through - greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse, and withal he came and went - in a careful, correct way, ever and ever prolonging his career of - mediocrity, like one whom many may have forgotten, but whom keenness of - grief has preserved. - </p> - <p> - Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of a - nature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias. - While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which he had - formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived there - absolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his own - marketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself had - been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there. - But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even to - cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who was now - white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously clean - of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he must have - spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal, sordid - avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from the money - which he paid for his bread—bread of the commonest kind, which he - purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order that he - might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the people who were - acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the house-porter - propounding the question: “When a gentleman of such quiet habits earns - eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends a cent, what - can he do with his money?” Some folks even tried to reckon up the amount - which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought that it might - perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs. - </p> - <p> - But more serious trouble declared itself. He was twice snatched away from - certain death. One day, when Denis was returning homewards across the - Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet, - watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if he had - not been grasped by his coat-tails. The poor man, on recovering his - self-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked of having - felt giddy. Then, on another occasion, at the works, Victor Moineaud - pushed him away from some machinery in motion at the very moment when, as - if hypnotized, he was about to surrender himself to its devouring - clutches. Then he again smiled, and acknowledged that he had done wrong in - passing so near to the wheels. After this he was watched, for people came - to the conclusion that he occasionally lost his head. If Denis retained - him as chief accountant, this was, firstly, from a feeling of gratitude - for his long services; but, apart from that matter, the extraordinary - thing was that Morange had never discharged his duties more ably, - obstinately tracing every doubtful centime in his books, and displaying - the greatest accuracy over the longest additions. Always showing a calm - and restful face, as though no tempest had ever assailed his heart, he - clung tightly to his mechanical life, like a discreet maniac, who, though - people might not know it, ought, perhaps, to have been placed under - restraint. - </p> - <p> - At the same time, it should be mentioned that for some few years already - there had been quite a big affair in Morange’s life. Although he was - Constance’s confidant, although she had made him her creature by the force - of her despotic will, he had gradually conceived the greatest affection - for Denis’s daughter, Hortense. As this child grew up, he fancied that he - found in her his own long-mourned daughter, Reine. She had recently - completed her ninth year, and each time that Morange met her he was thrown - into a state of emotion and adoration, the more touching since it was all - a divine illusion on his part, for the two girls in no wise resembled each - other, the one having been extremely dark, and the other being nearly - fair. In spite of his terrible avarice, the accountant loaded Hortense - with dolls and sweetmeats on every possible occasion; and at last his - affection for the child absorbed him to such a degree that Constance felt - offended by it. She thereupon gave him to understand that whosoever was - not entirely on her side was, in reality, against her. - </p> - <p> - To all appearance, he made his submission; in reality, he only loved the - child the more for the thwarting of his passion, and he watched for her in - order to kiss her in secret. In his daily intercourse with Constance, in - showing apparent fidelity to the former mistress of the works, he now - simply yielded to fear, like the poor weak being he was, one whom - Constance had ever bent beneath her stern hand. The pact between them was - an old one, it dated from that monstrous thing which they alone knew, that - complicity of which they never spoke, but which bound them so closely - together. - </p> - <p> - He, with his weak, good nature, seemed from that day to have remained - annihilated, tamed, cowed like a frightened animal. Since that day, too, - he had learnt many other things, and now no secret of the house remained - unknown to him. This was not surprising. He had been living there so many - years. He had so often walked to and fro with his short, discreet, - maniacal step, hearing, seeing, and surprising everything! However, this - madman, who knew the truth and who remained silent—this madman, left - free amid the mysterious drama enacted in the Beauchenes’ home, was - gradually coming to a rebellious mood, particularly since he was compelled - to hide himself to kiss his little friend Hortense. His heart growled at - the thought of it, and he felt ready to explode should his passion be - interfered with. - </p> - <p> - All at once, one evening, Constance kept him to dinner. And he suspected - that the hour of her revelations had come, on seeing how she quivered and - how erectly she carried her little figure, like a fighter henceforth - certain of victory. Nevertheless, although the servant left them alone - after bringing in at one journey the whole of the frugal repast, she did - not broach the great affair at table. She spoke of the factory and then of - Denis and his wife Marthe, whom she criticised, and she was even so - foolish as to declare that Hortense was badly behaved, ugly, and destitute - of grace. The accountant, like the coward he was, listened to her, never - daring to protest in spite of the irritation and rebellion of his whole - being. - </p> - <p> - “Well, we shall see,” she said at last, “when one and all are put back - into their proper places.” - </p> - <p> - Then she waited until they returned to the little drawing-room, and the - doors were shut behind them; and it was only then, near the fire, amid the - deep silence of the winter evening, that she spoke out on the subject - which she had at heart: - </p> - <p> - “As I think I have already told you, my friend, I have need of you. You - must obtain employment at the works for a young man in whom I am - interested. And if you desire to please me, you will even take him into - your own office.” - </p> - <p> - Morange, who was seated in front of her on the other side of the - chimney-piece, gave her a look of surprise. - </p> - <p> - “But I am not the master,” he replied; “apply to the master, he will - certainly do whatever you ask.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I do not wish to be indebted to Denis in any way. Besides, that would - not suit my plans. You yourself must recommend the young man, and take him - as an assistant, coaching him and giving him a post under you. Come, you - surely have the power to choose a clerk. Besides, I insist on it.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke like a sovereign, and he bowed his back, for he had obeyed - people all his life; first his wife, then his daughter, and now that - dethroned old queen who terrified him in spite of the dim feeling of - rebellion which had been growing within him for some time past. - </p> - <p> - “No doubt, I might take the young man on,” he said, “but who is he?” - </p> - <p> - Constance did not immediately reply. She had turned towards the fire, - apparently for the purpose of raising a log of wood with the tongs, but in - reality to give herself time for further reflection. What good would it do - to tell him everything at once? She would some day be forced to tell it - him, if she wished to have him entirely on her side; but there was no - hurry, and she fancied that it would be skilful policy if at present she - merely prepared the ground. - </p> - <p> - “He is a young man whose position has touched me, on account of certain - recollections,” she replied. “Perhaps you remember a girl who worked here—oh! - a very long time ago, some thirty years at the least—a certain - Norine Moineaud, one of old Moineaud’s daughters.” - </p> - <p> - Morange had hastily raised his head, and as sudden light flashed on his - memory he looked at Constance with dilated eyes. Before he could even - weigh his words he let everything escape him in a cry of surprise: - “Alexandre-Honore, Norine’s son, the child of Rougemont!” - </p> - <p> - Quite thunderstruck by those words, Constance dropped the tongs she was - holding, and gazed into the old man’s eyes, diving to the very depths of - his soul. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! you know, then!” she said. “What is it you know? You must tell me; - hide nothing. Speak! I insist on it!” - </p> - <p> - What he knew? Why, he knew everything. He spoke slowly and at length, as - from the depths of a dream. He had witnessed everything, learnt everything—Norine’s - trouble, the money given by Beauchene to provide for her at Madame - Bourdieu’s, the child carried to the Foundling Hospital and then put out - to nurse at Rougemont, whence he had fled after stealing three hundred - francs. And the old accountant was even aware that the young scamp, after - stranding on the pavement of Paris, had led the vilest of lives there. - </p> - <p> - “But who told you all that? How do you know all that?” cried Constance, - who felt full of anxiety. - </p> - <p> - He waved his arm with a vague, sweeping gesture, as if to take in all the - surrounding atmosphere, the whole house. He knew those things because they - were things pertaining to the place, which people had told him of, or - which he had guessed. He could no longer remember exactly how they had - reached him. But he knew them well. - </p> - <p> - “You understand,” said he, “when one has been in a place for more than - thirty years, things end by coming to one naturally. I know everything, - everything.” - </p> - <p> - Constance started and deep silence fell. He, with his eyes fixed on the - embers, had sunk back into the dolorous past. She reflected that it was, - after all, preferable that the position should be perfectly plain. Since - he was acquainted with everything, it was only needful that she, with all - determination and bravery, should utilize him as her docile instrument. - </p> - <p> - “Alexandre-Honore, the child of Rougemont,” she said. “Yes! that is the - young man whom I have at last found again. But are you also aware of the - steps which I took twelve years ago, when I despaired of finding him, and - actually thought him dead?” - </p> - <p> - Morange nodded affirmatively, and she again went on speaking, relating - that she had long since renounced her old plans, when all at once destiny - had revealed itself to her. - </p> - <p> - “Imagine a flash of lightning!” she exclaimed. “It was on the morning of - the day when you found me so moved! My sister-in-law, Seraphine, who does - not call on me four times a year, came here, to my great surprise, at ten - o’clock. She has become very strange, as you are aware, and I did not at - first pay any attention to the story which she began to relate to me—the - story of a young man whom she had become acquainted with through some lady—an - unfortunate young man who had been spoilt by bad company, and whom one - might save by a little help. Then what a blow it was, my friend, when she - all at once spoke out plainly, and told me of the discovery which she had - made by chance. I tell you, it is destiny awaking and striking!” - </p> - <p> - The story was indeed curious. Prematurely aged though she was, Seraphine, - amid her growing insanity, continued to lead a wild, rackety life, and the - strangest stories were related of her. A singular caprice of hers, given - her own viciousness, was to join, as a lady patroness, a society whose - purpose was to succor and moralize young offenders on their release from - prison. And it was in this wise that she had become acquainted with - Alexandre-Honore, now a big fellow of two-and-thirty, who had just - completed a term of six years’ imprisonment. He had ended by telling her - his true story, speaking of Rougemont, naming Norine his mother, and - relating the fruitless efforts that he had made in former years to - discover his father, who was some immensely wealthy man. In the midst of - it, Seraphine suddenly understood everything, and in particular why it was - that his face had seemed so familiar to her. His striking resemblance to - Beauchene sufficed to throw a vivid light upon the question of his - parentage. For fear of worry, she herself told him nothing, but as she - remembered how passionately Constance had at one time striven to find him, - she went to her and acquainted her with her discovery. - </p> - <p> - “He knows nothing as yet,” Constance explained to Morange. “My - sister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who will - find him a good situation. It appears that he now asks nothing better than - to work. If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, there have - been many excuses for it! And, besides, I will answer for him as soon as - he is in my hands; he will then only do as I tell him.” - </p> - <p> - All that Constance knew respecting Alexandre’s recent years was a story - which he had concocted and retailed to Seraphine—a story to the - effect that he owed his long term of imprisonment to a woman, the real - culprit, who had been his mistress and whom he had refused to denounce. Of - course that imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out - of the twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the six - others, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominy - and crime. On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had a - restful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmer - and keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer. And - cleansed, clad, and schooled by Seraphine, he had almost become a - presentable young man. - </p> - <p> - Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had been - staring so fixedly. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do you want to do with him?” he inquired. “Does he write a - decent hand?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, his handwriting is good. No doubt, however, he knows very little. It - is for that reason that I wish to intrust him to you. You will polish him - up for me and make him conversant with everything. My desire is that in a - year or two he should know everything about the factory, like a master.” - </p> - <p> - At that last word which enlightened him, the accountant’s good sense - suddenly awoke. Amid the manias which were wrecking his mind, he had - remained a man of figures with a passion for arithmetical accuracy, and he - protested. - </p> - <p> - “Well, madame, since you wish me to assist you, pray tell me everything; - tell me in what work we can employ this young man here. Really now, you - surely cannot hope through him to regain possession of the factory, - re-purchase the shares, and become sole owner of the place?” - </p> - <p> - Then, with the greatest logic and clearness, he showed how foolish such a - dream would be, enumerating figures and fully setting forth how large a - sum of money would be needed to indemnify Denis, who was installed in the - place like a conqueror. - </p> - <p> - “Besides, dear madame, I don’t understand why you should take that young - man rather than another. He has no legal rights, as you must be aware. He - could never be anything but a stranger here, and I should prefer an - intelligent, honest man, acquainted with our line of business.” - </p> - <p> - Constance had set to work poking the fire logs with the tongs. When she at - last looked up she thrust her face towards the other’s, and said in a low - voice, but violently: “Alexandre is my husband’s son, he is the heir. He - is not the stranger. The stranger is that Denis, that son of the Froments, - who has robbed us of our property! You rend my heart; you make it bleed, - my friend, by forcing me to tell you this.” - </p> - <p> - The answer she thus gave was the answer of a conservative bourgeoise, who - held that it would be more just if the inheritance should go to an - illegitimate scion of the house rather than to a stranger. Doubtless the - woman, the wife, the mother within her, bled even as she herself - acknowledged, but she sacrificed everything to her rancor; she would drive - the stranger away even if in doing so her own flesh should be lacerated. - Then, too, it vaguely seemed to her that her husband’s son must be in some - degree her own, since his father was likewise the father of the son to - whom she had given birth, and who was dead. Besides, she would make that - young fellow her son; she would direct him, she would compel him to be - hers, to work through her and for her. - </p> - <p> - “You wish to know how I shall employ him in the place,” she resumed. “I - myself don’t know. It is evident that I shall not easily find the hundreds - of thousands of francs which may be required. Your figures are accurate, - and it is possible that we may never have the money to buy back the - property. But, all the same, why not fight, why not try? And, besides—I - will admit it—suppose we are vanquished, well then, so much the - worse for the other. For I assure you that if this young man will only - listen to me, he will then become the agent of destruction, the avenger - and punisher, implanted in the factory to wreck it!” - </p> - <p> - With a gesture which summoned ruin athwart the walls, she finished - expressing her abominable hopes. Among her vague plans, reared upon hate, - was that of employing the wretched Alexandre as a destructive weapon, - whose ravages would bring her some relief. Should she lose all other - battles, that would assuredly be the final one. And she had attained to - this pitch of madness through the boundless despair in which the loss of - her only son had plunged her, withered, consumed by a love which she could - not content, then demented, perverted to the point of crime. - </p> - <p> - Morange shuddered when, with her stubborn fierceness, she concluded: “For - twelve years past I have been waiting for a stroke of destiny, and here it - is! I would rather perish than not draw from it the last chance of good - fortune which it brings me!” - </p> - <p> - This meant that Denis’s ruin was decided on, and would be effected if - destiny were willing. And the old accountant could picture the disaster: - innocent children struck down in the person of their father, a great and - most unjust catastrophe, which made his kindly heart rise in rebellion. - Would he allow that fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud all - that he knew? Doubtless the memory of the other crime, the first one, the - monstrous buried crime about which they both kept silence, returned at - that horrible moment and shone out disturbingly in his eyes, for she - herself shuddered as if she could see it there, while with the view of - mastering him she gazed at him fixedly. For a moment, as they peered into - one another’s eyes, they lived once more beside the murderous trap, and - shivered in the cold gust which rose from the abyss. And this time again - Morange, like a poor weak man overpowered by a woman’s will, was - vanquished, and did not speak. - </p> - <p> - “So it is agreed, my friend,” she softly resumed. “I rely on you to take - Alexandre, in the first place, as a clerk. You can see him here one - evening at five o’clock, after dusk, for I do not wish him to know at - first what interest I take in him. Shall we say the day after to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, the evening of the day after to-morrow, if it pleases you, dear - madame.” - </p> - <p> - On the morrow Morange displayed so much agitation that the wife of the - door-porter of the house where he resided, a woman who was ever watching - him, imparted her fears to her husband. The old gentleman was certainly - going to have an attack, for he had forgotten to put on his slippers when - he came downstairs to fetch some water in the morning; and, besides, he - went on talking to himself, and looked dreadfully upset. The most - extraordinary incident of the day, however, was that after lunch Morange - quite forgot himself, and was an hour late in returning to his office, a - lack of punctuality which had no precedent, which, in the memory of - everybody at the works, had never occurred before. - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact, Morange had been carried away as by a storm, and, - walking straight before him, had once more found himself on the Grenelle - bridge, where Denis had one day saved him from the fascination of the - water. And some force, some impulse had carried him again to the very same - spot, and made him lean over the same parapet, gazing, in the same way as - previously, at the flowing river. Ever since the previous evening he had - been repeating the same words, words which he stammered in an undertone, - and which haunted and tortured him. “Would he allow that fresh crime to be - committed without shouting aloud what he knew?” No doubt it was those - words, of which he could not rid himself, that had made him forget to put - on his slippers in the morning, and that had just now again dazed him to - the point of preventing him from returning to the factory, as if he no - longer recognized the entrance as he passed it. And if he were at present - leaning over that water, had he not been impelled thither by an - unconscious desire to have done with all his troubles, an instinctive hope - of drowning the torment into which he was thrown by those stubbornly - recurring words? Down below, at the bottom of the river, those words would - at last cease; he would no longer repeat them; he would no longer hear - them urging him to an act of energy for which he could not find sufficient - strength. And the call of the water was very gentle, and it would be so - pleasant to have to struggle no longer, to yield to destiny, like a poor - soft-hearted weakling who has lived too long. - </p> - <p> - Morange leant forward more and more, and in fancy could already feel the - sonorous river seizing him, when a gay young voice in the rear recalled - him to reality. - </p> - <p> - “What are you looking at, Monsieur Morange? Are there any big fishes - there?” - </p> - <p> - It was Hortense, looking extremely pretty, and tall already for her ten - years, whom a maid was conducting on a visit to some little friends at - Auteuil. And when the distracted accountant turned round, he remained for - a moment with trembling hands, and eyes moist with tears, at the sight of - that apparition, that dear angel, who had recalled him from so far. - </p> - <p> - “What! is it you, my pet!” he exclaimed. “No, no, there are no big fishes. - I think that they hide at the bottom because the water is so cold in - winter. Are you going on a visit? You look quite beautiful in that - fur-trimmed cloak!” - </p> - <p> - The little girl began to laugh, well pleased at being flattered and loved, - for her old friend’s voice quivered with adoration. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, yes, I am very happy; there are to be some private theatricals where - I’m going. Oh! it is amusing to feel happy!” - </p> - <p> - She spoke those words like his own Reine might formerly have spoken them, - and he could have gone down on his knees to kiss her little hands like an - idol’s. - </p> - <p> - “But it is necessary that you should always be happy,” he replied. “You - look so beautiful, I must really kiss you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! you may, Monsieur Morange, I’m quite willing. Ah! you know the doll - you gave me; her name’s Margot, and you have no idea how good she is. Come - to see her some day.” - </p> - <p> - He had kissed her; and with glowing heart, ready for martyrdom, he watched - her as she went off in the pale light of winter. What he had thought of - would be too cowardly: besides, that child must be happy! - </p> - <p> - He slowly quitted the bridge, while within him the haunting words rang out - with decisive distinctness, demanding a reply: “Would he allow that fresh - crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?” No, no! It was - impossible: he would speak, he would act. Nevertheless, his mind remained - clouded, befogged. How could he speak, how could he act? - </p> - <p> - Then, to crown his extravagant conduct, utterly breaking away from the - habits of forty years, he no sooner returned to the office than, instead - of immediately plunging into his everlasting additions, he began to write - a long letter. This letter, which was addressed to Mathieu, recounted the - whole affair—Alexandre’s resurrection, Constance’s plans, and the - service which he himself had promised to render her. These things were set - down simply as his impulse dictated, like a kind of confession by which he - relieved his feelings. He had not yet come to any positive decision as to - how he should play the part of a justiciar, which seemed so heavy to his - shoulders. His one purpose was to warn Mathieu in order that there might - be two of them to decide and act. And he simply finished by asking the - other to come to see him on the following evening, though not before six - o’clock, as he desired to see Alexandre and learn how the interview passed - off, and what Constance might require of the young man. - </p> - <p> - The ensuing night, the ensuing day, must have been full of abominable - torment for Morange. The doorkeeper’s wife recounted, later on, that the - fourth-floor tenant had heard the old gentleman walking about overhead all - through the night. Doors were slammed, and furniture was dragged about as - if for a removal. It was even thought that one could detect cries, sobs, - and the monologues of a madman addressing phantoms, some mysterious - rendering of worship to the dead who haunted him. And at the works during - the day which followed Morange gave alarming signs of distress, of the - final sinking of his mind into a flood of gloom. Ever darting troubled - glances around him, he was tortured by internal combats, which, without - the slightest motive, made him descend the stairs a dozen times, linger - before the machinery in motion, and then return to his additions up above, - with the bewildered, distracted air of one who could not find what he - sought so painfully. When the darkness fell, about four o’clock on that - gloomy winter day, the two clerks whom he had with him in his office - noticed that he altogether ceased working. From that moment, indeed, he - waited with his eyes fixed upon the clock. And when five o’clock struck he - once more made sure that a certain total was correct, then rose and went - out, leaving the ledger open, as if he meant to return to check the next - addition. - </p> - <p> - He followed the gallery which led to the passage connecting the workshops - with the private house. The whole factory was at that hour lighted up, - electric lamps cast the brightness of daylight over it, while the stir of - work ascended and the walls shook amid the rumbling of machinery. And all - at once, before reaching the passage, Morange perceived the lift, the - terrible cavity, the abyss of murder in which Blaise had met his death - fourteen years previously. Subsequent to that catastrophe, and in order to - prevent the like of it from ever occurring again, the trap had been - surrounded by a balustrade with a gate, in such wise that a fall became - impossible unless one should open the gate expressly to take a plunge. At - that moment the trap was lowered and the gate was closed, and Morange, - yielding to some superior force, bent over the cavity, shuddering. The - whole scene of long ago rose up before him; he was again in the depths of - that frightful void; he could see the crushed corpse; and he could feel - the gust of terror chilling him in the presence of murder, accepted and - concealed. Since he suffered so dreadfully, since he could no longer - sleep, since he had promised his dear dead ones that he would join them, - why should he not make an end of himself? Two days previously, while - leaning over the parapet of the Grenelle bridge, a desire to do so had - taken possession of him. He merely had to lose his equilibrium and he - would be liberated, laid to rest in the peaceful earth between his wife - and his daughter. And, all at once, as if the abyss itself suggested to - him the frightful solution for which he had been vainly groping, in his - growing madness, for two days past, he thought that he could hear a voice - calling him from below, the voice of Blaise, which cried: “Come with the - other one! Come with the other one!” - </p> - <p> - He started violently and drew himself erect; decision had fallen on him in - a lightning flash. Insane as he was, that appeared to him to be the one - sole logical, mathematical, sensible solution, which would settle - everything. It seemed to him so simple, too, that he was astonished that - he had sought it so long. And from that moment this poor soft-hearted - weakling, whose wretched brain was unhinged, gave proof of iron will and - sovereign heroism, assisted by the clearest reasoning, the most subtle - craft. - </p> - <p> - In the first place he prepared everything, set the catch to prevent the - trap from being sent up again in his absence, and also assured himself - that the balustrade door opened and closed easily. He came and went with a - light, aerial step, as if carried off his feet, with his eyes ever on the - alert, anxious as he was to be neither seen nor heard. At last he - extinguished the three electric lamps and plunged the gallery into - darkness. From below, through the gaping cavity the stir of the working - factory, the rumbling of the machinery ever ascended. And it was only - then, everything being ready, that Morange turned into the passage to - betake himself to the little drawing room of the mansion. - </p> - <p> - Constance was there waiting for him with Alexandre. She had given - instructions for the latter to call half-an-hour earlier, for she wished - to confess him while as yet telling him nothing of the real position which - she meant him to take in the house. She was not disposed to place herself - all at once at his mercy, and had therefore simply expressed her - willingness to give him employment in accordance with the recommendation - of her relative, the Baroness de Lowicz. Nevertheless, she studied him - with restrained ardor, and was well pleased to find that he was strong, - sturdy, and resolute, with a hard face lighted by terrible eyes, which - promised her an avenger. She would finish polishing him up, and then he - would suit her perfectly. For his part, without plainly understanding the - truth, he scented something, divined that his fortune was at hand, and was - quite ready to wait awhile for the certain feast, like a young wolf who - consents to be domesticated in order that he may, later on, devour the - whole flock at his ease. - </p> - <p> - When Morange went in only one thing struck him, Alexandre’s resemblance to - Beauchene, that extraordinary resemblance which had already upset - Constance, and which now sent an icy chill through the old accountant as - if in purposing to carry out his idea he had condemned his old master. - </p> - <p> - “I was waiting for you, my friend; you are late, you who are so punctual - as a rule,” said Constance. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, there was a little work which I wished to finish.” - </p> - <p> - But she had merely been jesting, she felt so happy. And she immediately - settled everything: “Well, here is the gentleman whom I spoke about,” she - said. “You will begin by taking him with you and making him acquainted - with the business, even if in the first instance you can merely send him - about on commissions for you. It is understood, is it not?” - </p> - <p> - “Quite so, dear madame, I will take him with me; you may rely on me.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as she gave Alexandre his dismissal, saying that he might come on - the morrow, Morange offered to show him out by way of his office and the - workshops, which were still open. - </p> - <p> - “In that way he will form an acquaintance with the works, and can come - straight to me to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Constance laughed again, so fully did the accountant’s obligingness - reassure her. - </p> - <p> - “That is a good idea, my friend,” she said. “Thank you. And au revoir, - monsieur; we will take charge of your future if you behave sensibly.” - </p> - <p> - At this moment, however, she was thunderstruck by an extravagant and - seemingly senseless incident. Morange, having shown Alexandre out of the - little salon, in advance of himself, turned round towards her with the - sudden grimace of a madman, revealing his insanity by the distortion of - his countenance. And in a low, familiar, sneering voice, he stammered in - her face: “Ha! ha! Blaise at the bottom of the hole! He speaks, he has - spoken to me! Ha! ha! the somersault! you would have the somersault! And - you shall have it again, the somersault, the somersault!” - </p> - <p> - Then he disappeared, following Alexandre. - </p> - <p> - She had listened to him agape with wonder. It was all so unforeseen, so - idiotic, that at first she did not understand it. But afterwards what a - flash of light came to her! That which Morange had referred to was the - murder yonder—the thing to which they had never referred, the - monstrous thing which they had kept buried for fourteen years past, which - their glances only had confessed, but which, all of a sudden, he had cast - in her teeth with the grimace of a madman. What was the meaning of the - poor fool’s diabolical rebellion, the dim threat which she had felt - passing like a gust from an abyss? She turned frightfully pale, she - intuitively foresaw some frightful revenge of destiny, that destiny which, - only a moment previously, she had believed to be her minion. Yes, it was - surely that. And she felt herself carried fourteen years backward, and she - remained standing, quivering, icy cold, listening to the sounds which - arose from the works, waiting for the awful thud of the fall, even as on - the distant day when she had listened and waited for the other to be - crushed and killed. - </p> - <p> - Meantime Morange, with his discreet, short step, was leading Alexandre - away, and speaking to him in a quiet, good-natured voice. - </p> - <p> - “I must ask your pardon for going first, but I have to show you the way. - Oh! this is a very intricate place, with stairs and passages whose turns - and twists never end. The passage now turns to the left, you see.” - </p> - <p> - Then, on reaching the gallery where the darkness was complete, he affected - anger in the most natural manner possible. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! well, that is just their way. They haven’t yet lighted up this part. - The switch is at the other end. Fortunately I know where to step, for I - have been going backwards and forwards here for the last forty years. Mind - follow me carefully.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon, at each successive step, he warned the other what he ought to - do, guiding him along in his obliging way without the faintest tremor in - his voice. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t let go of me, turn to the left.—Now we merely have to go - straight ahead.—Only, wait a moment, a barrier intersects the - gallery, and there is a gate.—There we are! I’m opening the gate, - you hear?—Follow me, I’ll go first.” - </p> - <p> - Morange quietly stepped into the void, amid the darkness. And, without a - cry, he fell. Alexandre who was close in the rear, almost touching him so - as not to lose him, certainly detected the void and the gust which - followed the fall, as with sudden horror the flooring failed beneath them; - but force of motion carried him on, he stepped forward in his turn, howled - and likewise fell, head over heels. Both were smashed below, both killed - at once. True, Morange still breathed for a few seconds. Alexandre, for - his part, lay with his skull broken to pieces and his brains scattered on - the very spot where Blaise had been picked up. - </p> - <p> - Horrible was the stupefaction when those bodies were found there. Nobody - could explain the catastrophe. Morange carried off his secret, the reason - for that savage act of justice which he had accomplished according to the - chance suggestions of his dementia. Perhaps he had wished to punish - Constance, perhaps he had desired to repair the old wrong: Denis long - since stricken in the person of his brother, and now saved for the sake of - his daughter Hortense, who would live happily with Margot, the pretty doll - who was so good. By suppressing the criminal instrument the old accountant - had indeed averted the possibility of a fresh crime. Swayed by his fixed - idea, however, he had doubtless never reasoned that cataclysmic deed of - justice, which was above reason, and which passed by with the impassive - savagery of a death-dealing hurricane. - </p> - <p> - At the works there was but one opinion, Morange had assuredly been mad; - and he alone could have caused the accident, particularly as it was - impossible to account, otherwise than by an act of madness, for the - extinguishing of the lights, the opening of the balustrade-door, and the - plunge into the cavity which he knew to be there, and into which had - followed him the unfortunate young man his companion. Moreover, the - accountant’s madness was no longer doubted by anybody a few days later, - when the doorkeeper of his house related his final eccentricities, and a - commissary of police went to search his rooms. He had been mad, mad enough - to be placed in confinement. - </p> - <p> - To begin, nobody had ever seen a flat in such an extraordinary condition, - the kitchen a perfect stable, the drawing-room in a state of utter - abandonment with its Louis XIV. furniture gray with dust, and the - dining-room all topsy-turvy, the old oak tables and chairs being piled up - against the window as if to shut out every ray of light, though nobody - could tell why. The only properly kept room was that in which Reine had - formerly slept, which was as clean as a sanctuary, with its pitch-pine - furniture as bright as if it had been polished every day. But the - apartment in which Morange’s madness became unmistakably manifest was his - own bedchamber, which he had turned into a museum of souvenirs, covering - its walls with photographs of his wife and daughter. Above a table there, - the wall facing the window quite disappeared from view, for a sort of - little chapel had been set up, decked with a multitude of portraits. In - the centre were photographs of Valerie and Reine, both of them at twenty - years of age, so that they looked like twin sisters; while symmetrically - disposed all around was an extraordinary number of other portraits, again - showing Valerie and Reine, now as children, now as girls, and now as - women, in every sort of position, too, and every kind of toilet. And below - them on the table, like an offering on an altar, was found more than one - hundred thousand francs, in gold, and silver, and even copper; indeed, the - whole fortune which Morange had been saving up for several years by eating - only dry bread, like a pauper. - </p> - <p> - At last, then, one knew what he had done with his savings; he had given - them to his dead wife and daughter, who had remained his will, passion, - and ambition. Haunted by remorse at having killed them while dreaming of - making them rich, he reserved for them that money which they had so keenly - desired, and which they would have spent with so much ardor. It was still - and ever for them that he earned it, and he took it to them, lavished it - upon them, never devoting even a tithe of it to any egotistical pleasure, - absorbed as he was in his vision-fraught worship and eager to pacify and - cheer their spirits. And the whole neighborhood gossiped endlessly about - the old mad gentleman who had let himself die of wretchedness by the side - of a perfect treasure, piled coin by coin upon a table, and for twenty - years past tendered to the portraits of his wife and daughter, even as - flowers might have been offered to their memory. - </p> - <p> - About six o’clock, when Mathieu reached the works, he found the place - terrified by the catastrophe. Ever since the morning he had been rendered - anxious by Morange’s letter, which had greatly surprised and worried him - with that extraordinary story of Alexandre turning up once more, being - welcomed by Constance, and introduced by her into the establishment. Plain - as was the greater part of the letter, it contained some singularly - incoherent passages, and darted from one point to another with - incomprehensible suddenness. Mathieu had read it three times, indulging on - each occasion in fresh hypotheses of a gloomier and gloomier nature; for - the more he reflected, the more did the affair seem to him to be fraught - with menace. Then, on reaching the rendezvous appointed by Morange, he - found himself in presence of those bleeding bodies which Victor Moineaud - had just picked up and laid out side by side! Silent, chilled to his - bones, Mathieu listened to his son, Denis, who had hastened up to tell him - of the unexplainable misfortune, the two men falling one atop of the - other, first the old mad accountant, and then the young fellow whom nobody - knew and who seemed to have dropped from heaven. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, for his part, had immediately recognized Alexandre, and if, pale - and terrified, he kept silent on the subject, it was because he desired to - take nobody, not even his son, into his confidence, given the fresh - suppositions, the frightful suppositions, which now arose in his mind from - out of all the darkness. He listened with growing anxiety to the - enumeration of the few points which were certain: the extinguishing of the - electric lights in the gallery and the opening of the balustrade door, - which was always kept closed and could only have been opened by some - habitue, since, to turn the handle, one had to press a secret spring which - kept it from moving. And, all at once, as Victor Moineaud pointed out that - the old man had certainly been the first to fall, since one of the young - man’s legs had been stretched across his stomach, Mathieu was carried - fourteen years backward. He remembered old Moineaud picking up Blaise on - the very spot where Victor, the son, had just picked up Morange and - Alexandre. Blaise! At the thought of his dead boy fresh light came to - Mathieu, a frightful suspicion blazed up amid the terrible obscurity in - which he had been groping and doubting. And, thereupon, leaving Denis to - settle everything down below, he decided to see Constance. - </p> - <p> - Up above, however, when Mathieu was on the point of turning into the - communicating passage, he paused once more, this time near the lift. It - was there, fourteen years previously, that Morange, finding the trap open, - had gone down to warn and chide the workmen, while Constance, according to - her own account, had quietly returned into the house, at the very moment - when Blaise, coming from the other end of the dim gallery, plunged into - the gulf. Everybody had eventually accepted that narrative as being - accurate, but Mathieu now felt that it was mendacious. He could recall - various glances, various words, various spells of silence; and sudden - certainty came upon him, a certainty based on all the petty things which - he had not then understood, but which now assumed the most frightful - significance. Yes, it was certain, even though round it there hovered the - monstrous vagueness of silent crimes, cowardly crimes, over which a shadow - of horrible mystery always lurks. Moreover, it explained the sequel, those - two bodies lying below, as far, that is, as logical reasoning can explain - a madman’s action with all its gaps and mysteriousness. Nevertheless, - Mathieu still strove to doubt; before anything else he wished to see - Constance. - </p> - <p> - Showing a waxy pallor, she had remained erect, motionless, in the middle - of her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously had - begun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxiety that - she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, no sound of - footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could be happening then? - Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely a nightmare after all? - Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she had fully understood him. - Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reached her ears? And now, had - not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It was death, the factory - silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once her heart ceased beating as - she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer with increased - rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieu who came in. - </p> - <p> - She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? How - was it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the one - whom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she would - not have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition of the - father. - </p> - <p> - She did not speak. He simply said: “They made the plunge, they are both - dead—like Blaise.” - </p> - <p> - Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a moment their - eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder was begun - afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead, one atop - of the other. - </p> - <p> - “Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And how - much blood there is upon you!” - </p> - <p> - By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up and - even increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud that - she was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, and would - ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a final - revelation. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know, then, that that ruffian, Alexandre, was one of the - murderers of your friend, Madame Angelin, the poor woman who was robbed - and strangled one winter afternoon. I compassionately hid that from you. - But he would now be at the galleys had I spoken out! And if I were to - speak to-day you would be there too!” - </p> - <p> - That was the hatchet-stroke. She did not speak, but dropped, all of a - lump, upon the carpet, like a tree which has been felled. This time her - defeat was complete; destiny, which she awaited, had turned against her - and thrown her to the ground. A mother the less, perverted by the love - which she had set on her one child, a mother duped, robbed, and maddened, - who had glided into murder amid the dementia born of inconsolable - motherliness! And now she lay there, stretched out, scraggy and withered, - poisoned by the affection which she had been unable to bestow. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu became anxious, and summoned the old servant, who, after procuring - assistance, carried her mistress to her bed and then undressed her. - Meantime, as Constance gave no sign of life, seized as she was by one of - those fainting fits which often left her quite breathless, Mathieu himself - went for Boutan, and meeting him just as he was returning home for dinner, - was luckily able to bring him back at once. - </p> - <p> - Boutan, who was now nearly seventy-two, and was quietly spending his last - years in serene cheerfulness, born of his hope in life, had virtually - ceased practising, only attending a very few old patients, his friends. - However, he did not refuse Mathieu’s request. When he had examined - Constance he made a gesture of hopelessness, the meaning of which was so - plain that Mathieu, his anxiety increasing, bethought himself of trying to - find Beauchene in order that the latter might, at least, be present if his - wife should die. But the old servant, on being questioned, began by - raising her arms to heaven. She did not know where Monsieur might be, - Monsieur never left any address. At last, feeling frightened herself, she - made up her mind to hasten to the abode of the two women, aunt and niece, - with whom Beauchene spent the greater part of his time. She knew their - address perfectly well, as her mistress had even sent her thither in - pressing emergencies. But she learnt that the ladies had gone with - Monsieur to Nice for a holiday; whereupon, not desiring to return without - some member of the family, she was seized on her way back with the fine - idea of calling on Monsieur’s sister, the Baroness de Lowicz, whom she - brought, almost by force, in her cab. - </p> - <p> - It was in vain that Boutan attempted treatment. When Constance opened her - eyes again, she looked at him fixedly, recognized him, no doubt, and then - lowered her eyelids. And from that moment she obstinately refused to reply - to any question that was put to her. She must have heard and have known - that people were there, trying to succor her. But she would have none of - their succor, she was stubbornly intent on dying, on giving no further - sign of life. Neither did she raise her eyelids, nor did her lips part - again. It was as if she had already quitted the world amid the mute agony - of her defeat. - </p> - <p> - That evening Seraphine’s manner was extremely strange. She reeked of - ether, for she drank ether now. When she heard of the two-fold “accident,” - the death of Morange and that of Alexandre, which had brought on - Constance’s cardiacal attack, she simply gave an insane grin, a kind of - involuntary snigger, and stammered: “Ah! that’s funny.” - </p> - <p> - Though she removed neither her hat nor her gloves, she installed herself - in an armchair, where she sat waiting, with her eyes wide open and staring - straight before her—those brown eyes flecked with gold, whose living - light was all that she had retained of her massacred beauty. At sixty-two - she looked like a centenarian; her bold, insolent face was ravined, as it - were, by her stormy life, and the glow of her sun-like hair had been - extinguished by a shower of ashes. And time went on, midnight approached, - and she was still there, near that death-bed of which she seemed to be - ignorant, in that quivering chamber where she forgot herself, similar to a - mere thing, apparently no longer even knowing why she had been brought - thither. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu and Boutan had been unwilling to retire. Since Monsieur was at - Nice in the company of those ladies, the aunt and the niece, they decided - to spend the night there in order that Constance might not be left alone - with the old servant. And towards midnight, while they were chatting - together in undertones, they were suddenly stupefied at hearing Seraphine - raise her voice, after preserving silence for three hours. - </p> - <p> - “He is dead, you know,” said she. - </p> - <p> - Who was dead? At last they understood that she referred to Dr. Gaude. The - celebrated surgeon, had, indeed, been found in his consulting-room struck - down by sudden death, the cause of which was not clearly known. In fact, - the strangest, the most horrible and tragical stories were current on the - subject. According to one of them a patient had wreaked vengeance on the - doctor; and Mathieu, full of emotion, recalled that one day, long ago, - Seraphine herself had suggested that all Gaude’s unhappy patients ought to - band themselves together and put an end to him. - </p> - <p> - When Seraphine perceived that Mathieu was gazing at her, as in a - nightmare, moved by the shuddering silence of that death-watch, she once - more grinned like a lunatic, and said: “He is dead, we were all there!” - </p> - <p> - It was insane, improbable, impossible; and yet was it true or was it - false? A cold, terrifying quiver swept by, the icy quiver of mystery, of - that which one knows not, which one will never know. - </p> - <p> - Boutan leant towards Mathieu and whispered in his ear: “She will be raving - mad and shut up in a padded cell before a week is over.” And, indeed, a - week later the Baroness de Lowicz was wearing a straight waistcoat. In her - case Dr. Gaude’s treatment had led to absolute insanity. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu and Boutan watched beside Constance until daybreak. She never - opened her lips, nor raised her eyelids. As the sun rose up, she turned - towards the wall, and then she died. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXII - </h2> - <p> - STILL more years passed, and Mathieu was already sixty-eight and Marianne - sixty-five, when amid the increasing good fortune which they owed to their - faith in life, and their long courageous hopefulness, a last battle, the - most dolorous of their existence, almost struck them down and sent them to - the grave, despairing and inconsolable. - </p> - <p> - One evening Marianne went to bed, quivering, utterly distracted. Quite a - rending was taking place in the family. A disastrous and hateful quarrel - had set the mill, where Gregoire reigned supreme, against the farm which - was managed by Gervais and Claire. And Ambroise, on being selected as - arbiter, had fanned the flames by judging the affair in a purely business - way from his Paris counting-house, without taking into account the various - passions which were kindled. - </p> - <p> - It was on returning from a secret application to Ambroise, prompted by a - maternal longing for peace, that Marianne had taken to her bed, wounded to - the heart, and terrified by the thought of the future. Ambroise had - received her roughly, almost brutally, and she had gone back home in a - state of intense anguish, feeling as if her own flesh were lacerated by - the quarrelling of her ungrateful sons. And she had kept her bed, begging - Mathieu to say nothing, and explaining that a doctor’s services would be - useless, since she did not suffer from any malady. She was fading away, - however, as he could well detect; she was day by day taking leave of him, - carried off by her bitter grief. Was it possible that all those loving and - well-loved children, who had grown up under their care and their caresses, - who had become the joy and pride of their victory, all those children born - of their love, united in their fidelity, a sacred brotherly, sisterly - battalion gathered close around them, was it possible that they should now - disband and desperately seek to destroy one another? If so, it was true, - then, that the more a family increases, the greater is the harvest of - ingratitude. And still more accurate became the saying, that to judge of - any human being’s happiness or unhappiness in life, one must wait until he - be dead. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Mathieu, as he sat near Marianne’s bed, holding her feverish - hand, “to think of it! To have struggled so much, and to have triumphed so - much, and then to encounter this supreme grief, which will bring us more - pain than all the others. Decidedly it is true that one must continue - battling until one’s last breath, and that happiness is only to be won by - suffering and tears. We must still hope, still triumph, and conquer and - live.” - </p> - <p> - Marianne, however, had lost all courage, and seemed to be overwhelmed. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said she, “I have no energy left me, I am vanquished. I was always - able to heal the wounds which came from without, but this wound comes from - my own blood; my blood pours forth within me and stifles me. All our work - is destroyed. Our joy, our health, our strength, have at the last day - become mere lies.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu, whom her grievous fears of a disaster gained, went off to - weep in the adjoining room, already picturing his wife dead and himself in - utter solitude. - </p> - <p> - It was with reference to Lepailleur’s moorland, the plots intersecting the - Chantebled estate, that the wretched quarrel had broken out between the - mill and the farm. For many years already, the romantic, ivy-covered old - mill, with its ancient mossy wheel, had ceased to exist. Gregoire, at last - putting his father’s ideas into execution, had thrown it down to replace - it by a large steam mill, with spacious meal-stores which a light - railway-line connected with Janville station. And he himself, since he had - been making a big fortune—for all the wheat of the district was now - sent to him—had greatly changed, with nothing of his youthful - turbulence left save a quick temper, which his wife Therese with her - brave, loving heart alone could somewhat calm. On a score of occasions he - had almost broken off all relations with his father-in-law, Lepailleur, - who certainly abused his seventy years. Though the old miller, in spite of - all his prophecies of ruin, had been unable to prevent the building of the - new establishment, he none the less sneered and jeered at it, exasperated - as he was at having been in the wrong. He had, in fact, been beaten for - the second time. Not only did the prodigious crops of Chantebled disprove - his theory of the bankruptcy of the earth, that villainous earth in which, - like an obstinate peasant weary of toil and eager for speedy fortune, he - asserted nothing more would grow; but now that mill of his, which he had - so disdained, was born as it were afresh, growing to a gigantic size, and - becoming in his son-in-law’s hands an instrument of great wealth. - </p> - <p> - The worst was that Lepailleur so stubbornly lived on, experiencing - continual defeats, but never willing to acknowledge that he was beaten. - One sole delight remained to him, the promise given and kept by Gregoire - that he would not sell the moorland enclosure to the farm. The old man had - even prevailed on him to leave it uncultivated, and the sight of that - sterile tract intersecting the wavy greenery of the beautiful estate of - Chantebled, like a spot of desolation, well pleased his spiteful nature. - He was often to be seen strolling there, like an old king of the stones - and the brambles, drawing up his tall, scraggy figure as if he were quite - proud of the poverty of that soil. In going thither one of his objects - doubtless was to find a pretext for a quarrel; for it was he who in the - course of one of these promenades, when he displayed such provoking - insolence, discovered an encroachment on the part of the farm—an - encroachment which his comments magnified to such a degree that disastrous - consequences seemed probable. As it was, all the happiness of the Froments - was for a time destroyed. - </p> - <p> - In business matters Gregoire invariably showed the rough impulsiveness of - a man of sanguine temperament, obstinately determined to part with no - fraction of his rights. When his father-in-law told him that the farm had - impudently cleared some seven acres of his moorland, with the intention no - doubt of carrying this fine robbery even further, if it were not promptly - stopped, Gregoire at once decided to inquire into the matter, declaring - that he would not tolerate any invasion of that sort. The misfortune then - was that no boundary stones could be found. Thus, the people of the farm - might assert that they had made a mistake in all good faith, or even that - they had remained within their limits. But Lepailleur ragefully maintained - the contrary, entered into particulars, and traced what he declared to be - the proper frontier line with his stick, swearing that within a few inches - it was absolutely correct. However, matters went altogether from bad to - worse after an interview between the brothers, Gervais and Gregoire, in - the course of which the latter lost his temper and indulged in - unpardonable language. On the morrow, too, he began an action-at-law, to - which Gervais replied by threatening that he would not send another grain - of corn to be ground at the mill. And this rupture of business relations - meant serious consequences for the mill, which really owed its prosperity - to the custom of Chantebled. - </p> - <p> - From that moment matters grew worse each day, and conciliation soon seemed - to be out of the question; for Ambroise, on being solicited to find a - basis of agreement, became in his turn impassioned, and even ended by - enraging both parties. Thus the hateful ravages of that fratricidal war - were increased: there were now three brothers up in arms against one - another. And did not this forebode the end of everything; might not this - destructive fury gain the whole family, overwhelming it as with a blast of - folly and hatred after so many years of sterling good sense and strong and - healthy affection? - </p> - <p> - Mathieu naturally tried to intervene. But at the very outset he felt that - if he should fail, if his paternal authority should be disregarded, the - disaster would become irreparable. Without renouncing the struggle, he - therefore waited for some opportunity which he might turn to good account. - At the same time, each successive day of discord increased his anxiety. It - was really all his own life-work, the little people which had sprung from - him, the little kingdom which he had founded under the benevolent sun, - that was threatened with sudden ruin. A work such as this can only live by - force of love. The love which created it can alone perpetuate it; it - crumbles as soon as the bond of fraternal solidarity is broken. Thus it - seemed to Mathieu that instead of leaving his work behind him in full - florescence of kindliness, joy, and vigor, he would see it cast to the - ground in fragments, soiled, and dead even before he were dead himself. - Yet what a fruitful and prosperous work had hitherto been that estate of - Chantebled, whose overflowing fertility increased at each successive - harvest; and that mill too, so enlarged and so flourishing, which was the - outcome of his own inspiring suggestions, to say nothing of the prodigious - fortunes which his conquering sons had acquired in Paris! Yet it was all - this admirable work, which faith in life had created, that a fratricidal - onslaught upon life was about to destroy! - </p> - <p> - One evening, in the mournful gloaming of one of the last days of - September, the couch on which Marianne lay dying of silent grief was, by - her desire, rolled to the window. Charlotte alone nursed her, and of all - her sons she had but the last one, Benjamin, beside her in the now - over-spacious house which had replaced the old shooting-box. Since the - family had been at war she had kept the doors closed, intent on opening - them only to her children when they became reconciled, if they should then - seek to make her happy by coming to embrace one another beneath her roof. - But she virtually despaired of that sole cure for her grief, the only joy - that would make her live again. - </p> - <p> - That evening, as Mathieu came to sit beside her, and they lingered there - hand in hand according to their wont, they did not at first speak, but - gazed straight before them at the spreading plain; at the estate, whose - interminable fields blended with the mist far away; at the mill yonder on - the banks of the Yeuse, with its tall, smoking chimney; and at Paris - itself on the horizon, where a tawny cloud was rising as from the huge - furnace of some forge. - </p> - <p> - The minutes slowly passed away. During the afternoon Mathieu had taken a - long walk in the direction of the farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne, in the - hope of quieting his torment by physical fatigue. And in a low voice, as - if speaking to himself, he at last said: - </p> - <p> - “The ploughing could not take place under better conditions. Yonder on the - plateau the quality of the soil has been much improved by the recent - methods of cultivation; and here, too, on the slopes, the sandy soil has - been greatly enriched by the new distribution of the springs which Gervais - devised. The estate has almost doubled in value since it has been in his - hands and Claire’s. There is no break in the prosperity; labor yields - unlimited victory.” - </p> - <p> - “What is the good of it if there is no more love?” murmured Marianne. - </p> - <p> - “Then, too,” continued Mathieu, after a pause, “I went down to the Yeuse, - and from a distance I saw that Gregoire had received the new machine which - Denis has just built for him. It was being unloaded in the yard. It seems - that it imparts a certain movement to the mill-stones, which saves a good - third of the power needed. With such appliances the earth may produce seas - of corn for innumerable nations, they will all have bread. And that - mill-engine, with its regular breath and motion, will produce fresh wealth - also.” - </p> - <p> - “What use is it if people hate one another?” Marianne exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - At this Mathieu dropped the subject. But, in accordance with a resolution - which he had formed during his walk, he told his wife that he meant to go - to Paris on the morrow. And on noticing her surprise, he pretended that he - wished to see to a certain business matter, the settlement of an old - account. But the truth was, that he could no longer endure the spectacle - of his wife’s lingering agony, which brought him so much suffering. He - wished to act, to make a supreme effort at reconciliation. - </p> - <p> - At ten o’clock on the following morning, when Mathieu alighted from the - train at the Paris terminus, he drove direct to the factory at Grenelle. - Before everything else he wished to see Denis, who had hitherto taken no - part in the quarrel. For a long time now, indeed ever since Constance’s - death, Denis had been installed in the house on the quay with his wife - Marthe and their three children. This occupation of the luxurious dwelling - set apart for the master had been like a final entry into possession, with - respect to the whole works. True, Beauchene had lived several years - longer, but his name no longer figured in that of the firm. He had - surrendered his last shred of interest in the business for an annuity; and - at last one evening it was learnt that he had died that day, struck down - by an attack of apoplexy after an over-copious lunch, at the residence of - his lady-friends, the aunt and the niece. He had previously been sinking - into a state of second childhood, the outcome of his life of fast and - furious pleasure. And this, then, was the end of the egotistical - debauchee, ever going from bad to worse, and finally swept into the - gutter. - </p> - <p> - “Why! what good wind has blown you here?” cried Denis gayly, when he - perceived his father. “Have you come to lunch? I’m still a bachelor, you - know; for it is only next Monday that I shall go to fetch Marthe and the - children from Dieppe, where they have spent a delightful September.” - </p> - <p> - Then, on hearing that his mother was ailing, even in danger, he become - serious and anxious. - </p> - <p> - “Mamma ill, and in danger! You amaze me. I thought she was simply troubled - with some little indisposition. But come, father, what is really the - matter? Are you hiding something? Is something worrying you?” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon he listened to the plain and detailed statement which Mathieu - felt obliged to make to him. And he was deeply moved by it, as if the - dread of the catastrophe which it foreshadowed would henceforth upset his - life. “What!” he angrily exclaimed, “my brothers are up to these fine - pranks with their idiotic quarrel! I knew that they did not get on well - together. I had heard of things which saddened me, but I never imagined - that matters had gone so far, and that you and mamma were so affected that - you had shut yourselves up and were dying of it all! But things must be - set to rights! One must see Ambroise at once. Let us go and lunch with - him, and finish the whole business.” - </p> - <p> - Before starting he had a few orders to give, so Mathieu went down to wait - for him in the factory yard. And there, during the ten minutes which he - spent walking about dreamily, all the distant past arose before his eyes. - He could see himself a mere clerk, crossing that courtyard every morning - on his arrival from Janville, with thirty sous for his lunch in his - pocket. The spot had remained much the same; there was the central - building, with its big clock, the workshops and the sheds, quite a little - town of gray structures, surmounted by two lofty chimneys, which were ever - smoking. True, his son had enlarged this city of toil; the stretch of - ground bordered by the Rue de la Federation and the Boulevard de Grenelle - had been utilized for the erection of other buildings. And facing the quay - there still stood the large brick house with dressings of white stone, of - which Constance had been so proud, and where, with the mien of some queen - of industry, she had received her friends in her little salon hung with - yellow silk. Eight hundred men now worked in the place; the ground - quivered with the ceaseless trepidation of machinery; the establishment - had grown to be the most important of its kind in Paris, the one whence - came the finest agricultural appliances, the most powerful mechanical - workers of the soil. And it was his, Mathieu’s, son whom fortune had made - prince of that branch of industry, and it was his daughter-in-law who, - with her three strong, healthy children near her, received her friends in - the little salon hung with yellow silk. - </p> - <p> - As Mathieu, moved by his recollections, glanced towards the right, towards - the pavilion where he had dwelt with Marianne, and where Gervais had been - born, an old workman who passed, lifted his cap to him, saying, “Good day, - Monsieur Froment.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu thereupon recognized Victor Moineaud, now five-and-fifty years - old, and aged, and wrecked by labor to even a greater degree than his - father had been at the time when mother Moineaud had come to offer the - Monster her children’s immature flesh. Entering the works at sixteen years - of age, Victor, like his father, had spent forty years between the forge - and the anvil. It was iniquitous destiny beginning afresh: the most - crushing toil falling upon a beast of burden, the son hebetated after the - father, ground to death under the millstones of wretchedness and - injustice. - </p> - <p> - “Good day, Victor,” said Mathieu, “are you well?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m no longer young, Monsieur Froment,” the other replied. “I shall - soon have to look somewhere for a hole to lie in. Still, I hope it won’t - be under an omnibus.” - </p> - <p> - He alluded to the death of his father, who had finally been picked up - under an omnibus in the Rue de Grenelle, with his skull split and both - legs broken. - </p> - <p> - “But after all,” resumed Victor, “one may as well die that way as any - other! It’s even quicker. The old man was lucky in having Norine and - Cecile to look after him. If it hadn’t been for them, it’s starvation that - would have killed him, not an omnibus.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu interrupted. “Are Norine and Cecile well?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Monsieur Froment. Leastways, as far as I know, for, as you can - understand, we don’t often see one another. Them and me, that’s about all - that’s left out of our lot; for Irma won’t have anything more to do with - us since she’s become one of the toffs. Euphrasie was lucky enough to die, - and that brigand Alfred disappeared, which was real relief, I assure you; - for I feared that I should be seeing him at the galleys. And I was really - pleased when I had some news of Norine and Cecile lately. Norine is older - than I am, you know; she will soon be sixty. But she was always strong, - and her boy, it seems, looks after her. Both she and Cecile still work; - yes, Cecile still lives on, though one used to think that a fillip would - have killed her. It’s a pretty home, that one of theirs; two mothers for a - big lad of whom they’ve made a decent fellow.” - </p> - <p> - Mathieu nodded approvingly, and then remarked: “But you yourself, Victor, - had boys and girls who must now in their turn be fathers and mothers.” - </p> - <p> - The old workman waved his hand vaguely. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he, “I had eight, one more than my father. They’ve all gone - off, and they are fathers and mothers in their turn, as you say, Monsieur - Froment. It’s all chance, you know; one has to live. There are some of - them who certainly don’t eat white bread, ah! that they don’t. And the - question is whether, when my arms fail me, I shall find one to take me in, - as Norine and Cecile took my father. But when everything’s said, what can - you expect? It’s all seed of poverty, it can’t grow well, or yield - anything good.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment he remained silent; then resuming his walk towards the works, - with bent, weary back and hanging hands, dented by toil, he said: “Au - revoir, Monsieur Froment.” - </p> - <p> - “Au revoir, Victor,” Mathieu answered in a kindly tone. - </p> - <p> - Having given his orders, Denis now came to join his father, and proposed - to him that they should go on foot to the Avenue d’Antin. On the way he - warned him that they would certainly find Ambroise alone, for his wife and - four children were still at Dieppe, where, indeed, the two sisters-in-law, - Andree and Marthe, had spent the season together. - </p> - <p> - In a period of ten years, Ambroise’s fortune had increased tenfold. Though - he was barely five-and-forty, he reigned over the Paris market. With his - spirit of enterprise, he had greatly enlarged the business left him by old - Du Hordel, transforming it into a really universal <i>comptoir</i>, - through which passed merchandise from all parts of the world. Frontiers - did not exist for Ambroise, he enriched himself with the spoils of the - earth, particularly striving to extract from the colonies all the wealth - they were able to yield, and carrying on his operations with such - triumphant audacity, such keen perception, that the most hazardous of his - campaigns ended victoriously. - </p> - <p> - A man of this stamp, whose fruitful activity was ever winning battles, was - certain to devour the idle, impotent Seguins. In the downfall of their - fortune, the dispersal of the home and family, he had carved a share for - himself by securing possession of the house in the Avenue d’Antin. Seguin - himself had not resided there for years, he had thought it original to - live at his club, where he secured accommodation after he and his wife had - separated by consent. Two of the children had also gone off; Gaston, now a - major in the army, was on duty in a distant garrison town, and Lucie was - cloistered in an Ursuline convent. Thus, Valentine, left to herself and - feeling very dreary, no longer able, moreover, to keep up the - establishment on a proper footing, in her turn quitted the mansion for a - cheerful and elegant little flat on the Boulevard Malesherbes, where she - finished her life as a very devout old lady, presiding over a society for - providing poor mothers with baby-linen, and thus devoting herself to the - children of others—she who had not known how to bring up her own. - And, in this wise, Ambroise had simply had to take possession of the empty - mansion, which was heavily mortgaged, to such an extent, indeed, that when - the Seguins died their heirs would certainly be owing him money. - </p> - <p> - Many were the recollections which awoke when Mathieu, accompanied by - Denis, entered that princely mansion of the Avenue d’Antin! There, as at - the factory, he could see himself arriving in poverty, as a needy tenant - begging his landlord to repair a roof, in order that the rain might no - longer pour down on the four children, whom, with culpable improvidence, - he already had to provide for. There, facing the avenue, was the sumptuous - Renaissance facade with eight lofty windows on each of its upper floors; - there, inside, was the hall, all bronze and marble, conducting to the - spacious ground-floor reception-rooms which a winter garden prolonged; and - there, up above, occupying all the central part of the first floor, was - Seguin’s former “cabinet,” the vast apartment with lofty windows of old - stained glass. Mathieu could well remember that room with its profuse and - amusing display of “antiquities,” old brocades, old goldsmith’s ware and - old pottery, and its richly bound books, and its famous modern pewters. - And he remembered it also at a later date, in the abandonment to which it - had fallen, the aspect of ruin which it had assumed, covered, as it was, - with gray dust which bespoke the slow crumbling of the home. And now he - found it once more superb and cheerful, renovated with healthier and more - substantial luxury by Ambroise, who had put masons and joiners and - upholsterers into it for a period of three months. The whole mansion now - lived afresh, more luxurious than ever, filled at winter-time with sounds - of festivity, enlivened by the laughter of four happy children, and the - blaze of a living fortune which effort and conquest ever renewed. And it - was no longer Seguin, the idler, the artisan of nothingness, whom Mathieu - came to see there, it was his own son Ambroise, a man of creative energy, - whose victory had been sought by the very forces of life, which had made - him triumph there, installed him as the master in the home of the - vanquished. - </p> - <p> - When Mathieu and Denis arrived Ambroise was absent, but was expected home - for lunch. They waited for him, and as the former again crossed the - ante-room the better to judge of some new arrangements that had been made, - he was surprised at being stopped by a lady who was sitting there - patiently, and whom he had not previously noticed. - </p> - <p> - “I see that Monsieur Froment does not recognize me,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu made a vague gesture. The woman had a tall, plump figure, and was - certainly more than sixty years of age; but she evidently took care of her - person, and had a smiling mien, with a long, full face and almost - venerable white hair. One might have taken her for some worthy, well-to-do - provincial bourgeoise in full dress. - </p> - <p> - “Celeste,” said she. “Celeste, Madame Seguin’s former maid.” - </p> - <p> - Thereupon he fully recognized her, but hid his stupefaction at finding her - so fortunately circumstanced at the close of her career. He had imagined - that she was buried in some sewer. - </p> - <p> - In a gay, placid way she proceeded to recount her happiness: “Oh! I am - very pleased,” she said; “I had retired to Rougemont, my birth-place, and - I ended by there marrying a retired naval officer, who has a very - comfortable pension, not to speak of a little fortune which his first wife - left him. As he has two big sons, I ventured to recommend the younger one - to Monsieur Ambroise, who was kind enough to take him into his - counting-house. And so I have profited by my first journey to Paris since - then, to come and give Monsieur Ambroise my best thanks.” - </p> - <p> - She did not say how she had managed to marry the retired naval officer; - how she had originally been a servant in his household, and how she had - hastened his first wife’s death in order to marry him. All things - considered, however, she rendered him very happy, and even rid him of his - sons, who were in his way, thanks to the relations she had kept up in - Paris. - </p> - <p> - She continued smiling like a worthy woman, whose feelings softened at the - recollection of the past. “You can have no idea how pleased I felt when I - saw you pass just now, Monsieur Froment,” she resumed. “Ah! it was a long - time ago that I first had the honor of seeing you here! You remember La - Couteau, don’t you? She was always complaining, was she not? But she is - very well pleased now; she and her husband have retired to a pretty little - house of their own, with some little savings which they live on very - quietly. She is no longer young, but she has buried a good many in her - time, and she’ll bury more before she has finished! For instance, Madame - Menoux—you must surely remember Madame Menoux, the little - haberdasher close by—well, there was a woman now who never had any - luck! She lost her second child, and she lost that big fellow, her - husband, whom she was so fond of, and she herself died of grief six months - afterwards. I did at one time think of taking her to Rougemont, where the - air is so good for one’s health. There are old folks of ninety living - there. Take La Couteau, for instance, she will live as long as she likes! - Oh! yes, it is a very pleasant part indeed, a perfect paradise.” - </p> - <p> - At these words the abominable Rougemont, the bloody Rougemont, arose - before Mathieu’s eyes, rearing its peaceful steeple above the low plain, - with its cemetery paved with little Parisians, where wild flowers bloomed - and hid the victims of so many murders. - </p> - <p> - But Celeste was rattling on again, saying: “You remember Madame Bourdieu - whom you used to know in the Rue de Miromesnil; she died very near our - village on some property where she went to live when she gave up business, - a good many years ago. She was luckier than her colleague La Rouche, who - was far too good-natured with people. You must have read about her case in - the newspapers, she was sent to prison with a medical man named - Sarraille.” - </p> - <p> - “La Rouche! Sarraille!” Yes, Mathieu had certainly read the trial of those - two social pests, who were fated to meet at last in their work of - iniquity. And what an echo did those names awaken in the past: Valerie - Morange! Reine Morange! Already in the factory yard Mathieu had fancied - that he could see the shadow of Morange gliding past him—the - punctual, timid, soft-hearted accountant, whom misfortune and insanity had - carried off into the darkness. And suddenly the unhappy man here again - appeared to Mathieu, like a wandering phantom, the restless victim of all - the imbecile ambition, all the desperate craving for pleasure which - animated the period; a poor, weak, mediocre being, so cruelly punished for - the crimes of others, that he was doubtless unable to sleep in the tomb - into which he had flung himself, bleeding, with broken limbs. And before - Mathieu’s eyes there likewise passed the spectre of Seraphine, with the - fierce and pain-fraught face of one who is racked and killed by insatiate - desire. - </p> - <p> - “Well, excuse me for having ventured to stop you, Monsieur Froment,” - Celeste concluded; “but I am very, very pleased at having met you again.” - </p> - <p> - He was still looking at her; and as he quitted her he said, with the - indulgence born of his optimism: “May you keep happy since you are happy. - Happiness must know what it does.” - </p> - <p> - Nevertheless, Mathieu remained disturbed, as he thought of the apparent - injustice of impassive nature. The memory of his Marianne, struck down by - such deep grief, pining away through the impious quarrels of her sons, - returned to him. And as Ambroise at last came in and gayly embraced him, - after receiving Celeste’s thanks, he felt a thrill of anguish, for the - decisive moment which would save or wreck the family was now at hand. - </p> - <p> - Indeed, Denis, after inviting himself and Mathieu to lunch, promptly - plunged into the subject. - </p> - <p> - “We are not here for the mere pleasure of lunching with you,” said he; - “mamma is ill, did you know it?” - </p> - <p> - “Ill?” said Ambroise. “Not seriously ill?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, very ill, in danger. And are you aware that she has been ill like - this ever since she came to speak to you about the quarrel between - Gregoire and Gervais, when it seems that you treated her very roughly.” - </p> - <p> - “I treated her roughly? We simply talked business, and perhaps I spoke to - her like a business man, a little bluntly.” - </p> - <p> - Then Ambroise turned towards Mathieu, who was waiting, pale and silent: - “Is it true, father, that mamma is ill and causes you anxiety?” - </p> - <p> - And as his father replied with a long affirmative nod, he gave vent to his - emotion, even as Denis had done at the works immediately on learning the - truth. - </p> - <p> - “But dash it all,” he said; “this affair is becoming quite idiotic! In my - opinion Gregoire is right and Gervais wrong. Only I don’t care a fig about - that; they must make it up at once, so that poor mamma may not have - another moment’s suffering. But then, why did you shut yourselves up? Why - did you not let us know how grieved you were? Every one would have - reflected and understood things.” - </p> - <p> - Then, all at once, Ambroise embraced his father with that promptness of - decision which he displayed to such happy effect in business as soon as - ever a ray of light illumined his mind. - </p> - <p> - “After all, father,” said he; “you are the cleverest; you understand - things and foresee them. Even if Gregoire were within his rights in - bringing an action against Gervais, it would be idiotic for him to do so, - because far above any petty private interest, there is the interest of all - of us, the interest of the family, which is to remain, united, compact, - and unattackable, if it desires to continue invincible. Our sovereign - strength lies in our union—And so it’s simple enough. We will lunch - as quickly as possible and take the first train. We shall go, Denis and I, - to Chantebled with you. Peace must be concluded this evening. I will see - to it.” - </p> - <p> - Laughing, and well pleased to find his own feelings shared by his two - sons, Mathieu returned Ambroise’s embrace. And while waiting for lunch to - be served, they went down to see the winter garden, which was being - enlarged for some fetes which Ambroise wished to give. He took pleasure in - adding to the magnificence of the mansion, and in reigning there with - princely pomp. At lunch he apologized for only offering his father and - brother a bachelor’s pot-luck, though, truth to tell, the fare was - excellent. Indeed, whenever Andree and the children absented themselves, - Ambroise still kept a good cook to minister to his needs, for he held the - cuisine of restaurants in horror. - </p> - <p> - “Well, for my part,” said Denis, “I go to a restaurant for my meals; for - since Marthe and all the others have been at Dieppe, I have virtually shut - up the house.” - </p> - <p> - “You are a wise man, you see,” Ambroise answered, with quiet frankness. - “For my part, as you are aware, I am an enjoyer. Now, make haste and drink - your coffee, and we will start.” - </p> - <p> - They reached Janville by the two o’clock train. Their plan was to repair - to Chantebled in the first instance, in order that Ambroise and Denis - might begin by talking to Gervais, who was of a gentler nature than - Gregoire, and with whom they thought they might devise some means of - conciliation. Then they intended to betake themselves to the mill, lecture - Gregoire, and impose on him such peace conditions as they might have - agreed upon. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farm, however, the - difficulties of their undertaking appeared to them, and seemed to increase - in magnitude. An arrangement would not be arrived at so easily as they had - at first imagined. So they girded their loins in readiness for a hard - battle. - </p> - <p> - “Suppose we begin by going to see mamma,” Denis suggested. “We should see - and embrace her, and that would give us some courage.” - </p> - <p> - Ambroise deemed the idea an excellent one. “Yes, let us go by all means, - particularly as mamma has always been a good counsellor. She must have - some idea.” - </p> - <p> - They climbed to the first floor of the house, to the spacious room where - Marianne spent her days on a couch beside the window. And to their - stupefaction they found her seated on that couch with Gregoire standing by - her and holding both her hands, while on the other side were Gervais and - Claire, laughing softly. - </p> - <p> - “Why! what is this?” exclaimed Ambroise in amazement. “The work is done!” - </p> - <p> - “And we who despaired of being able to accomplish it!” declared Denis, - with a gesture of bewilderment. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu was equally stupefied and delighted, and on noticing the surprise - occasioned by the arrival of the two big brothers from Paris, he proceeded - to explain the position. - </p> - <p> - “I went to Paris this morning to fetch them,” he said, “and I’ve brought - them here to reconcile us all!” - </p> - <p> - A joyous peal of laughter resounded. The big brothers were too late! - Neither their wisdom nor their diplomacy had been needed. They themselves - made merry over it, feeling the while greatly relieved that the victory - should have been won without any battle. - </p> - <p> - Marianne, whose eyes were moist, and who felt divinely happy, so happy - that she seemed already well again, simply replied to Mathieu: “You see, - my friend, it’s done. But as yet I know nothing further. Gregoire came - here and kissed me, and wished me to send for Gervais and Claire at once. - Then, of his own accord, he told them that they were all three mad in - causing me such grief, and that they ought to come to an understanding - together. Thereupon they kissed one another. And now it’s done; it’s all - over.” - </p> - <p> - But Gregoire gayly intervened. “Wait a moment; just listen; I cut too fine - a figure in the story as mamma relates it, and I must tell you the truth. - I wasn’t the first to desire the reconciliation; the first was my wife, - Therese. She has a good sterling heart and the very brains of a mule, in - such wise that whenever she is determined on anything I always have to do - it in the end. Well, yesterday evening we had a bit of a quarrel, for she - had heard, I don’t know how, that mamma was ill with grief. And this - pained her, and she tried to prove to me how stupid the quarrel was, for - we should all of us lose by it. This morning she began again, and of - course she convinced me, more particularly as, with the thought of poor - mamma lying ill through our fault, I had hardly slept all night. But - father Lepailleur still had to be convinced, and Therese undertook to do - that also. She even hit upon something extraordinary, so that the old man - might imagine that he was the conqueror of conquerors. She persuaded him - at last to sell you that terrible enclosure at such an insane price that - he will be able to shout ‘victory!’ over all the house-tops.” - </p> - <p> - Then turning to his brother and sister, Gregoire added, in a jocular tone; - “My dear Gervais, my dear Claire, let yourselves be robbed, I beg of you. - The peace of my home is at stake. Give my father-in-law the last joy of - believing that he alone has always been in the right, and that we have - never been anything but fools.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! as much money as he likes,” replied Gervais, laughing. “Besides, that - enclosure has always been a dishonor for the estate, streaking it with - stones and brambles, like a nasty sore. We have long dreamt of seeing the - property spotless, with its crops waving without a break under the sun. - And Chantebled is rich enough to pay for its glory.” - </p> - <p> - Thus the affair was settled. The wheat of the farm would return to the - mill to be ground, and the mother would get well again. It was the force - of life, the need of love, the union necessary for the whole family if it - were to continue victorious, that had imposed true brotherliness on the - sons, who for a moment had been foolish enough to destroy their power by - assailing one another. - </p> - <p> - The delight of finding themselves once more together there, Denis, - Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, the four big brothers, and Claire, the big - sister, all reconciled and again invincible, increased when Charlotte - arrived, bringing with her the other three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, - and Marthe, who had married and settled in the district. Louise, having - heard that her mother was ill, had gone to fetch her sisters, in order - that they might repair to Chantebled together. And what a hearty laugh - there was when the procession entered! - </p> - <p> - “Let them all come!” cried Ambroise, in a jocular way. “Let’s have the - family complete, a real meeting of the great privy council. You see, - mamma, you must get well at once; the whole of your court is at your - knees, and unanimously decides that it can no longer allow you to have - even a headache.” - </p> - <p> - Then, as Benjamin put in an appearance the very last, behind the three - sisters, the laughter broke out afresh. - </p> - <p> - “And to think that we were forgetting Benjamin!” Mathieu exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “Come, little one, come and kiss me in your turn,” said Marianne - affectionately, in a low voice. “The others jest because you are the last - of the brood. But if I spoil you that only concerns ourselves, does it - not? Tell them that you spent the morning with me, and that if you went - out for a walk it was because I wished you to do so.” - </p> - <p> - Benjamin smiled with a gentle and rather sad expression. “But I was - downstairs, mamma; I saw them go up one after the other. I waited for them - all to kiss, before coming up in my turn.” - </p> - <p> - He was already one-and-twenty and extremely handsome, with a bright face, - large brown eyes, long curly hair, and a frizzy, downy beard. Though he - had never been ill, his mother would have it that he was weak, and - insisted on coddling him. All of them, moreover, were very fond of him, - both for his grace of person and the gentle charm of his disposition. He - had grown up in a kind of dream, full of a desire which he could not put - into words, ever seeking the unknown, something which he knew not, did not - possess. And when his parents saw that he had no taste for any profession, - and that even the idea of marrying did not appeal to him, they evinced no - anger, but, on the contrary, they secretly plotted to keep this son, their - last-born, life’s final gift, to themselves. Had they not surrendered all - the others? Would they not be forgiven for yielding to the egotism of love - by reserving one for themselves, one who would be theirs entirely, who - would never marry, or toil and moil, but would merely live beside them and - love them, and be loved in return? This was the dream of their old age, - the share which, in return for long fruitfulness, they would have liked to - snatch from devouring life, which, though it gives one everything, yet - takes everything away. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! just listen, Benjamin,” Ambroise suddenly resumed, “you are - interested in our brave Nicolas, I know. Would you like to have some news - of him? I heard from him only the day before yesterday. And it’s right - that I should speak of him, since he’s the only one of the brood, as mamma - puts it, who cannot be here.” - </p> - <p> - Benjamin at once became quite excited, asking, “Is it true? Has he written - to you? What does he say? What is he doing?” - </p> - <p> - He could never think without emotion of Nicolas’s departure for Senegal. - He was twelve years old at that time, and nearly nine years had gone by - since then, yet the scene, with that eternal farewell, that flight, as it - were, into the infinite of time and hope, was ever present in his mind. - </p> - <p> - “You know that I have business relations with Nicolas,” resumed Ambroise. - “Oh! if we had but a few fellows as intelligent and courageous as he is in - our colonies, we should soon rake in all the scattered wealth of those - virgin lands. Well, Nicolas, as you are aware, went to Senegal with - Lisbeth, who was the very companion and helpmate he needed. Thanks to the - few thousand francs which they possessed between them, they soon - established a prosperous business; but I divined that the field was still - too small for them, and that they dreamt of clearing and conquering a - larger expanse. And now, all at once, Nicolas writes to me that he is - starting for the Soudan, the valley of the Niger, which has only lately - been opened. He is taking his wife and his four children with him, and - they are all going off to conquer as fortune may will it, like valiant - pioneers beset by the idea of founding a new world. I confess that it - amazes me, for it is a very hazardous enterprise. But all the same one - must admit that our Nicolas is a very plucky fellow, and one can’t help - admiring his great energy and faith in thus setting out for an almost - unknown region, fully convinced that he will subject and populate it.” - </p> - <p> - Silence fell. A great gust seemed to have swept by, the gust of the - infinite coming from the far away mysterious virgin plains. And the family - could picture that young fellow, one of themselves, going off through the - deserts, carrying the good seed of humanity under the spreading sky into - unknown climes. - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Benjamin softly, his eyes dilating and gazing far, far away as - if to the world’s end; “ah! he’s happy, for he sees other rivers, and - other forests, and other suns than ours!” - </p> - <p> - But Marianne shuddered. “No, no, my boy,” said she; “there are no other - rivers than the Yeuse, no other forests but our woods of Lillebonne, no - other sun but that of Chantebled. Come and kiss me again—let us all - kiss once more, and I shall get well, and we shall never be parted again.” - </p> - <p> - The laughter began afresh with the embraces. It was a great day, a day of - victory, the most decisive victory which the family had ever won by - refusing to let discord destroy it. Henceforth it would be invincible. - </p> - <p> - At twilight, on the evening of that day, Mathieu and Marianne again found - themselves, as on the previous evening, hand in hand near the window - whence they could see the estate stretching to the horizon; that horizon - behind which arose the breath of Paris, the tawny cloud of its gigantic - forge. But how little did that serene evening resemble the other, and how - great was their present felicity, their trust in the goodness of their - work. - </p> - <p> - “Do you feel better?” Mathieu asked his wife; “do you feel your strength - returning; does your heart beat more freely?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! my friend, I feel cured; I was only pining with grief. To-morrow I - shall be strong.” - </p> - <p> - Then Mathieu sank into a deep reverie, as he sat there face to face with - his conquest—that estate which spread out under the setting sun. And - again, as in the morning, did recollections crowd upon him; he remembered - a morning more than forty years previously when he had left Marianne, with - thirty sous in her purse, in the little tumbledown shooting-box on the - verge of the woods. They lived there on next to nothing; they owed money, - they typified gay improvidence with the four little mouths which they - already had to feed, those children who had sprung from their love, their - faith in life. - </p> - <p> - Then he recalled his return home at night time, the three hundred francs, - a month’s salary, which he had carried in his pocket, the calculations - which he had made, the cowardly anxiety which he had felt, disturbed as he - was by the poisonous egotism which he had encountered in Paris. There were - the Beauchenes, with their factory, and their only son, Maurice, whom they - were bringing up to be a future prince, the Beauchenes, who had prophesied - to him that he and his wife and their troop of children could only expect - a life of black misery, and death in a garret. There were also the - Seguins, then his landlords, who had shown him their millions, and their - magnificent mansion, full of treasures, crushing him the while, treating - him with derisive pity because he did not behave sensibly like themselves, - who were content with having but two children, a boy and a girl. And even - those poor Moranges had talked to him of giving a royal dowry to their one - daughter Reine, dreaming at that time of an appointment that would bring - in twelve thousand francs a year, and full of contempt for the misery - which a numerous family entails. And then the very Lepailleurs, the people - of the mill, had evinced distrust because there were twelve francs owing - to them for milk and eggs; for it had seemed to them doubtful whether a - bourgeois, insane enough to have so many children, could possibly pay his - debts. Ah! the views of the others had then appeared to be correct; he had - repeated to himself that he would never have a factory, nor a mansion, nor - even a mill, and that in all probability he would never earn twelve - thousand francs a year. The others had everything and he nothing. The - others, the rich, behaved sensibly, and did not burden themselves with - offspring; whereas, he, the poor man, already had more children than he - could provide for. What madness it had seemed to be! - </p> - <p> - But forty years had rolled away, and behold his madness was wisdom! He had - conquered by his divine improvidence; the poor man had vanquished the - wealthy. He had placed his trust in the future, and now the whole harvest - was garnered. The Beauchene factory was his through his son Denis; the - Seguins’ mansion was his through his son Ambroise; the Lepailleurs’ mill - was his through his son Gregoire. Tragical, even excessive punishment, had - blown those sorry Moranges away in a tempest of blood and insanity. And - other social wastage had swept by and rolled into the gutter; Seraphine, - the useless creature, had succumbed to her passions; the Moineauds had - been dispersed, annihilated by their poisonous environment. And he, - Mathieu, and Marianne alone remained erect, face to face with that estate - of Chantebled, which they had conquered from the Seguins, and where their - children, Gervais and Claire, at present reigned, prolonging the dynasty - of their race. This was their kingdom; as far as the eye could see the - fields spread out with wondrous fertility under the sun’s farewell, - proclaiming the battles, the heroic creative labor of their lives. There - was their work, there was what they had produced, whether in the realm of - animate or inanimate nature, thanks to the power of love within them, and - their energy of will. By love, and resolution, and action, they had - created a world. - </p> - <p> - “Look, look!” murmured Mathieu, waving his arm, “all that has sprung from - us, and we must continue to love, we must continue to be happy, in order - that it may all live.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” Marianne gayly replied, “it will live forever now, since we have all - become reconciled and united amid our victory.” - </p> - <p> - Victory! yes, it was the natural, necessary victory that is reaped by the - numerous family! Thanks to numbers they had ended by invading every sphere - and possessing everything. Fruitfulness was the invincible, sovereign - conqueress. Yet their conquest had not been meditated and planned; ever - serenely loyal in their dealings with others, they owed it simply to the - fulfilment of duty throughout their long years of toil. And they now stood - before it hand in hand, like heroic figures, glorious because they had - ever been good and strong, because they had created abundantly, because - they had given abundance of joy, and health, and hope to the world amid - all the everlasting struggles and the everlasting tears. - </p> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> - <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XXIII - </h2> - <p> - AND Mathieu and Marianne lived more than a score of years longer, and - Mathieu was ninety years old and Marianne eighty-seven, when their three - eldest sons, Denis, Ambroise, and Gervais, ever erect beside them, planned - that they would celebrate their diamond wedding, the seventieth - anniversary of their marriage, by a fete at which they would assemble all - the members of the family at Chantebled. - </p> - <p> - It was no little affair. When they had drawn up a complete list, they - found that one hundred and fifty-eight children, grandchildren, and - great-grandchildren had sprung from Mathieu and Marianne, without counting - a few little ones of a fourth generation. By adding to the above those who - had married into the family as husbands and wives they would be three - hundred in number. And where at the farm could they find a room large - enough for the huge table of the patriarchal feast that they dreamt of? - The anniversary fell on June 2, and the spring that year was one of - incomparable mildness and beauty. So they decided that they would lunch - out of doors, and place the tables in front of the old pavilion, on the - large lawn, enclosed by curtains of superb elms and hornbeams, which gave - the spot the aspect of a huge hall of verdure. There they would be at - home, on the very breast of the beneficent earth, under the central and - now gigantic oak, planted by the two ancestors, whose blessed fruitfulness - the whole swarming progeny was about to celebrate. - </p> - <p> - Thus the festival was settled and organized amid a great impulse of love - and joy. All were eager to take part in it, all hastened to the triumphal - gathering, from the white-haired old men to the urchins who still sucked - their thumbs. And the broad blue sky and the flaming sun were bent on - participating in it also, as well as the whole estate, the streaming - springs and the fields in flower, giving promise of bounteous harvests. - Magnificent looked the huge horseshoe table set out amid the grass, with - handsome china and snowy cloths which the sunbeams flecked athwart the - foliage. The august pair, the father and mother, were to sit side by side, - in the centre, under the oak tree. It was decided also that the other - couples should not be separated, that it would be charming to place them - side by side according to the generation they belonged to. But as for the - young folks, the youths and maidens, the urchins and the little girls, - they, it was thought, might well be left to seat themselves as their fancy - listed. - </p> - <p> - Early in the morning those bidden to the feast began to arrive in bands; - the dispersed family returned to the common nest, swooping down upon it - from the four points of the compass. But alas! death’s scythe had been at - work, and there were many who could not come. Departed ones slept, each - year more numerous, in the peaceful, flowery, Janville cemetery. Near Rose - and Blaise, who had been the first to depart, others had gone thither to - sleep the eternal sleep, each time carrying away a little more of the - family’s heart, and making of that sacred spot a place of worship and - eternal souvenir. First Charlotte, after long illness, had joined Blaise, - happy in leaving Berthe to replace her beside Mathieu and Marianne, who - were heart-stricken by her death, as if indeed they were for the second - time losing their dear son. Afterwards their daughter Claire had likewise - departed from them, leaving the farm to her husband Frederic and her - brother Gervais, who likewise had become a widower during the ensuing - year. Then, too, Mathieu and Marianne had lost their son Gregoire, the - master of the mill, whose widow Therese still ruled there amid a numerous - progeny. And again they had to mourn another of their daughters, the - kind-hearted Marguerite, Dr. Chambouvet’s wife, who sickened and died, - through having sheltered a poor workman’s little children, who were - affected with croup. And the other losses could no longer be counted among - them were some who had married into the family, wives and husbands, and - there were in particular many children, the tithe that death always - exacts, those who are struck down by the storms which sweep over the human - crop, all the dear little ones for whom the living weep, and who sanctify - the ground in which they rest. - </p> - <p> - But if the dear departed yonder slept in deepest silence, how gay was the - uproar and how great the victory of life that morning along the roads - which led to Chantebled! The number of those who were born surpassed that - of those who died. From each that departed, a whole florescence of living - beings seemed to blossom forth. They sprang up in dozens from the ground - where their forerunners had laid themselves to sleep when weary of their - work. And they flocked to Chantebled from every side, even as swallows - return at spring to revivify their old nests, filling the blue sky with - the joy of their return. Outside the farm, vehicles were ever setting down - fresh families with troops of children, whose sea of fair heads was always - expanding. Great-grandfathers with snowy hair came leading little ones who - could scarcely toddle. There were very nice-looking old ladies whom young - girls of dazzling freshness assisted to alight. There were mothers - expecting the arrival of other babes, and fathers to whom the charming - idea had occurred of inviting their daughters’ affianced lovers. And they - were all related, they had all sprung from a common ancestry, they were - all mingled in an inextricable tangle, fathers, mothers, brothers, - sisters, fathers-in-law, mothers-in-law, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, - sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, and cousins, of every possible degree, - down to the fourth generation. And they were all one family; one sole - little nation, assembling in joy and pride to celebrate that diamond - wedding, the rare prodigious nuptials of two heroic creatures whom life - had glorified and from whom all had sprung! And what an epic, what a - Biblical numbering of that people suggested itself! How even name all - those who entered the farm, how simply set forth their names, their ages, - their degree of relationship, the health, the strength, and the hope that - they had brought into the world! - </p> - <p> - Before everybody else there were those of the farm itself, all those who - had been born and who had grown up there. Gervais, now sixty-two, was - helped by his two eldest sons, Leon and Henri, who between them had ten - children; while his three daughters, Mathilde, Leontine, and Julienne, who - were married in the district, in like way numbered between them twelve. - Then Frederic, Claire’s husband, who was five years older than Gervais, - had surrendered his post as a faithful lieutenant to his son Joseph, while - his daughters Angele and Lucille, as well as a second son Jules, also - helped on the farm, the four supplying a troop of fifteen children, some - of them boys and some girls. - </p> - <p> - Then, of all those who came from without, the mill claimed the first - place. Therese, Gregoire’s widow, arrived with her offspring, her son - Robert, who now managed the mill under her control, and her three - daughters, Genevieve, Aline, and Natalie, followed by quite a train of - children, ten belonging to the daughters and four to Robert. Next came - Louise, notary Mazaud’s wife, and Madeleine, architect Herbette’s wife, - followed by Dr. Chambouvet, who had lost his wife, the good Marguerite. - And here again were three valiant companies; in the first, four daughters, - of whom Colette was the eldest; in the second, five sons with Hilary at - the head of them; and in the third, a son and daughter only, Sebastien and - Christine; the whole, however, forming quite an army, for there were - twenty of Mathieu’s great-grandchildren in the rear. - </p> - <p> - But Paris arrived on the scene with Denis and his wife Marthe, who headed - a grand cortege. Denis, now nearly seventy, and a great-grandfather - through his daughters Hortense and Marcelle, had enjoyed the happy rest - which follows accomplished labor ever since he had handed his works over - to his eldest sons Lucien and Paul, who were both men of more than forty, - and whose own sons were already on the road to every sort of fortune. And - what with the mother and father, the four children, the fifteen - grandchildren, and the three great-grandchildren, two of whom were yet in - swaddling clothes, this was really an invading tribe packed into five - vehicles. - </p> - <p> - Then the final entry was that of the little nation which had sprung from - Ambroise, who to his great grief had early lost his wife Andree. His was - such a green old age that at sixty-seven he still directed his business, - in which his sons Leonce and Charles remained simple <i>employes</i> like - his sons-in-law—the husbands of his daughters, Pauline and Sophie—who - trembled before him, uncontested king that he remained, obeyed by one and - all, grandfather of seven big bearded young men and nine strong young - women, through four of whom he had become a great-grandfather even before - his elder, the wise Denis. For this troop six carriages were required. And - the defile lasted two hours, and the farm was soon full of a happy, - laughing throng, holiday-making in the bright June sunlight. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu and Marianne had not yet put in an appearance. Ambroise, who was - the grand master of the ceremonies that day, had made them promise to - remain in their room, like sovereigns hidden from their people, until he - should go to fetch them. He desired that they should appear in all - solemnity. And when he made up his mind to summon them, the whole nation - being assembled together, he found his brother Benjamin on the threshold - of the house defending the door like a bodyguard. - </p> - <p> - He, Benjamin, had remained the one idler, the one unfruitful scion of that - swarming tribe, which had toiled and multiplied so prodigiously. Now - three-and-forty years of age, without a wife and without children, he - lived, it seemed, solely for the joy of the old home, as a companion to - his father and a passionate worshipper of his mother, who with the egotism - of love had set themselves upon keeping him for themselves alone. At first - they had not been opposed to his marrying, but when they had seen him - refuse one match after another, they had secretly felt great delight. - Nevertheless, as years rolled by, some unacknowledged remorse had come to - them amid their happiness at having him beside them like some hoarded - treasure, the delight of an avaricious old age, following a life of - prodigality. Did not their Benjamin suffer at having been thus - monopolized, shut up for their sole pleasure within the four walls of - their house? He had at all times displayed an anxious dreaminess, his eyes - had ever sought far-away things, the unknown land where perfect - satisfaction dwelt, yonder, behind the horizon. And now that age was - stealing upon him his torment seemed to increase, as if he were in despair - at finding himself unable to try the possibilities of the unknown, before - he ended a useless life devoid of happiness. - </p> - <p> - However, Benjamin moved away from the door, Ambroise gave his orders, and - Mathieu and Marianne appeared upon the verdant lawn in the sunlight. An - acclamation, merry laughter, affectionate clapping of hands greeted them. - The gay excited throng, the whole swarming family cried aloud: “Long live - the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to the Father and - the Mother!” - </p> - <p> - At ninety years of age Mathieu was still very upright and slim, closely - buttoned in a black frock-coat like a young bridegroom. Over his bare head - fell a snowy fleece, for after long wearing his hair cut short he had now - in a final impulse of coquetry allowed it to grow, so that it seemed liked - the <i>renouveau</i> of an old but vigorous tree. Age might have withered - and worn and wrinkled his face, but he still retained the eyes of his - young days, large lustrous eyes, at once smiling and pensive, which still - bespoke a man of thought and action, one who was very simple, very gay, - and very good-hearted. And Marianne at eighty-seven years of age also held - herself very upright in her light bridal gown, still strong and still - showing some of the healthy beauty of other days. With hair white like - Mathieu’s, and softened face, illumined as by a last glow under her silky - tresses, she resembled one of those sacred marbles whose features time has - ravined, without, however, being able to efface from them the tranquil - splendor of life. She seemed, indeed, like some fruitful Cybele, retaining - all firmness of contour, and living anew in the broad daylight with gentle - good humor sparkling in her large black eyes. - </p> - <p> - Arm-in-arm close to one another, like a worthy couple who had come from - afar, who had walked on side by side without ever parting for seventy long - years, Mathieu and Marianne smiled with tears of joy in their eyes at the - whole swarming family which had sprung from their love, and which still - acclaimed them: - </p> - <p> - “Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to the - Father and the Mother!” - </p> - <p> - Then came the ceremony of reciting a compliment and offering a bouquet. A - fair-haired little girl named Rose, five years of age, had been intrusted - with this duty. She had been chosen because she was the eldest child of - the fourth generation. She was the daughter of Angeline, who was the - daughter of Berthe, who was the daughter of Charlotte, wife of Blaise. And - when the two ancestors saw her approach them with her big bouquet, their - emotion increased, happy tears again gathered in their eyes, and - recollections faltered on their lips: “Oh! our little Rose! Our Blaise, - our Charlotte!” - </p> - <p> - All the past revived before them. The name of Rose had been given to the - child in memory of the other long-mourned Rose, who had been the first to - leave them, and who slept yonder in the little cemetery. There in his turn - had Blaise been laid, and thither Charlotte had followed them. Then - Berthe, Blaise’s daughter, who had married Philippe Havard, had given - birth to Angeline. And, later, Angeline, having married Georges Delmas, - had given birth to Rose. Berthe and Philippe Havard, Angeline and Georges - Delmas stood behind the child. And she represented one and all, the dead, - the living, the whole flourishing line, its many griefs, its many joys, - all the valiant toil of creation, all the river of life that it typified, - for everything ended in her, dear, frail, fair-haired angel, with eyes - bright like the dawn, in whose depths the future sparkled. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! our Rose! our Rose!” - </p> - <p> - With a big bouquet between her little hands Rose had stepped forward. She - had been learning a very fine compliment for a fortnight past, and that - very morning she had recited it to her mother without making a single - mistake. But when she found herself there among all these people she could - not recollect a word of it. Still that did not trouble her, she was - already a very bold little damsel, and she frankly dropped her bouquet and - sprang at the necks of Mathieu and Marianne, exclaiming in her shrill, - flute-like voice: “Grandpapa, grandmamma, it’s your fete, and I kiss you - with all my heart!” - </p> - <p> - And that suited everybody remarkably well. They even found it far better - than any compliment. Laughter and clapping of hands and acclamations again - arose. Then they forthwith began to take their seats at table. - </p> - <p> - This, however, was quite an affair, so large was the horse-shoe table - spread out under the oak on the short, freshly cut grass. First Mathieu - and Marianne, still arm in arm, went ceremoniously to seat themselves in - the centre with their backs towards the trunk of the great tree. On - Mathieu’s left, Marthe and Denis, Louise and her husband, notary Mazaud, - took their places, since it had been fittingly decided that the husbands - and wives should not be separated. On the right of Marianne came Ambroise, - Therese, Gervais, Dr. Chambouvet, three widowers and a widow, then another - married couple, Madeleine and her husband, architect Herbette, and then - Benjamin alone. The other married folks afterwards installed themselves - according to the generation they belonged to; and then, as had been - decided, youth and childhood, the whole troop of young people and little - ones took seats as they pleased amid no little turbulence. - </p> - <p> - What a moment of sovereign glory it was for Mathieu and Marianne! They - found themselves there in a triumph of which they would never have dared - to dream. Life, as if to reward them for having shown faith in her, for - having increased her sway with all bravery, seemed to have taken pleasure - in prolonging their existences beyond the usual limits so that their eyes - might behold the marvellous blossoming of their work. The whole of their - dear Chantebled, everything good and beautiful that they had there - begotten and established, participated in the festival. From the - cultivated fields that they had set in the place of marshes came the broad - quiver of great coming harvests; from the pasture lands amid the distant - woods came the warm breath of cattle and innumerable flocks which ever - increased the ark of life; and they heard, too, the loud babble of the - captured springs with which they had fertilized the now fruitful - moorlands, the flow of that water which is like the very blood of our - mother earth. The social task was accomplished, bread was won, subsistence - had been created, drawn from the nothingness of barren soil. - </p> - <p> - And on what a lovely and well-loved spot did their happy, grateful race - offer them that festival! Those elms and hornbeams, which made the lawn a - great hall of greenery, had been planted by themselves; they had seen them - growing day by day like the most peaceable and most sturdy of their - children. And in particular that oak, now so gigantic, thanks to the clear - waters of the adjoining basin through which one of the sources ever - streamed, was their own big son, one that dated from the day when they had - founded Chantebled, he, Mathieu, digging the hole and she, Marianne, - holding the sapling erect. And now, as that tree stood there, shading them - with its expanse of verdure, was it not like some royal symbol of the - whole family? Like that oak the family had grown and multiplied, ever - throwing out fresh branches which spread far over the ground; and like - that oak it now formed by itself a perfect forest sprung from a single - trunk, vivified by the same sap, strong in the same health, and full of - song, and breeziness, and sunlight. - </p> - <p> - Leaning against that giant tree Mathieu and Marianne became merged in its - sovereign glory and majesty, and was not their royalty akin to its own? - Had they not begotten as many beings as the tree had begotten branches? - Did they not reign there over a nation of their children, who lived by - them, even as the leaves above lived by the tree? The three hundred big - and little ones seated around them were but a prolongation of themselves; - they belonged to the same tree of life, they had sprung from their love - and still clung to them by every fibre. Mathieu and Marianne divined how - joyous they all were at glorifying themselves in making much of them; how - moved the elder ones, how turbulently merry the younger felt. They could - hear their own hearts beating in the breasts of the fair-haired urchins - who already laughed with ecstasy at the sight of the cakes and pastry on - the table. And their work of human creation was assembled in front of them - and within them, in the same way as the oak’s huge dome spread out above - it; and all around they were likewise encompassed by the fruitfulness of - their other work, the fertility and growth of nature which had increased - even as they themselves multiplied. - </p> - <p> - Then was the true beauty which had its abode in Mathieu and Marianne made - manifest, that beauty of having loved one another for seventy years and of - still worshipping one another now even as on the first day. For seventy - years had they trod life’s pathway side by side and arm in arm, without a - quarrel, without ever a deed of unfaithfulness. They could certainly - recall great sorrows, but these had always come from without. And if they - had sometimes sobbed they had consoled one another by mingling their - tears. Under their white locks they had retained the faith of their early - days, their hearts remained blended, merged one into the other, even as on - the morrow of their marriage, each having then been freely given and never - taken back. In them the power of love, the will of action, the divine - desire whose flame creates worlds, had happily met and united. He, adoring - his wife, had known no other joy than the passion of creation, looking on - the work that had to be performed and the work that was accomplished as - the sole why and wherefore of his being, his duty and his reward. She, - adoring her husband, had simply striven to be a true companion, spouse, - mother, and good counsellor, one who was endowed with delicacy of judgment - and helped to overcome all difficulties. Between them they were reason, - and health, and strength. If, too, they had always triumphed athwart - obstacles and tears, it was only by reason of their long agreement, their - common fealty amid an eternal renewal of their love, whose armor rendered - them invincible. They could not be conquered, they had conquered by the - very power of their union without designing it. And they ended heroically, - as conquerors of happiness, hand in hand, pure as crystal is, very great, - very handsome, the more so from their extreme age, their long, long life, - which one love had entirely filled. And the sole strength of their - innumerable offspring now gathered there, the conquering tribe that had - sprung from their loins, was the strength of union inherited from them: - the loyal love transmitted from ancestors to children, the mutual - affection which impelled them to help one another and ever fight for a - better life in all brotherliness. - </p> - <p> - But mirthful sounds arose, the banquet was at last being served. All the - servants of the farm had gathered to discharge this duty—they would - not allow a single person from without to help them. Nearly all had grown - up on the estate, and belonged, as it were, to the family. By and by they - would have a table for themselves, and in their turn celebrate the diamond - wedding. And it was amid exclamations and merry laughter that they brought - the first dishes. - </p> - <p> - All at once, however, the serving ceased, silence fell, an unexpected - incident attracted all attention. A young man, whom none apparently could - recognize, was stepping across the lawn, between the arms of the - horse-shoe table. He smiled gayly as he walked on, only stopping when he - was face to face with Mathieu and Marianne. Then in a loud voice he said: - “Good day, grandfather! good day, grandmother! You must have another cover - laid, for I have come to celebrate the day with you.” - </p> - <p> - The onlookers remained silent, in great astonishment. Who was this young - man whom none had ever seen before? Assuredly he could not belong to the - family, for they would have known his name, have recognized his face? Why, - then, did he address the ancestors by the venerated names of grandfather - and grandmother? And the stupefaction was the greater by reason of his - extraordinary resemblance to Mathieu. Assuredly, he was a Froment, he had - the bright eyes and the lofty tower-like forehead of the race. Mathieu - lived again in him, such as he appeared in a piously-preserved portrait - representing him at the age of seven-and-twenty when he had begun the - conquest of Chantebled. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu, for his part, rose, trembling, while Marianne smiled divinely, - for she understood the truth before all the others. - </p> - <p> - “Who are you, my child?” asked Mathieu, “you, who call me grandfather, and - who resemble me as if you were my brother?” - </p> - <p> - “I am Dominique, the eldest son of your son Nicolas, who lives with my - mother, Lisbeth, in the vast free country yonder, the other France!” - </p> - <p> - “And how old are you?” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be seven-and-twenty next August, when, yonder, the waters of the - Niger, the good giant, come back to fertilize our spreading fields.” - </p> - <p> - “And tell us, are you married, have you any children?” - </p> - <p> - “I have taken for my wife a French woman, born in Senegal, and in the - brick house which I have built, four children are already growing up under - the flaming sun of the Soudan.” - </p> - <p> - “And tell us also, have you any brothers, any sisters?” - </p> - <p> - “My father, Nicolas, and Lisbeth, my mother, have had eighteen children, - two of whom are dead. We are sixteen, nine boys and seven girls.” - </p> - <p> - At this Mathieu laughed gayly, as if to say that his son Nicolas at fifty - years of age had already proved a more valiant artisan of life than - himself. - </p> - <p> - “Well then, my boy,” he said, “since you are the son of my son Nicolas, - come and embrace us to celebrate our wedding. And a cover shall be placed - for you; you are at home here.” - </p> - <p> - In four strides Dominique made the round of the tables, then cast his - strong arms about the old people and embraced them—they the while - feeling faint with happy emotion, so delightful was that surprise, yet - another child falling among them, and on that day, as from some distant - sky, and telling them of the other family, the other nation which had - sprung from them, and which was swarming yonder with increase of - fruitfulness amid the fiery glow of the tropics. - </p> - <p> - That surprise was due to the sly craft of Ambroise, who merrily explained - how he had prepared it like a masterly coup de theatre. For a week past he - had been lodging and hiding Dominique in his house in Paris; the young man - having been sent from the Soudan by his father to negotiate certain - business matters, and in particular to order of Denis a quantity of - special agricultural machinery adapted to the soil of that far-away - region. Thus Denis alone had been taken into the other’s confidence. - </p> - <p> - When all those seated at the table saw Dominique in the old people’s arms, - and learnt the whole story, there came an extraordinary outburst of - delight; deafening acclamations arose once more; and what with their - enthusiastic greetings and embraces they almost stifled the messenger from - the sister family, that prince of the second dynasty of the Froments which - ruled in the land of the future France. - </p> - <p> - Mathieu gayly gave his orders: “There, place his cover in front of us! He - alone will be in front of us like the ambassador of some powerful empire. - Remember that, apart from his father and mother, he represents nine - brothers and seven sisters, without counting the four children that he - already has himself. There, my boy, sit down; and now let the service - continue.” - </p> - <p> - The feast proved a mirthful one under the big oak tree whose shade was - spangled by the sunbeams. Delicious freshness arose from the grass, - friendly nature seemed to contribute its share of caresses. The laughter - never ceased, old folks became playful children once more in presence of - the ninety and the eighty-seven years of the bridegroom and the bride. - Faces beamed softly under white and dark and sunny hair; the whole - assembly was joyful, beautiful with a healthy rapturous beauty; the - children radiant, the youths superb, the maidens adorable, the married - folk united, side by side. And what good appetites there were! What a gay - tumult greeted the advent of each fresh dish! And how the good wine was - honored to celebrate the goodness of life which had granted the two - patriarchs the supreme grace of assembling them all at their table on such - a glorious occasion! At dessert came toasts and health-drinking and fresh - acclamations. But, amid all the chatter which flew from one to the other - end of the table, the conversation invariably reverted to the surprise at - the outset: that triumphal entry of the brotherly ambassador. It was he, - his unexpected presence, all that he had not yet said, all the adventurous - romance which he surely personated, that fanned the growing fever, the - excitement of the family, intoxicated by that open-air gala. And as soon - as the coffee was served no end of questions arose on every side, and he - had to speak out. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what can I say?” he replied, laughing, to a question put to him by - Ambroise, who wished to know what he thought of Chantebled, where he had - taken him for a stroll during the morning. “I’m afraid that if I speak in - all frankness, you won’t think me very complimentary. Cultivation, no - doubt, is quite an art here, a splendid effort of will and science and - organization, as is needed to draw from this old soil such crops as it can - still produce. You toil a great deal, and you effect prodigies. But, good - heavens! how small your kingdom is! How can you live here without hurting - yourselves by ever rubbing against other people’s elbows? You are all - heaped up to such a degree that you no longer have the amount of air - needful for a man’s lungs. Your largest stretches of land, what you call - your big estates, are mere clods of soil where the few cattle that one - sees look to me like lost ants. But ah! the immensity of our Niger; the - immensity of the plains it waters; the immensity of our fields, whose only - limit is the distant horizon!” - </p> - <p> - Benjamin had listened, quivering. Ever since that son of the great river - had arrived, he had continued gazing at him, with passion rising in his - dreamy eyes. And on hearing him speak in this fashion he could no longer - restrain himself, but rose, went round the table, and sat down beside him. - </p> - <p> - “The Niger—the immense plains—tell us all about them,” he - said. - </p> - <p> - “The Niger, the good giant, the father of us all over yonder!” responded - Dominique. “I was barely eight years old when my parents quitted Senegal, - yielding to an impulse of reckless bravery and wild hope, possessed by a - craving to plunge into the Soudan and conquer as chance might will it. - There are many days’ march among rocks and scrub and rivers from St. Louis - to our present farm, far beyond Djenny. And I no longer remember the first - journey. It seems to me as if I sprang from good father Niger himself, - from the wondrous fertility of his waters. He is gentle but immense, - rolling countless waves like the sea, and so broad, so vast, that no - bridge can span him as he flows from horizon to horizon. He carries - archipelagoes on his breast, and stretches out arms covered with herbage - like pasture land. And there are the depths where flotillas of huge fishes - roam at their ease. Father Niger has his tempests, too, and his days of - fire, when his waters beget life in the burning clasp of the sun. And he - has his delightful nights, his soft and rosy nights, when peace descends - on earth from the stars.... He is the ancestor, the founder, the - fertilizer of the Western Soudan, which he has dowered with incalculable - wealth, wresting it from the invasion of neighboring Saharas, building it - up of his own fertile ooze. It is he who every year at regular seasons - floods the valley like an ocean and leaves it rich, pregnant, as it were, - with amazing vegetation. Even like the Nile, he has vanquished the sands; - he is the father of untold generations, the creative deity of a world as - yet unknown, which in later times will enrich old Europe.... And the - valley of the Niger, the good giant’s colossal daughter. Ah! what pure - immensity is hers; what a flight, so to say, into the infinite! The plain - opens and expands, unbroken and limitless. Ever and ever comes the plain, - fields are succeeded by other fields stretching out of sight, whose end a - plough would only reach in months and months. All the food needed for a - great nation will be reaped there when cultivation is practised with a - little courage and a little science, for it is still a virgin kingdom such - as the good river created it, thousands of years ago. To-morrow this - kingdom will belong to the workers who are bold enough to take it, each - carving for himself a domain as large as his strength of toil can dream - of; not an estate of acres, but leagues and leagues of ploughland wavy - with eternal crops.... And what breadth of atmosphere there is in that - immensity! What delight it is to inhale all the air of that space at one - breath, and how healthy and strong the life, for one is no longer piled - one upon the other, but one feels free and powerful, master of that part - of the earth which one has desired under the sun which shines for all.” - </p> - <p> - Benjamin listened and questioned, never satisfied. “How are you installed - there?” he asked. “How do you live? What are your habits? What is your - work?” - </p> - <p> - Dominique began to laugh again, conscious as he was that he was - astonishing, upsetting all these unknown relatives who pressed so close to - him, aglow with increasing curiosity. Women and old men had in turn left - their places to draw near to him; even children had gathered around, as if - to listen to a fine story. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! we live in republican fashion,” said he; “every member of our - community has to help in the common fraternal task. The family counts more - or less expert artisans of all kinds for the rough work. My father in - particular has revealed himself to be a very skilful mason, for he had to - build a place for us when we arrived. He even made his own bricks, thanks - to some deposits of clayey soil which exist near Djenny. So our farm is - now a little village: each married couple will have its own house. Then, - too, we are not only agriculturists, we are fishermen and hunters also. We - have our boats; the Niger abounds in fish to an extraordinary degree, and - there are wonderful hauls at times. And even the shooting and hunting - would suffice to feed us; game is plentiful, there are partridges and wild - guinea-fowl, not to mention the flamingoes, the pelicans, the egrets, the - thousands of creatures who do not prey on one another. Black lions visit - us at times: eagles fly slowly over our heads; at dusk hippopotami come in - parties of three and four to gambol in the river with the clumsy grace of - negro children bathing. But, after all, we are more particularly - cultivators, kings of the plain, especially when the waters of the Niger - withdraw after fertilizing our fields. Our estate has no limits; it - stretches as far as we can labor. And ah! if you could only see the - natives, who do not even plough, but have few if any appliances beyond - sticks, with which they just scratch the soil before confiding the seed to - it! There is no trouble, no worry; the earth is rich, the sun ardent, and - thus the crop will always be a fine one. When we ourselves employ the - plough, when we bestow a little care on the soil which teems with life, - what prodigious crops there are, an abundance of grain such as your barns - could never hold! As soon as we possess the agricultural machinery, which - I have come to order here in France, we shall need flotillas of boats in - order to send you the overplus of our granaries.... When the river - subsides, when its waters fall, the crop we more particularly grow is - rice; there are, indeed, plains of rice, which occasionally yield two - crops. Then come millet and ground-beans, and by and by will come corn, - when we can grow it on a large scale. Vast cotton fields follow one after - the other, and we also grow manioc and indigo, while in our kitchen - gardens we have onions and pimentoes, and gourds and cucumbers. And I - don’t mention the natural vegetation, the precious gum-trees, of which we - possess quite a forest; the butter-trees, the flour-trees, the silk-trees, - which grow on our ground like briers alongside your roads.... Finally, we - are shepherds; we own ever-increasing flocks, whose numbers we don’t even - know. Our goats, our bearded sheep may be counted by the thousand; our - horses scamper freely through paddocks as large as cities, and when our - hunch-backed cattle come down to the Niger to drink at that hour of serene - splendor the sunset, they cover a league of the river banks.... And, above - everything else, we are free men and joyous men, working for the delight - of living without restraint, and our reward is the thought that our work - is very great and good and beautiful, since it is the creation of another - France, the sovereign France of to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - From that moment Dominique paused no more. There was no longer any need to - question him, he poured forth all the beauty and grandeur in his mind. He - spoke of Djenny, the ancient queen city, whose people and whose monuments - came from Egypt, the city which even yet reigns over the valley. He spoke - of four other centres, Bamakoo, Niamina, Segu, and Sansandig, big villages - which would some day be great towns. And he spoke particularly of - Timbuctoo the glorious, so long unknown, with a veil of legends cast over - it as if it were some forbidden paradise, with its gold, its ivory, its - beautiful women, all rising like a mirage of inaccessible delight beyond - the devouring sands. He spoke of Timbuctoo, the gate of the Sahara and the - Western Soudan, the frontier town where life ended and met and mingled, - whither the camel of the desert brought the weapons and merchandise of - Europe as well as salt, that indispensable commodity, and where the - pirogues of the Niger landed the precious ivory, the surface gold, the - ostrich feathers, the gum, the crops, all the wealth of the fruitful - valley. He spoke of Timbuctoo the store-place, the metropolis and market - of Central Africa, with its piles of ivory, its piles of virgin gold, its - sacks of rice, millet, and ground-nuts, its cakes of indigo, its tufts of - ostrich plumes, its metals, its dates, its stuffs, its iron-ware, and - particularly its slabs of rock salt, brought on the backs of beasts of - burden from Taudeni, the frightful Saharian city of salt, whose soil is - salt for leagues around, an infernal mine of that salt which is so - precious in the Soudan that it serves as a medium of exchange, as money - more precious even than gold. And finally, he spoke of Timbuctoo - impoverished, fallen from its high estate, the opulent and resplendent - city of former times now almost in ruins, hiding remnants of its treasures - behind cracked walls in fear of the robbers of the desert; but withal apt - to become once more a city of glory and fortune, royally seated as it is - between the Soudan, that granary of abundance, and the Sahara, the road to - Europe, as soon as France shall have opened that road, have connected the - provinces of her new empire, and have founded that huge new France of - which the ancient fatherland will be but the directing mind. - </p> - <p> - “That is the dream!” cried Dominique, “that is the gigantic work which the - future will achieve! Algeria, connected with Timbuctoo by the Sahara - railway line, over which electric engines will carry the whole of old - Europe through the far expanse of sand! Timbuctoo connected with Senegal - by flotillas of steam vessels and yet other railways, all intersecting the - vast empire on every side! New France connected with mother France, the - old land, by a wondrous development of the means of communication, and - founded, and got ready for the hundred millions of inhabitants who will - some day spring up there!... Doubtless these things cannot be done in a - night. The trans-Saharian railway is not yet laid down; there are two - thousand five hundred kilometres* of bare desert to be crossed which can - hardly tempt railway companies; and a certain amount of prosperity must be - developed by starting cultivation, seeking and working mines, and - increasing exportations before a pecuniary effort can be possible on the - part of the motherland. Moreover, there is the question of the natives, - mostly of gentle race, though some are ferocious bandits, whose savagery - is increased by religious fanaticism, thus rendering the difficulties of - our conquest all the greater. Until the terrible problem of Islamism is - solved we shall always be coming in conflict with it. And only life, long - years of life, can create a new nation, adapt it to the new land, blend - diverse elements together, and yield normal existence, homogeneous - strength, and genius proper to the clime. But no matter! From this day a - new France is born yonder, a huge empire; and it needs our blood—and - some must be given it, in order that it may be peopled and be able to draw - its incalculable wealth from the soil, and become the greatest, the - strongest, and the mightiest in the world!” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * About 1,553 English miles. -</pre> - <p> - Transported with enthusiasm, quivering at the thought of the distant ideal - at last revealed to him, Benjamin sat there with tears in his eyes. Ah! - the healthy life! the noble life! the other life! the whole mission and - work of which he had as yet but confusedly dreamt! Again he asked a - question: “And are there many French families there, colonizing like - yours?” - </p> - <p> - Dominique burst into a loud laugh. “Oh, no,” said he, “there are certainly - a few colonists in our old possessions of Senegal, but yonder in the Niger - valley, beyond Djenny, there are, I think, only ourselves. We are the - pioneers, the vanguard, the riskers full of faith and hope. And there is - some merit in it, for to sensible stay-at-home folks it all seems like - defying common sense. Can you picture it? A French family installed among - savages, and unprotected, save for the vicinity of a little fort, where a - French officer commands a dozen native soldiers—a French family, - which is sometimes called upon to fight in person, and which establishes a - farm in a land where the fanaticism of some head tribesman may any day - stir up trouble. It seems so insane that folks get angry at the mere - thought of it, yet it enraptures us and gives us gayety and health, and - the courage to achieve victory. We are opening the road, we are giving the - example, we are carrying our dear old France yonder, taking to ourselves a - huge expanse of virgin land, which will become a province. We have already - founded a village which in a hundred years will be a great town. In the - colonies no race is more fruitful than the French, though it seems to - become barren on its own ancient soil. Thus we shall swarm and swarm, and - fill the world! So come then, come then, all of you; since here you are - set too closely, since you lack air in your little fields and your - overheated, pestilence-breeding towns. There is room for everybody yonder; - there are new lands, there is open air that none has breathed, and there - is a task to be accomplished which will make all of you heroes, strong, - sturdy men, well pleased to live! Come with me. I will take the men, I - will take all the women who are willing, and you will carve for yourselves - other provinces and found other cities for the future glory and power of - the great new France.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed so gayly, he was so handsome, so spirited, so robust, that once - again the whole table acclaimed him. They would certainly not follow him - yonder, for all those married couples already had their own nests; and all - those young folks were already too strongly rooted to the old land by the - ties of their race—a race which after displaying such adventurous - instincts has now fallen asleep, as it were, at its own fireside. But what - a marvellous story it all was—a story to which big and little alike, - had listened in rapture, and which to-morrow would, doubtless, arouse - within them a passion for glorious enterprise far away! The seed of the - unknown was sown, and would grow into a crop of fabulous magnitude. - </p> - <p> - For the moment Benjamin was the only one who cried amid the enthusiasm - which drowned his words: “Yes, yes, I want to live. Take me, take me with - you!” - </p> - <p> - But Dominique resumed, by way of conclusion: “And there is one thing, - grandfather, which I have not yet told you. My father has given the name - of Chantebled to our farm yonder. He often tells us how you founded your - estate here, in an impulse of far-seeing audacity, although everybody - jeered and shrugged their shoulders and declared that you must be mad. - And, yonder, my father has to put up with the same derision, the same - contemptuous pity, for people declare that the good Niger will some day - sweep away our village, even if a band of prowling natives does not kill - and eat us! But I’m easy in mind about all that, we shall conquer as you - conquered, for what seems to be the folly of action is really divine - wisdom. There will be another kingdom of the Froments yonder, another huge - Chantebled, of which you and my grandmother will be the ancestors, the - distant patriarchs, worshipped like deities.... And I drink to your - health, grandfather, and I drink to yours, grandmother, on behalf of your - other future people, who will grow up full of spirit under the burning sun - of the tropics!” - </p> - <p> - Then with great emotion Mathieu, who had risen, replied in a powerful - voice: “To your health! my boy. To the health of my son Nicolas, his wife, - Lisbeth, and all who have been born from them! And to the health of all - who will follow, from generation to generation!” - </p> - <p> - And Marianne, who had likewise risen, in her turn said: “To the health of - your wives, and your daughters, your spouses and your mothers! To the - health of those who will love and produce the greatest sum of life, in - order that the greatest possible sum of happiness may follow!” - </p> - <p> - Then, the banquet ended, they quitted the table and spread freely over the - lawn. There was a last ovation around Mathieu and Marianne, who were - encompassed by their eager offspring. At one and the same time a score of - arms were outstretched, carrying children, whose fair or dark heads they - were asked to kiss. Aged as they were, returning to a divine state of - childhood, they did not always recognize those little lads and lasses. - They made mistakes, used wrong names, fancied that one child was another. - Laughter thereupon arose, the mistakes were rectified, and appeals were - made to the old people’s memory. They likewise laughed, the errors were - amusing, but it mattered little if they no longer remembered a name, the - child at any rate belonged to the harvest that had sprung from them. - </p> - <p> - Then there were certain granddaughters and great-granddaughters whom they - themselves summoned and kissed by way of bringing good luck to the babes - that were expected, the children of their children’s children, the race - which would ever spread and perpetuate them through the far-off ages. And - there were mothers, also, who were nursing, mothers whose little ones, - after sleeping quietly during the feast, had now awakened, shrieking their - hunger aloud. These had to be fed, and the mothers merrily seated - themselves together under the trees and gave them the breast in all - serenity. Therein lay the royal beauty of woman, wife and mother; fruitful - maternity triumphed over virginity by which life is slain. Ah! might - manners and customs change, might the idea of morality and the idea of - beauty be altered, and the world recast, based on the triumphant beauty of - the mother suckling her babe in all the majesty of her symbolism! From - fresh sowings there ever came fresh harvests, the sun ever rose anew above - the horizon, and milk streamed forth endlessly like the eternal sap of - living humanity. And that river of milk carried life through the veins of - the world, and expanded and overflowed for the centuries of the future. - </p> - <p> - The greatest possible sum of life in order that the greatest possible - happiness might result: that was the act of faith in life, the act of hope - in the justice and goodness of life’s work. Victorious fruitfulness - remained the one true force, the sovereign power which alone moulded the - future. She was the great revolutionary, the incessant artisan of - progress, the mother of every civilization, ever re-creating her army of - innumerable fighters, throwing through the centuries millions after - millions of poor and hungry and rebellious beings into the fight for truth - and justice. Not a single forward step in history has ever been taken - without numerousness having urged humanity forward. To-morrow, like - yesterday, will be won by the swarming of the multitude whose quest is - happiness. And to-morrow will give the benefits which our age has awaited; - economic equality obtained even as political equality has been obtained; a - just apportionment of wealth rendered easy; and compulsory work - re-established as the one glorious and essential need. - </p> - <p> - It is not true that labor has been imposed on mankind as punishment for - sin, it is on the contrary an honor, a mark of nobility, the most precious - of boons, the joy, the health, the strength, the very soul of the world, - which itself labors incessantly, ever creating the future. And misery, the - great, abominable social crime, will disappear amid the glorification of - labor, the distribution of the universal task among one and all, each - accepting his legitimate share of duties and rights. And may children - come, they will simply be instruments of wealth, they will but increase - the human capital, the free happiness of a life in which the children of - some will no longer be beasts of burden, or food for slaughter or for - vice, to serve the egotism of the children of others. And life will then - again prove the conqueror; there will come the renascence of life, honored - and worshipped, the religion of life so long crushed beneath the hateful - nightmare of Roman Catholicism, from which on divers occasions the nations - have sought to free themselves by violence, and which they will drive away - at last on the now near day when cult and power, and sovereign beauty - shall be vested in the fruitful earth and the fruitful spouse. - </p> - <p> - In that last resplendent hour of eventide, Mathieu and Marianne reigned by - virtue of their numerous race. They ended as heroes of life, because of - the great creative work which they had accomplished amid battle and toil - and grief. Often had they sobbed, but with extreme old age had come peace, - deep smiling peace, made up of the good labor performed and the certainty - of approaching rest while their children and their children’s children - resumed the fight, labored and suffered, lived in their own turn. And a - part of Mathieu and Marianne’s heroic grandeur sprang from the divine - desire with which they had glowed, the desire which moulds and regulates - the world. They were like a sacred temple in which the god had fixed his - abode, they were animated by the inextinguishable fire with which the - universe ever burns for the work of continual creation. Their radiant - beauty under their white hair came from the light which yet filled their - eyes, the light of love’s power, which age had been unable to extinguish. - Doubtless, as they themselves jestingly remarked at times, they had been - prodigals, their family had been such a large one. But, after all, had - they not been right? Their children had diminished no other’s share, each - had come with his or her own means of subsistence. And, besides, ‘tis good - to garner in excess when the granaries of a country are empty. Many such - improvidents are needed to combat the egotism of others at times of great - dearth. Amid all the frightful loss and wastage, the race is strengthened, - the country is made afresh, a good civic example is given by such healthy - prodigality as Mathieu and Marianne had shown. - </p> - <p> - But a last act of heroism was required of them. A month after the - festival, when Dominique was on the point of returning to the Soudan, - Benjamin one evening told them of his passion, of the irresistible summons - from the unknown distant plains, which he could but obey. - </p> - <p> - “Dear father, darling mother, let me go with Dominique! I have struggled, - I feel horrified with myself at quitting you thus, at your great age. But - I suffer too dreadfully; my soul is full of yearnings, and seems ready to - burst; and I shall die of shameful sloth, if I do not go.” - </p> - <p> - They listened with breaking hearts. Their son’s words did not surprise - them; they had heard them coming ever since their diamond wedding. And - they trembled, and felt that they could not refuse; for they knew that - they were guilty in having kept their last-born in the family nest after - surrendering to life all the others. Ah! how insatiable life was—it - would not so much as suffer that tardy avarice of theirs; it demanded even - the precious, discreetly hidden treasure from which, with jealous egotism, - they had dreamt of parting only when they might find themselves upon the - threshold of the grave. - </p> - <p> - Deep silence reigned; but at last Mathieu slowly answered: “I cannot keep - you back, my son; go whither life calls you.... If I knew, however, that I - should die to-night, I would ask you to wait till to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - In her turn Marianne gently said: “Why cannot we die at once? We should - then escape this last great pang, and you would only carry our memory away - with you.” - </p> - <p> - Once again did the cemetery of Janville appear, the field of peace, where - dear ones already slept, and where they would soon join them. No sadness - tinged that thought, however; they hoped that they would lie down there - together on the same day, for they could not imagine life, one without the - other. And, besides, would they not forever live in their children; - forever be united, immortal, in their race? - </p> - <p> - “Dear father, darling mother,” Benjamin repeated; “it is I who will be - dead to-morrow if I do not go. To wait for your death—good God! - would not that be to desire it? You must still live long years, and I wish - to live like you.” - </p> - <p> - There came another pause, then Mathieu and Marianne replied together: “Go - then, my boy. You are right, one must live.” - </p> - <p> - But on the day of farewell, what a wrench, what a final pang there was - when they had to tear themselves from that flesh of their flesh, all that - remained to them, in order to hand over to life the supreme gift it - demanded! The departure of Nicolas seemed to begin afresh; again came the - “never more” of the migratory child taking wing, given to the passing wind - for the sowing of unknown distant lands, far beyond the frontiers. - </p> - <p> - “Never more!” cried Mathieu in tears. - </p> - <p> - And Marianne repeated in a great sob which rose from the very depths of - her being: “Never more! Never more!” - </p> - <p> - There was now no longer any mere question of increasing a family, of - building up the country afresh, of re-peopling France for the struggles of - the future, the question was one of the expansion of humanity, of the - reclaiming of deserts, of the peopling of the entire earth. After one’s - country came the earth; after one’s family, one’s nation, and then - mankind. And what an invading flight, what a sudden outlook upon the - world’s immensity! All the freshness of the oceans, all the perfumes of - virgin continents, blended in a mighty gust like a breeze from the offing. - Scarcely fifteen hundred million souls are to-day scattered through the - few cultivated patches of the globe, and is that not indeed paltry, when - the globe, ploughed from end to end, might nourish ten times that number? - What narrowness of mind there is in seeking to limit mankind to its - present figure, in admitting simply the continuance of exchanges among - nations, and of capitals dying where they stand—as Babylon, Nineveh, - and Memphis died—while other queens of the earth arise, inherit, and - flourish amid fresh forms of civilization, and this without population - ever more increasing! Such a theory is deadly, for nothing remains - stationary: whatever ceases to increase decreases and disappears. Life is - the rising tide whose waves daily continue the work of creation, and - perfect the work of awaited happiness, which shall come when the times are - accomplished. The flux and reflux of nations are but periods of the - forward march: the great centuries of light, which dark ages at times - replace, simply mark the phases of that march. Another step forward is - ever taken, a little more of the earth is conquered, a little more life is - brought into play. The law seems to lie in a double phenomenon; - fruitfulness creating civilization, and civilization restraining - fruitfulness. And equilibrium will come from it all on the day when the - earth, being entirely inhabited, cleared, and utilized, shall at last have - accomplished its destiny. And the divine dream, the generous utopian - thought soars into the heavens; families blended into nations, nations - blended into mankind, one sole brotherly people making of the world one - sole city of peace and truth and justice! Ah! may eternal fruitfulness - ever expand, may the seed of humanity be carried over the frontiers, - peopling the untilled deserts afar, and increasing mankind through the - coming centuries until dawns the reign of sovereign life, mistress at last - both of time and of space! - </p> - <p> - And after the departure of Benjamin, whom Dominique took with him, Mathieu - and Marianne recovered the joyful serenity and peace born of the work - which they had so prodigally accomplished. Nothing more was theirs; - nothing save the happiness of having given all to life. The “Never more” - of separation became the “Still more” of life—life incessantly - increasing, expanding beyond the limitless horizon. Candid and smiling, - those all but centenarian heroes triumphed in the overflowing florescence - of their race. The milk had streamed even athwart the seas—from the - old land of France to the immensity of virgin Africa, the young and giant - France of to-morrow. After the foundation of Chantebled, on a disdained, - neglected spot of the national patrimony, another Chantebled was rising - and becoming a kingdom in the vast deserted tracts which life yet had to - fertilize. And this was the exodus, human expansion throughout the world, - mankind upon the march towards the Infinite. - </p> - <p> - England.—August 1898-May 1899. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fruitfulness, by Emile Zola - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS *** - -***** This file should be named 10330-h.htm or 10330-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/3/10330/ - -Produced by David Widger and Dagny - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Fruitfulness - Fecondite - -Author: Emile Zola - -Release Date: March 17, 2009 [EBook #10330] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger and Dagny - - - - - - - -FRUITFULNESS - -(FECONDITE) - - -By Emile Zola - - -Translated and edited by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly - - - - - -TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE - -"FRUITFULNESS" is the first of a series of four works in which M. Zola -proposes to embody what he considers to be the four cardinal principles -of human life. These works spring from the previous series of The Three -Cities: "Lourdes," "Rome," and "Paris," which dealt with the principles -of Faith, Hope, and Charity. The last scene in "Paris," when Marie, -Pierre Froment's wife, takes her boy in her arms and consecrates him, -so to say, to the city of labor and thought, furnishes the necessary -transition from one series to the other. "Fruitfulness," says M. Zola, -"creates the home. Thence springs the city. From the idea of citizenship -comes that of the fatherland; and love of country, in minds fed by -science, leads to the conception of a wider and vaster fatherland, -comprising all the peoples of the earth. Of these three stages in the -progress of mankind, the fourth still remains to be attained. I have -thought then of writing, as it were, a poem in four volumes, in four -chants, in which I shall endeavor to sum up the philosophy of all my -work. The first of these volumes is 'Fruitfulness'; the second will -be called 'Work'; the third, 'Truth'; the last, 'Justice.' In -'Fruitfulness' the hero's name is Matthew. In the next work it will be -Luke; in 'Truth,' Mark; and in 'justice,' John. The children of my -brain will, like the four Evangelists preaching the gospel, diffuse the -religion of future society, which will be founded on Fruitfulness, Work, -Truth, and Justice." - -This, then, is M. Zola's reply to the cry repeatedly raised by his hero, -Abbe Pierre Froment, in the pages of "Lourdes," "Paris," and "Rome": "A -new religion, a new religion!" Critics of those works were careful to -point out that no real answer was ever returned to the Abbe's despairing -call; and it must be confessed that one must yet wait for the greater -part of that answer, since "Fruitfulness," though complete as a -narrative, forms but a portion of the whole. It is only after the -publication of the succeeding volumes that one will be able to judge how -far M. Zola's doctrines and theories in their ensemble may appeal to the -requirements of the world. - -While "Fruitfulness," as I have said, constitutes a first instalment of -M. Zola's conception of a social religion, it embodies a good deal else. -The idea of writing some such work first occurred to him many years ago. -In 1896 he contributed an article to the Paris _Figaro_, in which he -said: "For some ten years now I have been haunted by the idea of a -novel, of which I shall, doubtless, never write the first page.... That -novel would have been called 'Wastage'... and I should have pleaded in -it in favor of all the rights of life, with all the passion which I -may have in my heart."* M. Zola's article then proceeds to discuss the -various social problems, theories, and speculations which are set -forth here and there in the present work. Briefly, the genesis of -"Fruitfulness" lies in the article I have quoted. - - * See _Nouvelle Campagne_ (1896), par Emile Zola. - Paris, 1897, pp. 217-228. - -"Fruitfulness" is a book to be judged from several standpoints. It would -be unjust and absurd to judge it from one alone, such, for instance, -as that of the new social religion to which I have referred. It must -be looked at notably as a tract for the times in relation to certain -grievous evils from which France and other countries--though more -particularly France--are undoubtedly suffering. And it may be said that -some such denunciation of those evils was undoubtedly necessary, and -that nobody was better placed to pen that denunciation than M. Zola, -who, alone of all French writers nowadays, commands universal attention. -Whatever opinion may be held of his writings, they have to be reckoned -with. Thus, in preparing "Fruitfulness," he was before all else -discharging a patriotic duty, and that duty he took in hand in an hour -of cruel adversity, when to assist a great cause he withdrew from France -and sought for a time a residence in England, where for eleven months I -was privileged to help him in maintaining his incognito. "Fruitfulness" -was entirely written in England, begun in a Surrey country house, and -finished at the Queen's Hotel, Norwood. - -It would be superfluous for me to enter here into all the questions -which M. Zola raises in his pages. The evils from which France suffers -in relation to the stagnancy of its population, are well known, and that -their continuance--if continuance there be--will mean the downfall of -the country from its position as one of the world's great powers before -the close of the twentieth century, is a mathematical certainty. That -M. Zola, in order to combat those evils, and to do his duty as a good -citizen anxious to prevent the decline of his country, should have dealt -with his subject with the greatest frankness and outspokenness, was only -natural. Moreover, absolute freedom of speech exists in France, which is -not the case elsewhere. Thus, when I first perused the original proofs -of M. Zola's work, I came to the conclusion that any version of it in -the English language would be well-nigh impossible. For some time I -remained of that opinion, and I made a statement to that effect in -a leading literary journal. Subsequently, however, my views became -modified. "The man who is ridiculous," wrote a French poet, Barthelemy, -"is he whose opinions never change," and thus I at last reverted to a -task from which I had turned aside almost in despair. - -Various considerations influenced me, and among them was the thought -that if "Fruitfulness" were not presented to the public in an English -dress, M. Zola's new series would remain incomplete, decapitated so -far as British and American readers were concerned. After all, the -criticisms dealing with the French original were solely directed against -matters of form, the mould in which some part of the work was cast. Its -high moral purpose was distinctly recognized by several even of its -most bitter detractors. For me the problem was how to retain the whole -ensemble of the narrative and the essence of the lessons which the work -inculcates, while recasting some portion of it and sacrificing those -matters of form to which exception was taken. It is not for me to say -whether I have succeeded in the task; but I think that nothing in any -degree offensive to delicate susceptibilities will be found in this -present version of M. Zola's book. - -The English reviews of the French original showed that if certain -portions of it were deemed indiscreet, it none the less teemed with -admirable and even delightful pages. Among the English reviewers were -two well-known lady writers, Madame Darmesteter (formerly Miss Mary -Robinson), and Miss Hannah Lynch. And the former remarked in one part of -her critique: "Even this short review reveals how honest, how moral, -how human and comely is the fable of _Fecondite_,"* while the latter -expressed the view that the work was "eminently, pugnaciously virtuous -in M. Zola's strictly material conception of virtue." And again: "The -pages that tell the story of Mathieu and Marianne, it must be admitted, -are as charming as possible. They have a bloom, a beauty, a fragrance we -never expected to find in M. Zola's work. The tale is a simple one: the -cheerful conquest of fortune and the continual birth of offspring."** - - * _Manchester Guardian_, October 27, 1899. - - ** _Fortnightly Review_, January 1900. - -Of course, these lady critics did not favor certain features of the -original, and one of them, indeed, referred to the evil denounced by -M. Zola as a mere evil of the hour, whereas it has been growing and -spreading for half a century, gradually sapping all the vitality of -France. But beside that evil, beside the downfall of the families it -attacks, M. Zola portrays the triumph of rectitude, the triumph which -follows faith in the powers of life, and observance of the law of -universal labor. "Fruitfulness" contains charming pictures of homely -married life, delightful glimpses of childhood and youth: the first -smile, the first step, the first word, followed by the playfulness -and the flirtations of boyhood, and the happiness which waits on the -espousals of those who truly love. And the punishment of the guilty -is awful, and the triumph of the righteous is the greatest that can be -conceived. All those features have been retained, so far as my abilities -have allowed, in the present version, which will at the same time, I -think, give the reader unacquainted with the French language a general -idea of M. Zola's views on one of the great questions of the age, as -well as all the essential portions of a strongly conceived narrative. - - E. A. V. - - MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND: April, 1900. - - - - - -FRUITFULNESS - - - - -I - -THAT morning, in the little pavilion of Chantebled, on the verge of the -woods, where they had now been installed for nearly a month, Mathieu was -making all haste in order that he might catch the seven-o'clock train -which every day conveyed him from Janville to Paris. It was already -half-past six, and there were fully two thousand paces from the pavilion -to Janville. Afterwards came a railway journey of three-quarters of an -hour, and another journey of at least equal duration through Paris, from -the Northern Railway terminus to the Boulevard de Grenelle. He seldom -reached his office at the factory before half-past eight o'clock. - -He had just kissed the children. Fortunately they were asleep; otherwise -they would have linked their arms about his neck, laughed and kissed -him, being ever unwilling to let him go. And as he hastily returned to -the principal bedroom, he found his wife, Marianne, in bed there, but -awake and sitting up. She had risen a moment before in order to pull -back a curtain, and all the glow of that radiant May morning swept in, -throwing a flood of gay sunshine over the fresh and healthy beauty of -her four-and-twenty years. He, who was three years the elder, positively -adored her. - -"You know, my darling," said he, "I must make haste, for I fear I may -miss the train--and so manage as well as you can. You still have thirty -sous left, haven't you?" - -She began to laugh, looking charming with her bare arms and her -loose-flowing dark hair. The ever-recurring pecuniary worries of -the household left her brave and joyous. Yet she had been married at -seventeen, her husband at twenty, and they already had to provide for -four children. - -"Oh! we shall be all right," said she. "It's the end of the month -to-day, and you'll receive your money to-night. I'll settle our little -debts at Janville to-morrow. There are only the Lepailleurs, who worry -me with their bill for milk and eggs, for they always look as if they -fancied one meant to rob them. But with thirty sous, my dear! why, we -shall have quite a high time of it!" - -She was still laughing as she held out her firm white arms for the -customary morning good-by. - -"Run off, since you are in a hurry. I will go to meet you at the little -bridge to-night." - -"No, no, I insist on your going to bed! You know very well that even -if I catch the quarter-to-eleven-o'clock train, I cannot reach Janville -before half-past eleven. Ah! what a day I have before me! I had to -promise the Moranges that I would take dejeuner with them; and this -evening Beauchene is entertaining a customer--a business dinner, which -I'm obliged to attend. So go to bed, and have a good sleep while you are -waiting for me." - -She gently nodded, but would give no positive promise. "Don't forget to -call on the landlord," she added, "to tell him that the rain comes into -the children's bedroom. It's not right that we should be soaked here as -if we were on the high-way, even if those millionaires, the Seguins du -Hordel, do let us have this place for merely six hundred francs a year." - -"Ah, yes! I should have forgotten that. I will call on them, I promise -you." - -Then Mathieu took her in his arms, and there was no ending to their -leave-taking. He still lingered. She had begun to laugh again, while -giving him many a kiss in return for his own. There was all the love of -bounding health between them, the joy that springs from the most perfect -union, as when man and wife are but one both in flesh and in soul. - -"Run off, run off, darling! Remember to tell Constance that, before -she goes into the country, she ought to run down here some Sunday with -Maurice." - -"Yes, yes, I will tell her--till to-night, darling." - -But he came back once more, caught her in a tight embrace, and pressed -to her lips a long, loving kiss, which she returned with her whole -heart. And then he hurried away. - -He usually took an omnibus on his arrival at the Northern Railway -terminus. But on the days when only thirty sous remained at home he -bravely went through Paris on foot. It was, too, a very fine walk by way -of the Rue la Fayette, the Opera-house, the Boulevards, the Rue Royale, -and then, after the Place de la Concorde, the Cours la Reine, the Alma -bridge, and the Quai d'Orsay. - -Beauchene's works were at the very end of the Quai d'Orsay, between the -Rue de la Federation and the Boulevard de Grenelle. There was hereabouts -a large square plot, at one end of which, facing the quay, stood a -handsome private house of brickwork with white stone dressings, that had -been erected by Leon Beauchene, father of Alexandre, the present master -of the works. From the balconies one could perceive the houses which -were perched aloft in the midst of greenery on the height of Passy, -beyond the Seine; whilst on the right arose the campanile of the -Trocadero palace. On one side, skirting the Rue de la Federation, one -could still see a garden and a little house, which had been the modest -dwelling of Leon Beauchene in the heroic days of desperate toil when he -had laid the foundations of his fortune. Then the factory buildings -and sheds, quite a mass of grayish structures, overtopped by two huge -chimneys, occupied both the back part of the ground and that which -fringed the Boulevard de Grenelle, the latter being shut off by -long windowless walls. This important and well-known establishment -manufactured chiefly agricultural appliances, from the most powerful -machines to those ingenious and delicate implements on which particular -care must be bestowed if perfection is to be attained. In addition to -the hundreds of men who worked there daily, there were some fifty women, -burnishers and polishers. - -The entry to the workshops and offices was in the Rue de la Federation, -through a large carriage way, whence one perceived the far-spreading -yard, with its paving stones invariably black and often streaked by -rivulets of steaming water. Dense smoke arose from the high chimneys, -strident jets of steam emerged from the roof, whilst a low rumbling and -a shaking of the ground betokened the activity within, the ceaseless -bustle of labor. - -It was thirty-five minutes past eight by the big clock of the central -building when Mathieu crossed the yard towards the office which he -occupied as chief designer. For eight years he had been employed at the -works where, after a brilliant and special course of study, he had made -his beginning as assistant draughtsman when but nineteen years old, -receiving at that time a salary of one hundred francs a month. His -father, Pierre Froment,* had four sons by Marie his wife--Jean the -eldest, then Mathieu, Marc, and Luc--and while leaving them free to -choose a particular career he had striven to give each of them some -manual calling. Leon Beauchene, the founder of the works, had been dead -a year, and his son Alexandre had succeeded him and married Constance -Meunier, daughter of a very wealthy wall-paper manufacturer of the -Marais, at the time when Mathieu entered the establishment, the master -of which was scarcely five years older than himself. It was there -that Mathieu had become acquainted with a poor cousin of Alexandre's, -Marianne, then sixteen years old, whom he had married during the -following year. - - * Of _Lourdes_, _Rome_, and _Paris_. - -Marianne, when only twelve, had become dependent upon her uncle, Leon -Beauchene. After all sorts of mishaps a brother of the latter, one Felix -Beauchene, a man of adventurous mind but a blunderhead, had gone to -Algeria with his wife and daughter, there to woo fortune afresh; and -the farm he had established was indeed prospering when, during a sudden -revival of Arab brigandage, both he and his wife were murdered and their -home was destroyed. Thus the only place of refuge for the little girl, -who had escaped miraculously, was the home of her uncle, who showed her -great kindness during the two years of life that remained to him. With -her, however, were Alexandre, whose companionship was rather dull, -and his younger sister, Seraphine, a big, vicious, and flighty girl -of eighteen, who, as it happened, soon left the house amid a frightful -scandal--an elopement with a certain Baron Lowicz, a genuine baron, but -a swindler and forger, to whom it became necessary to marry her. She -then received a dowry of 300,000 francs. Alexandre, after his father's -death, made a money match with Constance, who brought him half a million -francs, and Marianne then found herself still more a stranger, still -more isolated beside her new cousin, a thin, dry, authoritative woman, -who ruled the home with absolute sway. Mathieu was there, however, and a -few months sufficed: fine, powerful, and healthy love sprang up between -the young people; there was no lightning flash such as throws the -passion-swayed into each other's arms, but esteem, tenderness, faith, -and that mutual conviction of happiness in reciprocal bestowal which -tends to indissoluble marriage. And they were delighted at marrying -penniless, at bringing one another but their full hearts forever and -forever. The only change in Mathieu's circumstances was an increase of -salary to two hundred francs a month. True, his new cousin by marriage -just vaguely hinted at a possible partnership, but that would not be -till some very much later date. - -As it happened Mathieu Froment gradually became indispensable at the -works. The young master, Alexandre Beauchene, passed through an anxious -crisis. The dowry which his father had been forced to draw from his -coffers in order to get Seraphine married, and other large expenses -which had been occasioned by the girl's rebellious and perverse conduct, -had left but little working capital in the business. Then, too, on -the morrow of Leon Beauchene's death it was found that, with the -carelessness often evinced in such matters, he had neglected to leave -a will; so that Seraphine eagerly opposed her brother's interests, -demanding her personal share of the inheritance, and even suggesting -the sale of the works. The property had narrowly escaped being cut up, -annihilated. And Alexandre Beauchene still shivered with terror and -anger at the recollection of that time, amidst all his delight at having -at last rid himself of his sister by paying her in money the liberally -estimated value of her share. It was in order to fill up the void -thus created in his finances that he had espoused the half-million -represented by Constance--an ugly creature, as he himself bitterly -acknowledged, coarse male as he was. Truth to tell, she was so thin, so -scraggy, that before consenting to make her his wife he had often called -her "that bag of bones." But, on the other hand, thanks to his marriage -with her, all his losses were made good in five or six years' time; the -business of the works even doubled, and great prosperity set in. And -Mathieu, having become a most active and necessary coadjutor, ended -by taking the post of chief designer, at a salary of four thousand two -hundred francs per annum. - -Morange, the chief accountant, whose office was near Mathieu's, -thrust his head through the doorway as soon as he heard the young man -installing himself at his drawing-table. "I say, my dear Froment," he -exclaimed, "don't forget that you are to take dejeuner with us." - -"Yes, yes, my good Morange, it's understood. I will look in for you at -twelve o'clock." - -Then Mathieu very carefully scrutinized a wash drawing of a very simple -but powerful steam thresher, an invention of his own, on which he had -been working for some time past, and which a big landowner of Beauce, M. -Firon-Badinier, was to examine during the afternoon. - -The door of the master's private room was suddenly thrown wide open -and Beauchene appeared--tall, with a ruddy face, a narrow brow, and big -brown, protruding eyes. He had a rather large nose, thick lips, and a -full black beard, on which he bestowed great care, as he likewise did on -his hair, which was carefully combed over his head in order to conceal -the serious baldness that was already coming upon him, although he was -scarcely two-and-thirty. Frock-coated the first thing in the morning, -he was already smoking a big cigar; and his loud voice, his peals of -gayety, his bustling ways, all betokened an egotist and good liver still -in his prime, a man for whom money--capital increased and increased by -the labor of others--was the one only sovereign power. - -"Ah! ah! it's ready, is it not?" said he; "Monsieur Firon-Badinier has -again written me that he will be here at three o'clock. And you know -that I'm going to take you to the restaurant with him this evening; for -one can never induce those fellows to give orders unless one plies them -with good wine. It annoys Constance to have it done here; and, besides, -I prefer to entertain those people in town. You warned Marianne, eh?" - -"Certainly. She knows that I shall return by the -quarter-to-eleven-o'clock train." - -Beauchene had sunk upon a chair: "Ah! my dear fellow, I'm worn out," -he continued; "I dined in town last night; I got to bed only at one -o'clock. And there was a terrible lot of work waiting for me this -morning. One positively needs to be made of iron." - -Until a short time before he had shown himself a prodigious worker, -endowed with really marvellous energy and strength. Moreover, he -had given proof of unfailing business instinct with regard to many -profitable undertakings. Invariably the first to appear at the works, he -looked after everything, foresaw everything, filling the place with his -bustling zeal, and doubling his output year by year. Recently, however, -fatigue had been gaining ground on him. He had always sought plenty of -amusement, even amid the hard-working life he led. But nowadays certain -"sprees," as he called them, left him fairly exhausted. - -He gazed at Mathieu: "You seem fit enough, you do!" he said. "How is it -that you manage never to look tired?" - -As a matter of fact, the young man who stood there erect before his -drawing-table seemed possessed of the sturdy health of a young oak -tree. Tall and slender, he had the broad, lofty, tower-like brow of the -Froments. He wore his thick hair cut quite short, and his beard, which -curled slightly, in a point. But the chief expression of his face rested -in his eyes, which were at once deep and bright, keen and thoughtful, -and almost invariably illumined by a smile. They showed him to be at -once a man of thought and of action, very simple, very gay, and of a -kindly disposition. - -"Oh! I," he answered with a laugh, "I behave reasonably." - -But Beauchene protested: "No, you don't! The man who already has four -children when he is only twenty-seven can't claim to be reasonable. And -twins too--your Blaise and your Denis to begin with! And then your boy -Ambroise and your little girl Rose. Without counting the other little -girl that you lost at her birth. Including her, you would now have had -five youngsters, you wretched fellow! No, no, I'm the one who behaves -reasonably--I, who have but one child, and, like a prudent, sensible -man, desire no others!" - -He often made such jesting remarks as these, through which filtered his -genuine indignation; for he deemed the young couple to be over-careless -of their interests, and declared that the prolificness of his cousin -Marianne was quite scandalous. - -Accustomed as Mathieu was to these attacks, which left him perfectly -serene, he went on laughing, without even giving a reply, when a workman -abruptly entered the room--one who was currently called "old Moineaud," -though he was scarcely three-and-forty years of age. Short and -thick-set, he had a bullet head, a bull's neck, and face and hands -scarred and dented by more than a quarter of a century of toil. By -calling he was a fitter, and he had come to submit a difficulty which -had just arisen in the piecing together of a reaping machine. But, his -employer, who was still angrily thinking of over-numerous families, did -not give him time to explain his purpose. - -"And you, old Moineaud, how many children have you?" he inquired. - -"Seven, Monsieur Beauchene," the workman replied, somewhat taken aback. -"I've lost three." - -"So, including them, you would now have ten? Well, that's a nice state -of things! How can you do otherwise than starve?" - -Moineaud began to laugh like the gay thriftless Paris workman that he -was. The little ones? Well, they grew up without his even noticing it, -and, indeed, he was really fond of them, so long as they remained at -home. And, besides, they worked as they grew older, and brought a little -money in. However, he preferred to answer his employer with a jest which -set them all laughing. - -After he had explained the difficulty with the reaper, the others -followed him to examine the work for themselves. They were already -turning into a passage, when Beauchene, seeing the door of the women's -workshop open, determined to pass that way, so that he might give -his customary look around. It was a long, spacious place, where the -polishers, in smocks of black serge, sat in double rows polishing and -grinding their pieces at little work-boards. Nearly all of them were -young, a few were pretty, but most had low and common faces. An animal -odor and a stench of rancid oil pervaded the place. - -The regulations required perfect silence there during work. Yet all the -girls were gossiping. As soon, however, as the master's approach was -signalled the chatter abruptly ceased. There was but one girl who, -having her head turned, and thus seeing nothing of Beauchene, went on -furiously abusing a companion, with whom she had previously started a -dispute. She and the other were sisters, and, as it happened, daughters -of old Moineaud. Euphrasie, the younger one, she who was shouting, was -a skinny creature of seventeen, light-haired, with a long, lean, -pointed face, uncomely and malignant; whereas the elder, Norine, barely -nineteen, was a pretty girl, a blonde like her sister, but having a -milky skin, and withal plump and sturdy, showing real shoulders, arms, -and hips, and one of those bright sunshiny faces, with wild hair and -black eyes, all the freshness of the Parisian hussy, aglow with the -fleeting charm of youth. - -Norine was ever quarrelling with Euphrasie, and was pleased to have her -caught in a misdeed; so she allowed her to rattle on. And it thereupon -became necessary for Beauchene to intervene. He habitually evinced great -severity in the women's workshop, for he had hitherto held the view that -an employer who jested with his workgirls was a lost man. Thus, in spite -of the low character of which he was said to give proof in his walks -abroad, there had as yet never been the faintest suggestion of scandal -in connection with him and the women in his employ. - -"Well, now, Mademoiselle Euphrasie!" he exclaimed; "do you intend to be -quiet? This is quite improper. You are fined twenty sous, and if I hear -you again you will be locked out for a week." - -The girl had turned round in consternation. Then, stifling her rage, she -cast a terrible glance at her sister, thinking that she might at least -have warned her. But the other, with the discreet air of a pretty wench -conscious of her attractiveness, continued smiling, looking her employer -full in the face, as if certain that she had nothing to fear from him. -Their eyes met, and for a couple of seconds their glances mingled. Then -he, with flushed cheeks and an angry air, resumed, addressing one and -all: "As soon as the superintendent turns her back you chatter away like -so many magpies. Just be careful, or you will have to deal with me!" - -Moineaud, the father, had witnessed the scene unmoved, as if the two -girls--she whom the master had scolded, and she who slyly gazed at -him--were not his own daughters. And now the round was resumed and the -three men quitted the women's workshop amidst profound silence, which -only the whir of the little grinders disturbed. - -When the fitting difficulty had been overcome downstairs and Moineaud -had received his orders, Beauchene returned to his residence accompanied -by Mathieu, who wished to convey Marianne's invitation to Constance. A -gallery connected the black factory buildings with the luxurious private -house on the quay. And they found Constance in a little drawing-room -hung with yellow satin, a room to which she was very partial. She was -seated near a sofa, on which lay little Maurice, her fondly prized and -only child, who had just completed his seventh year. - -"Is he ill?" inquired Mathieu. - -The child seemed sturdily built, and he greatly resembled his father, -though he had a more massive jaw. But he was pale and there was a faint -ring round his heavy eyelids. His mother, that "bag of bones," a little -dark woman, yellow and withered at six-and-twenty, looked at him with an -expression of egotistical pride. - -"Oh, no! he's never ill," she answered. "Only he has been complaining of -his legs. And so I made him lie down, and I wrote last night to ask Dr. -Boutan to call this morning." - -"Pooh!" exclaimed Beauchene with a hearty laugh, "women are all the -same! A child who is as strong as a Turk! I should just like anybody to -tell me that he isn't strong." - -Precisely at that moment in walked Dr. Boutan, a short, stout man of -forty, with very keen eyes set in a clean-shaven, heavy, but extremely -good-natured face. He at once examined the child, felt and sounded him; -then with his kindly yet serious air he said: "No, no, there's nothing. -It is the mere effect of growth. The lad has become rather pale through -spending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in the -country, will set him right again." - -"I told you so!" cried Beauchene. - -Constance had kept her son's little hand in her own. He had again -stretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, -in her happiness, continued smiling. Whenever she chose she could appear -quite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features. -The doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chatting -in the houses of friends. A general practitioner, and one who more -particularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturally -a confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in family -circles. It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of that -much-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four children -she already had. - -Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver his -invitation. "Well," said he, "if you are soon leaving for the country, -you must come one Sunday to Janville. My wife would be so delighted to -see you there, to show you our encampment." - -Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they -occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and -five egg-cups. But Beauchene knew the pavilion, for he went shooting -in the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some -extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out -by the owner. - -"Seguin," said he, "is a friend of mine. I have lunched at your -pavilion. It's a perfect hovel!" - -Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled what -Madame Seguin--to whom she referred as Valentine--had told her of the -dilapidated condition of the old shooting-box. But the doctor, after -listening with a smile, broke in: - -"Mme. Seguin is a patient of mine. At the time when her last child -was born I advised her to stay at that pavilion. The atmosphere is -wholesome, and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass." - -Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchene began to jest in his -habitual way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there would -probably be no end to Mathieu's progeny, numerous as it already was. -But this elicited an angry protest from Constance, who on the subject -of children held the same views as her husband himself professed in his -more serious moments. - -Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant. They regarded him -and his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger. - -The advent of the young couple's last child, little Rose, had already -increased their expenses to such a point that they had been obliged to -seek refuge in the country, in a mere pauper's hovel. And yet, in spite -of Beauchene's sneers and Constance's angry remarks, Mathieu outwardly -remained very calm. Constance and Marianne had never been able to agree; -they differed too much in all respects; and for his part he laughed -off every attack, unwilling as he was to let anger master him, lest a -rupture should ensue. - -But Beauchene waxed passionate on the subject. That question of the -birth-rate and the present-day falling off in population was one which -he thought he had completely mastered, and on which he held forth at -length authoritatively. He began by challenging the impartiality of -Boutan, whom he knew to be a fervent partisan of large families. He -made merry with him, declaring that no medical man could possibly have -a disinterested opinion on the subject. Then he brought out all that he -vaguely knew of Malthusianism, the geometrical increase of births, and -the arithmetical increase of food-substances, the earth becoming so -populous as to be reduced to a state of famine within two centuries. -It was the poor's own fault, said he, if they led a life of starvation; -they had only to limit themselves to as many children as they could -provide for. The rich were falsely accused of social wrong-doing; they -were by no means responsible for poverty. Indeed, they were the only -reasonable people; they alone, by limiting their families, acted as good -citizens should act. And he became quite triumphant, repeating that he -knew of no cause for self-reproach, and that his ever-growing fortune -left him with an easy conscience. It was so much the worse for the poor, -if they were bent on remaining poor. In vain did the doctor urge that -the Malthusian theories were shattered, that the calculations had been -based on a possible, not a real, increase of population; in vain too did -he prove that the present-day economic crisis, the evil distribution -of wealth under the capitalist system, was the one hateful cause of -poverty, and that whenever labor should be justly apportioned among one -and all the fruitful earth would easily provide sustenance for happy men -ten times more numerous than they are now. The other refused to listen -to anything, took refuge in his egotism, declared that all those matters -were no concern of his, that he felt no remorse at being rich, and that -those who wished to become rich had, in the main, simply to do as he had -done. - -"Then, logically, this is the end of France, eh?" Boutan remarked -maliciously. "The number of births ever increases in Germany, -Russia, and elsewhere, while it decreases in a terrible way among us. -Numerically the rank we occupy in Europe is already very inferior -to what it formerly was; and yet number means power more than ever -nowadays. It has been calculated that an average of four children -per family is necessary in order that population may increase and the -strength of a nation be maintained. You have but one child; you are a -bad patriot." - -At this Beauchene flew into a tantrum, quite beside himself, and gasped: -"I a bad patriot! I, who kill myself with hard work! I, who even export -French machinery!... Yes, certainly I see families, acquaintances around -me who may well allow themselves four children; and I grant that they -deserve censure when they have no families. But as for me, my dear -doctor, it is impossible. You know very well that in my position I -absolutely can't." - -Then, for the hundredth time, he gave his reasons, relating how the -works had narrowly escaped being cut into pieces, annihilated, simply -because he had unfortunately been burdened with a sister. Seraphine had -behaved abominably. There had been first her dowry; next her demands for -the division of the property on their father's death; and the works had -been saved only by means of a large pecuniary sacrifice which had long -crippled their prosperity. And people imagined that he would be as -imprudent as his father! Why, if Maurice should have a brother or a -sister, he might hereafter find himself in the same dire embarrassment, -in which the family property might already have been destroyed. No, no! -He would not expose the boy to the necessity of dividing the inheritance -in accordance with badly framed laws. He was resolved that Maurice -should be the sole master of the fortune which he himself had derived -from his father, and which he would transmit to his heir increased -tenfold. For his son he dreamt of supreme wealth, a colossal fortune, -such as nowadays alone ensures power. - -Mathieu, refraining from any intervention, listened and remained grave; -for this question of the birth-rate seemed to him a frightful one, -the foremost of all questions, deciding the destiny of mankind and the -world. There has never been any progress but such as has been determined -by increase of births. If nations have accomplished evolutions, if -civilization has advanced, it is because the nations have multiplied and -subsequently spread through all the countries of the earth. And will not -to-morrow's evolution, the advent of truth and justice, be brought -about by the constant onslaught of the greater number, the revolutionary -fruitfulness of the toilers and the poor? - -It is quite true that Mathieu did not plainly say all these things to -himself; indeed, he felt slightly ashamed of the four children that he -already had, and was disturbed by the counsels of prudence addressed to -him by the Beauchenes. But within him there struggled his faith in life, -his belief that the greatest possible sum of life must bring about the -greatest sum of happiness. - -At last, wishing to change the subject, he bethought himself of -Marianne's commission, and at the first favorable opportunity exclaimed: -"Well, we shall rely on you, Marianne and I, for Sunday after next, at -Janville." - -But there was still no answer, for just then a servant came to say that -a woman with an infant in her arms desired to see Madame. And Beauchene, -having recognized the wife of Moineaud, the fitter, bade her come in. -Boutan, who had now risen, was prompted by curiosity to remain a little -longer. - -La Moineaude, short and fat like her husband, was a woman of about -forty, worn out before her time, with ashen face, pale eyes, thin faded -hair, and a weak mouth which already lacked many teeth. A large family -had been too much for her; and, moreover, she took no care of herself. - -"Well, my good woman," Constance inquired, "what do you wish with me?" - -But La Moineaude remained quite scared by the sight of all those people -whom she had not expected to find there. She said nothing. She had hoped -to speak to the lady privately. - -"Is this your last-born?" Beauchene asked her as he looked at the pale, -puny child on her arm. - -"Yes, monsieur, it's my little Alfred; he's ten months old and I've -had to wean him, for I couldn't feed him any longer. I had nine others -before this one, but three are dead. My eldest son, Eugene, is a soldier -in Tonquin. You have my two big girls, Euphrasie and Norine, at the -works. And I have three left at home--Victor, who is now fifteen, then -Cecile and Irma, who are ten and seven. After Irma I thought I had -done with children for good, and I was well pleased. But, you see, this -urchin came! And I, forty too--it's not just! The good Lord must surely -have abandoned us." - -Then Dr. Boutan began to question her. He avoided looking at the -Beauchenes, but there was a malicious twinkle in his little eyes, and -it was evident that he took pleasure in recapitulating the employer's -arguments against excessive prolificness. He pretended to get angry -and to reproach the Moineauds for their ten wretched children--the boys -fated to become food for powder, the girls always liable to misfortune. -And he gave the woman to understand that it was her own fault if she was -in distress; for people with a tribe of children about them could never -become rich. And the poor creature sadly answered that he was quite -right, but that no idea of becoming rich could ever have entered their -heads. Moineaud knew well enough that he would never be a cabinet -minister, and so it was all the same to them how many children they -might have on their hands. Indeed, a number proved a help when the -youngsters grew old enough to go out to work. - -Beauchene had become silent and slowly paced the room. A slight chill, -a feeling of uneasiness was springing up, and so Constance made haste to -inquire: "Well, my good woman, what is it I can do for you?" - -"_Mon Dieu_, madame, it worries me; it's something which Moineaud didn't -dare to ask of Monsieur Beauchene. For my part I hoped to find you alone -and beg you to intercede for us. The fact is we should be very, very -grateful if our little Victor could only be taken on at the works." - -"But he is only fifteen," exclaimed Beauchene. "You must wait till he's -sixteen. The law is strict." - -"No doubt. Only one might perhaps just tell a little fib. It would be -rendering us such a service--" - -"No, it is impossible." - -Big tears welled into La Moineaude's eyes. And Mathieu, who had -listened with passionate interest, felt quite upset. Ah! that wretched -toil-doomed flesh that hastened to offer itself without waiting until -it was even ripe for work! Ah! the laborer who is prepared to lie, whom -hunger sets against the very law designed for his own protection! - -When La Moineaude had gone off in despair the doctor continued speaking -of juvenile and female labor. As soon as a woman first finds herself a -mother she can no longer continue toiling at a factory. Her lying-in and -the nursing of her babe force her to remain at home, or else grievous -infirmities may ensue for her and her offspring. As for the child, it -becomes anemic, sometimes crippled; besides, it helps to keep wages down -by being taken to work at a low scale of remuneration. Then the doctor -went on to speak of the prolificness of wretchedness, the swarming of -the lower classes. Was not the most hateful natality of all that which -meant the endless increase of starvelings and social rebels? - -"I perfectly understand you," Beauchene ended by saying, without any -show of anger, as he abruptly brought his perambulations to an end. "You -want to place me in contradiction with myself, and make me confess that -I accept Moineaud's seven children and need them, whereas I, with my -fixed determination to rest content with an only son, suppress, as it -were, a family in order that I may not have to subdivide my estate. -France, 'the country of only sons,' as folks say nowadays--that's it, -eh? But, my dear fellow, the question is so intricate, and at bottom I -am altogether in the right!" - -Then he wished to explain things, and clapped his hand to his breast, -exclaiming that he was a liberal, a democrat, ready to demand all -really progressive measures. He willingly recognized that children were -necessary, that the army required soldiers, and the factories workmen. -Only he also invoked the prudential duties of the higher classes, and -reasoned after the fashion of a man of wealth, a conservative clinging -to the fortune he has acquired. - -Mathieu meanwhile ended by understanding the brutal truth: Capital -is compelled to favor the multiplication of lives foredoomed to -wretchedness; in spite of everything it must stimulate the prolificness -of the wage-earning classes, in order that its profits may continue. -The law is that there must always be an excess of children in order that -there may be enough cheap workers. Then also speculation on the wages' -ratio wrests all nobility from labor, which is regarded as the worst -misfortune a man can be condemned to, when in reality it is the most -precious of boons. Such, then, is the cancer preying upon mankind. In -countries of political equality and economical inequality the capitalist -regime, the faulty distribution of wealth, at once restrains and -precipitates the birth-rate by perpetually increasing the wrongful -apportionment of means. On one side are the rich folk with "only" sons, -who continually increase their fortunes; on the other, the poor folk, -who, by reason of their unrestrained prolificness, see the little they -possess crumble yet more and more. If labor be honored to-morrow, if -a just apportionment of wealth be arrived at, equilibrium will be -restored. Otherwise social revolution lies at the end of the road. - -But Beauchene, in his triumphant manner, tried to show that he possessed -great breadth of mind; he admitted the disquieting strides of a decrease -of population, and denounced the causes of it--alcoholism, militarism, -excessive mortality among infants, and other numerous matters. Then he -indicated remedies; first, reductions in taxation, fiscal means in which -he had little faith; then freedom to will one's estate as one pleased, -which seemed to him more efficacious; a change, too, in the marriage -laws, without forgetting the granting of affiliation rights. - -However, Boutan ended by interrupting him. "All the legislative measures -in the world will do nothing," said the doctor. "Manners and customs, -our notions of what is moral and what is not, our very conceptions -of the beautiful in life--all must be changed. If France is becoming -depopulated, it is because she so chooses. It is simply necessary then -for her to choose so no longer. But what a task--a whole world to create -anew!" - -At this Mathieu raised a superb cry: "Well! we'll create it. I've begun -well enough, surely!" - -But Constance, after laughing in a constrained way, in her turn thought -it as well to change the subject. And so she at last replied to his -invitation, saying that she would do her best to go to Janville, though -she feared she might not be able to dispose of a Sunday to do so. - -Dr. Boutan then took his leave, and was escorted to the door by -Beauchene, who still went on jesting, like a man well pleased with life, -one who was satisfied with himself and others, and who felt certain of -being able to arrange things as might best suit his pleasure and his -interests. - -An hour later, a few minutes after midday, as Mathieu, who had been -delayed in the works, went up to the offices to fetch Morange as he -had promised to do, it occurred to him to take a short cut through the -women's workshop. And there, in that spacious gallery, already deserted -and silent, he came upon an unexpected scene which utterly amazed -him. On some pretext or other Norine had lingered there the last, and -Beauchene was with her, clasping her around the waist whilst he eagerly -pressed his lips to hers. But all at once they caught sight of Mathieu -and remained thunderstruck. And he, for his part, fled precipitately, -deeply annoyed at having been a surprised witness to such a secret. - - - - -II - -MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchene's works, was a man of -thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark, -fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes, -straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his -younger days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He -still took great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and -preserved the correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred -clerk. - -"You don't know our new flat yet, do you?" he asked Mathieu as he led -him away. "Oh! it's perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and -another for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in -four minutes, watch in hand." - -He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his -stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a -clerk's daughter, one Valerie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose -parents' home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful -wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable -incumbrance. Valerie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky -enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working -fellow, Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this -accomplished, she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up -the social ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty -clerkdom by making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or -a doctor. Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and -Valerie trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters -on her hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, and -she resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that -she might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means -gain that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. -Her husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing -her ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her -benefit. But he had now been eight years at the Beauchene works, and -he still earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and his -wife to despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchene's that he would ever -make his fortune. - -"You see!" he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with -Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, "it is that new house yonder at -the street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?" - -Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies -and sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor -little houses predominating in the district. - -"Why, it is a palace!" he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who -thereupon drew himself up quite proudly. - -"You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is on -the fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so -easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing." - -Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were -ushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was -a carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, on -reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey, -he repeated, with an air of delight: "You will see, you will see!" - -Valerie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened -forward. At thirty-two Valerie was still young and charming. She was -a pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of -superb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of -which her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a -low-necked dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very -portrait of her mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer, -face under similar black tresses. - -"Ah! it is very kind of you to accept our invitation," said Valerie -gayly as she pressed both Mathieu's hands. "What a pity that Madame -Froment could not come with you! Reine, why don't you relieve the -gentleman of his hat?" - -Then she immediately continued: "We have a nice light anteroom, you see. -Would you like to glance over our flat while the eggs are being boiled? -That will always be one thing done, and you will then at least know -where you are lunching." - -All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his side -smiled so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to this -innocent display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, -the walls of which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design of -golden flowers, while the furniture consisted of some of those white -lacquered Louis XVI. pieces which makers turn out by the gross. The -rosewood piano showed like a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, -overlooking the Boulevard de Grenelle, came Reine's bedroom, pale -blue, with furniture of polished pine. Her parents' room, a very small -apartment, was at the other end of the flat, separated from the -parlor by the dining-room. The hangings adorning it were yellow; and a -bedstead, a washstand, and a wardrobe, all of thuya, had been crowded -into it. Finally the classic "old carved oak" triumphed in the -dining-room, where a heavily gilded hanging lamp flashed like fire above -the table, dazzling in its whiteness. - -"Why, it's delightful," Mathieu, repeated, by way of politeness; "why, -it's a real gem of a place." - -In their excitement, father, mother, and daughter never ceased leading -him hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feel -the things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the place -recalled something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with the -arrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which the -nicknacks in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. -Influenced by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despite -themselves, no doubt, had tried to copy the Beauchenes. Always short -of money as they were, they could only and by dint of great sacrifices -indulge in a species of make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they were -proud of it, and, by imitating the envied higher class from afar, they -imagined that they drew nearer to it. - -"And then," Morange exclaimed, as he opened the dining-room window, -"there is also this." - -Outside, a balcony ran along the house-front, and at that height the -view was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from the -Beauchene mansion but more extensive, the Seine showing in the distance, -and the heights of Passy rising above the nearer and lower house-roofs. - -Valerie also called attention to the prospect. "It is magnificent, is it -not?" said she; "far better than the few trees that one can see from the -quay." - -The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seats -at table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogether -cost him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though the -amount was a heavy charge on Morange's slender income. Mathieu now began -to understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire the -new flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over it -before him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite. -There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing of -the luxury he brushed against in other people's homes, and he was -quite satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne and -his children. Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges so -desirous of cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with a -somewhat sad smile. - -Valerie was wearing a pretty gown of foulard with a pattern of little -yellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck out -coquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather too -much luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then came -cutlets, and afterwards asparagus. - -The conversation began with some mention of Janville. - -"And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very fine -children indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I think -I should feel dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lack -of amusements. Why, yes, we shall be delighted to go to see you there, -since Madame Froment is kind enough to invite us." - -Then, as was bound to happen, the talk turned on the Beauchenes. -This was a subject which haunted the Moranges, who lived in perpetual -admiration of the Beauchenes, though at times they covertly criticised -them. Valerie was very proud of being privileged to attend Constance's -Saturday "at-homes," and of having been twice invited to dinner by her -during the previous winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, -Tuesday, and she even gave little private parties, and half ruined -herself in providing refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, -she spoke with profound respect of Mme. Seguin du Hordel and that lady's -magnificent mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, for Constance had obligingly -obtained her an invitation to a ball there. But she was particularly -vain of the friendship of Beauchene's sister, Seraphine, whom she -invariably called "Madame la Baronne de Lowicz." - -"The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon," she said. "She is so -very good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? After -her marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and their -wretched disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has no -great liking for Madame Beauchene, as you must know." - -Then she again reverted to the manufacturer's wife, declared that little -Maurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with bad -flesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parents -if they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thus -started, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges, -had but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to compare -him with M. Beauchene, who was such a wealthy man. Valerie, for -her part, pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with four -daughters, who had been obliged to wait months and months for boots and -frocks and hats, and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest they -should never find husbands. A family was all very well, but when it -happened to consist of daughters the situation became terrible for -people of limited means; for if daughters were to be launched properly -into life they must have dowries. - -"Besides," said she, "I am very ambitious for my husband, and I am -convinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will only -listen to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. As -things stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine a -suitable dowry." - -Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife's -hand and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valerie was really -the one with will. It was she who had instilled some ambition into him, -and he esteemed her the more for it. - -"My wife is a thoroughly good woman, you know, my dear Froment," said -he. "She has a good head as well as a good heart." - -Then, while Valerie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flat -she would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two months -which, like the Beauchenes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, -Mathieu looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Their -case was very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that he -would never be a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wife -would indeed make him a minister some day. Every petty bourgeois in a -democratic community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, -there is a universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the others -aside so that he may the more speedily climb a rung of the social -ladder. This general ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, -is possible only in a country where political equality and economic -inequality prevail; for each has the same right to fortune and has but -to conquer it. There is, however, a struggle of the vilest egotism, if -one wishes to taste the pleasures of the highly placed, pleasures which -are displayed to the gaze of all and are eagerly coveted by nearly -everybody in the lower spheres. Under a democratic constitution a nation -cannot live happily if its manners and customs are not simple, and if -the conditions of life are not virtually equal for one and all. -Under other circumstances than these the liberal professions prove -all-devouring: there is a rush for public functions; manual toil is -regarded with contempt; luxury increases and becomes necessary; and -wealth and power are furiously appropriated by assault in order that one -may greedily taste the voluptuousness of enjoyment. And in such a state -of affairs, children, as Valerie put it, were incumbrances, whereas one -needed to be free, absolutely unburdened, if one wished to climb over -all one's competitors. - -Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even the -least fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happy -ones of the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneath -that envied luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts of -useless needs are created, and production is turned aside from the -strictly necessary. One can no longer express hardship by saying that -people lack bread; what they lack in the majority of cases is the -superfluous, which they are unable to renounce without imagining that -they have gone to the dogs and are in danger of starvation. - -At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited by -his good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towards -their guest, saying: - -"Come, he's a safe friend; one may tell him everything." - -And when Valerie had consented with a smile and a nod, he went on: -"Well, this is the matter, my dear fellow: it is possible that I may -soon leave the works. Oh! it's not decided, but I'm thinking of it. Yes, -I've been thinking of it for some months past; for, when all is said, to -earn five thousand francs a year, after eight years' zeal, and to think -that one will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair of -life." - -"It's monstrous," the young woman interrupted: "it is like breaking -one's head intentionally against a wall." - -"Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to look -out for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom I -had under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligent -fellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left us -to go to the Credit National, and what do you think he is now earning -there? Twelve thousand francs--you hear me--twelve thousand francs!" - -The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges' eyes dilated -with ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red. - -"Last March," continued Morange, "I happened to meet Michaud, who told -me all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take me -with him and help me on in my turn. Only there's some risk to run. He -explained to me that I must at first accept three thousand six hundred, -so as to rise gradually to a very big figure. But three thousand six -hundred! How can one live on that in the meantime, especially now that -this flat has increased our expenses?" - -At this Valerie broke in impetuously: "'Nothing venture, nothing have!' -That's what I keep on repeating to him. Of course I am in favor of -prudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromise -his future. But, at the same time, he can't moulder away in a situation -unworthy of him." - -"And so you have made up your minds?" asked Mathieu. - -"Well, my wife has calculated everything," Morange replied; "and, yes, -we have made up our minds, provided, of course, that nothing unforeseen -occurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be open -at the Credit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matter -entirely to yourself, for we don't want to quarrel with the Beauchenes -just now." - -Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was very -punctual, and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant was -hurried, the coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hot -as it was, when the arrival of a visitor upset the little household and -caused everything to be forgotten. - -"Oh!" exclaimed Valerie, as she hastily rose, flushed with pride, -"Madame la Baronne de Lowicz!" - -Seraphine, at this time nine-and-twenty, was red-haired, tall and -elegant, with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Her -red lips were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flame -ever shone in her large brown eyes flecked with gold. - -"Pray don't disturb yourselves, my friends," said she. "Your servant -wanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming in -here, because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch your -charming little Reine to take her to a matinee at the Circus." - -A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless with -joy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: "Oh! Madame la Baronne, -you are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact is -that she isn't dressed, and you will have to wait a moment. Come, child, -make haste, I will help you--ten minutes, you understand--I won't keep -you waiting a moment longer." - -Seraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture of -surprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she now -shook. - -"And you, are you quite well?" she asked. - -"Quite well," he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctively -pushed his chair back. He did not seem at all pleased at having met her. - -He had been on familiar terms with her during his earlier days at the -Beauchene works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of both -conscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandal -even before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needy -adventurer with a face like an archangel's and the soul of a swindler. -The result of the union was a stillborn child. Then Seraphine, who was -extremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband and -drove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawl -at a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Seraphine made every -use of her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every fete, took -part in every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were told -of her; but she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus still -received everywhere. - -"You are living in the country, are you not?" she asked again, turning -towards Mathieu. - -"Yes, we have been there for three weeks past." - -"Constance told me of it. I met her the other day at Madame Seguin's. -We are on the best terms possible, you know, now that I give my brother -good advice." - -In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with her -usual boldness she treated the matter as a joke. - -"We talked about Dr. Gaude," she resumed; "I fancied that she wanted to -ask for his address; but she did not dare." - -"Dr. Gaude!" interrupted Morange. "Ah! yes, a friend of my wife's spoke -to her about him. He's a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of his -operations are like miracles." - -Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude's clinic at the Hopital Marbeuf, a -clinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, just -as they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, and -who bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, was -likewise partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerous -experiments on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. The -newspapers were always talking about him, his cures were constantly -puffed and advertised by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselves -to his skill. And he certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carving -his patients in the quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with never -a scruple, never a doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right or -not. - -Seraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth between -her blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which had -appeared on Mathieu's face since Gaude had been spoken of. "Ah!" said -she; "there's a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr. -Boutan, who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can't understand -why Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the views -she does. She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully share -them." - -Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinions -were the same. However, as Valerie did not return with Reine, he grew -impatient, and asked permission to go and see what they were about. -Perhaps he himself might be able to help in getting the child ready. - -As soon as Seraphine was alone with Mathieu she turned her big, ardent, -gold-flecked eyes upon him. She no longer laughed with the same laugh as -a moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on her -bold bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, "And is my good -cousin Marianne quite well?" - -"Quite well," replied Mathieu. - -"And the children are still growing?" - -"Yes, still growing." - -"So you are happy, like a good paterfamilias, in your little nook?" - -"Perfectly happy." - -Again she lapsed into silence, but she did not cease to look at him, -more provoking, more radiant than ever, with the charm of a young -sorceress whose eyes burn and poison men's hearts. And at last she -slowly resumed: "And so it is all over between us?" - -He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been a -passing fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and she -two-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was already -married. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, and -had then entirely freed himself from her. - -"All over--really?" she again inquired, smiling but aggressive. - -She was looking very beautiful and bold, seeking to tempt him and carry -him off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simply -have made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her any -answer, even by a wave of the hand, she went on: "I prefer that: don't -reply: don't say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, you -know." - -For a moment Mathieu's eyes flashed, then he closed them in order that -he might no longer see Seraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemed -as if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to his -as she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, full -of mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to his -mouth as if she feared that he was again going to say no. - -"Be quiet," said she; "they are coming." - -The Moranges were now indeed returning with Reine, whose hair had been -curled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silk -decked with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dress -material. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rose -silk. - -"Oh, what a love!" exclaimed Seraphine by way of pleasing the parents. -"Somebody will be stealing her from me, you know." - -Then it occurred to her to kiss the child in passionate fashion, -feigning the emotion of a woman who regrets that she is childless. "Yes; -indeed one regrets it very much when one sees such a treasure as this -sweet girl of yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would give -one such a charming child--well, at all events, I shall steal her from -you; you need not expect me to bring her back again." - -The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew her -well, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short and -passionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In her -estimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of her -in the eyes of man. - -The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they could -not find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing such -coveted wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door of -the flat was closed Valerie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, "Let -us see them drive off." - -Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a position -near her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean over -and look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with a -superb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put a -finishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Seraphine had -installed the little girl beside her, they laughed aloud. - -"How pretty she looks! How happy she must feel!" - -Reine must have been conscious that they were looking at her, for she -raised her head, smiled and bowed. And Seraphine did the same, while the -horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came a -final explosion-- - -"Look at her!" repeated Valerie; "she is so candid! At twelve years old -she is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trust -her to nobody. Wouldn't one think her a little duchess who has always -had a carriage of her own?" - -Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. "Well," said he, "I hope -that she _will_ have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me get -into the Credit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled." - -And turning towards Mathieu he added, "There are three of us, and, as -I have said before, that is quite enough for a man to provide for, -especially as money is so hard to earn." - - - - -III - -AT the works during the afternoon Mathieu, who wished to be free earlier -than usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon his -landlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself so -busy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchene. This was a relief, for -the secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he feared -lest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, when -they exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even that -there was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shown -himself more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had felt -in the morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one who -finds life very pleasant, and has no fear whatever of hard work. - -As a rule Mathieu left at six o'clock; but that day he went into -Morange's office at half-past five to receive his month's salary. This -rightly amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundred -had been advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalments -of fifty, he now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed with -such an air of satisfaction that the accountant commented on it. - -"Well," said the young fellow, "the money's welcome, for I left my wife -with just thirty sous this morning." - -It was already more than six o'clock when he found himself outside the -superb house which the Seguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenue -d'Antin. Seguin's grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil at -Janville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made a -considerable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of a -rich, elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, -while passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art and -literature, going for fashion's sake to extreme opinions. He had proudly -married an almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race, -the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was -narrow. Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of -her one who, while following religious practices, was eager for the -joys of the world. Seguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised -religion, because it was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfather -had had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been content -with six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that -number more than was right. - -One part of Seguin's fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve -hundred acres--woods and heaths--above Janville, which his father had -purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. -The old man's long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his -native village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the -point of there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a -vast park when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estate -had come to Seguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had -turned the shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares -of five hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. The -income derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apart -from the woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, -patches of sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the -opinion of the district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn -the expanse to good account. The defunct army contractor alone had been -able to picture there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating -around his regal abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained an -authorization to add to the name of Seguin that of Du Hordel--taken from -a ruined tower called the Hordel which stood on the estate. - -It was through Beauchene, one of the shareholders of the shooting -rights, that Mathieu had made Seguin's acquaintance, and had discovered -the old hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him -so much that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treated -Marianne as a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her -there, and had declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, -laughing the while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had -known nothing of her property. In reality she herself would not have -lived there for an hour. Her husband had launched her into the -feverish life of literary, artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her -to gatherings, studios, exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure -resorts--all those brasier-like places where weak heads and wavering -hearts are lost. He himself, amid all his passion for show, felt bored -to death everywhere, and was at ease only among his horses; and -this despite his pretensions with respect to advanced literature and -philosophy, his collections of curios, such as the bourgeois of to-day -does not yet understand, his furniture, his pottery, his pewter-work, -and particularly his bookbindings, of which he was very proud. And -he was turning his wife into a copy of himself, perverting her by his -extravagant opinions and his promiscuous friendships, so that the little -devotee who had been confided to his keeping was now on the high road -to every kind of folly. She still went to mass and partook of the holy -communion; but she was each day growing more and more familiar -with wrong-doing. A disaster must surely be at the end of it all, -particularly as he foolishly behaved to her in a rough, jeering way, -which greatly hurt her feelings, and led her to dream of being loved -with gentleness. - -When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows on -each of the stories of its ornate Renaissance facade, he laughed lightly -as he thought: "These folks don't have to wait for a monthly pittance of -three hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand." - -The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right hand -were the dining-room and two drawing-rooms; on the left a billiard-room, -a smoking-room, and a winter garden. On the first floor, in front of -the broad staircase, was Seguin's so-called "cabinet," a vast apartment, -sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, which -occupied all the central part of the house; while the husband's bed and -dressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and children -on the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites of -rooms were kept in reserve for the time when the children should have -grown up. - -A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinet -and begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For a -moment the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spacious -room, feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of old -stained glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, the -oak bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes they -contained; the tables laden with bibelots, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith's -work, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. Then -Eastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats and -couches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one could -hide oneself behind fringes of lofty plants. - -"Oh! so it's you, Monsieur Froment," suddenly exclaimed somebody in the -direction of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupon -a tall young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden from -Mathieu's view, came forward with outstretched hand. - -"Ah!" said Mathieu, after a moment's hesitation, "Monsieur Charles -Santerre." - -This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together -once before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a -novelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine -brow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache -and beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to -conceal. He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought -under pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as -instruments of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle he -had remained a bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests of -others. In literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had made -it his specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined -surroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value of -his works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed to -be a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he had -allowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadays -he posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatest -pessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of human -passion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of the -world. - -"Seguin will be here in a moment," he resumed in an amiable way. "It -occurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant this -evening, before going to a certain first performance where there will -probably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night." - -Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in evening -dress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist called -attention to a new pewter treasure among Seguin's collection. It -represented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hair -streaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, -and Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figure -symbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when man -should finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do with -her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped -on the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Seguins' home. - -However, Seguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age -as Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline -nose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was -in evening dress. - -"Ah! well, my dear fellow," said he with the slight lisp which he -affected, "Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be -patient; we shall have an hour to wait." - -Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much -politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. -When the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted -him with the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of the -little pavilion at Janville--he at once consented to let the local -plumber do any necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, -he understood that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required -to be changed entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability -and began to protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in -such repairs a sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six -hundred francs. - -"Some soldering," he repeated; "some soldering; it's understood. I will -write to the plumber." And wishing to change the subject he added: "Oh! -wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I -want to show you a marvel." - -He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow -possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly -yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart -that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of -a new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which -Seguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On -the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily, -intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work, -"Beauty Imperishable," was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky. - -"Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!" declared -Mathieu, who was really charmed. "Some bindings nowadays are perfect -gems." Then he noticed the title: "Why, it's Monsieur Santerre's last -novel!" said he. - -Seguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when -he saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment -paid to it, he exclaimed: "My dear fellow, the binder brought it here -this morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. -It is the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea--that -lily which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants -which spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the -world, at last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? -All your work lies in those symbols, you know." - -"Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud." - -Mathieu had read Santerre's novel, having borrowed a copy of it from -Mme. Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book -that everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated -him. Forsaking the customary bachelor's flat where in previous works he -had been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time -tried to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story -he told was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a -rough-mannered husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge -in Brittany in the company of a young painter endowed with divine -inspiration, one Norbert, who had undertaken to decorate a convent -chapel with paintings that depicted his various visions. And for thirty -years he went on painting there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and -ever having Anne-Marie beside him. And during those thirty years of love -the Countess's beauty remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh -at the finish as at the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, -introduced into the story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little -town, sank into physical and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. -Mathieu considered the author's theory that all physical beauty and -moral nobility belonged to virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, and -he could not restrain himself from hinting his disapproval of it. - -Both Santerre and Seguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite a -discussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religious -standpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, "Increase and -multiply," were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the true -basis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, had -held marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become the -ideal of womanhood. Seguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded to -give his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the taste -of Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty had -often varied. - -"To-day," said he, "you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim, -attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissance -the type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, -take even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robust -build. Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, -moreover, if we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if women -were not encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figures -so that their very nature, their very organism is changed, there would -perhaps be some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which is -talked about so much nowadays." - -The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionate -superiority. "Depopulation an evil!" exclaimed Seguin; "can you, my dear -sir, intelligent as you are, still believe in that hackneyed old story? -Come, reflect and reason a little." - -Then Santerre chimed in, and they went on talking one after the other -and at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche were -passed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But all -this literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his belief -in fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer had -faith in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when he -doubted the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if ten -thousand happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappy -ones; in which connection political and economic conditions had to be -taken into account. But when all was said, he remained almost convinced -that the Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future as -they had proved false in the past. - -"Moreover," said he, "even if the world should become densely populated, -even if food supplies, such as we know them, should fall short, -chemistry would extract other means of subsistence from inorganic -matter. And, besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it is -impossible to make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. -In France, too, instead of contributing to any such danger, we are going -backward, we are marching towards annihilation. The population of -France was once a fourth of the population of Europe, but now it is only -one-eighth. In a century or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens -and ancient Rome, and we shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now -occupies. Paris seems determined to die." - -But Santerre protested: "No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain -stationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the most -intelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nations -advance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We -are simply giving the world an example of high culture, superior -intelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example when -in turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs of -this already on every side." - -"Quite so!" exclaimed Seguin, backing up his friend. "The phenomenon is -general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in -numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is -affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as -Europe forces open the door there." - -Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated -before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The -pale, slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer -in question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if -communing with himself, he said: "So you do not fear the Yellow Peril, -that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would -at some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it -afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the -sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to -endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence -civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How -was it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their -populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens -and Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes -and renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has -already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but -the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you -please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is -dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is -none the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide -which will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of -equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to -grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will -die, and the country with her." - -"Well, for my part," declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant -pessimist, "if she wishes to die, I shan't oppose her. In fact, I'm -fully determined to help her." - -"It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any -increase of population," added Seguin. - -But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: "I know Herbert -Spencer's law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is -certain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may -picture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now -to increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by -the very effect of culture's victory when the world shall be entirely -populated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will be -followed, through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More -and more nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and how -many thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment, -compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought -of this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a -pang." - -Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith -in the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right--he or -those two men so languidly stretched out before him. - -But Valentine, Seguin's wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition -of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire. - -"Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl -Celeste takes such a time over everything!" - -At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair, -with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she -could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very -free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about -with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite -familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it -was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again -showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw -herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity. - -"Ah! it's you, Monsieur Froment," she said amiably, stepping towards -Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. "Is Madame Froment in -good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?" - -Seguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with -unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly -rude fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of -politeness. "What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that -rag on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!" - -And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She -made an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and -assumed an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly -turned her eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing -at her with ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness -of his attitude. - -"You look delicious!" he murmured; "that gown is a marvel." - -Seguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women. -Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike -gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that -Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone -off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a -promise to repair the pavilion properly. - -"Wait another moment," Valentine at last said to her husband; "I -told Celeste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before -starting." - -Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his -request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining -at the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first -performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors -which had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She -appeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even -went further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest -pessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art that -they themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatly -over-estimated, in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, the -free harmony of the passing wind. As for her moral views, they were -enough to make one shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours of -Ibsen's idiotic, rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory of -pure intangible beauty. She deemed Santerre's last creation, Anne-Marie, -to be far too material and degraded, because in one deplorable passage -the author remarked that Norbert's kisses had left their trace on the -Countess's brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushed -upon the volume and sought the page to which she had referred. - -"But I never degraded her," exclaimed the novelist in despair. "She -never has a child." - -"Pooh! What of that?" exclaimed Valentine. "If Anne-Marie is to raise -our hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert's kisses -should leave no mark upon her." - -But she was interrupted, for Celeste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an -equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two -children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three. -Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade. -Like their mother, they were fair. The lad's hair was inclined to be -carroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they -also had their mother's blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like -that of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed -indeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls. -The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and -insisted on their playing their parts with due propriety. - -"Well, don't you wish anybody good evening?" - -The children were not timid; they were already used to society and -looked visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was -because they were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at -last made up their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed. - -"Good evening, good friend Santerre." - -Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them -of the gentleman's name, though they had already seen him on two or -three occasions. - -"Good evening, Monsieur Froment." - -Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them -with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them -down again she forgot all about them. - -"So you are going out again, mamma?" asked the little boy. - -"Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to -see to." - -"So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?" - -Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting -for orders;-- - -"You are not to leave them for a moment, Celeste--you hear? And, above -all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come home -without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them have -their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they go -to sleep." - -The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful -obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman -peasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to -service, and well knew what was done with children when the master and -mistress were absent. - -"Madame," she said in a simple way, "Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. She -has been sick again." - -"What? sick again!" cried the father in a fury. "I am always hearing -of that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we are -going out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; you -ought not to let our children have papier-mache stomachs!" - -The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could not -help it. As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They had -experienced every childish ailment, they were always catching cold -or getting feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhat -anxious demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants. - -"Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?" asked Valentine, stooping -down to the child. "You aren't poorly now, are you? No, no, it's -nothing, nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night very -prettily, so that he may not feel worried in leaving you." - -She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing that -Mathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed: - -"Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves them -dearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, it -would perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, my -duty to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl as -I have." - -Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with a -laugh: - -"Well, that isn't the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. He -declares that to make the country prosperous every married couple ought -to have four children." - -"Four children! He's mad!" cried Seguin. And again with the greatest -freedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There was -a world of meaning in his wife's laughter while Celeste stood there -unmoved and the children listened without understanding. But at last -Santerre led the Seguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieu -obtained from his landlord a promise that he would write to the plumber -at Janville and that the roof of the pavilion should be entirely -renovated, since the rain came into the bedrooms. - -The Seguins' landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into it -with their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at one -of the windows he perceived Celeste standing between the two children, -intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame were -really going. The young man recalled Reine's departure from her parents; -but here both Lucie and Gaston remained motionless, gravely mournful, -and neither their father nor their mother once thought of looking up at -them. - - - - -IV - -AT half-past seven o'clock, when Mathieu arrived at the restaurant on -the Place de la Madeleine where he was to meet his employer, he found -him already there, drinking a glass of madeira with his customer, M. -Firon-Badinier. The dinner was a remarkable one; choice viands and the -best wines were served in abundance. But Mathieu was struck less by the -appetite which the others displayed than by Beauchene's activity and -skill. Glass in hand, never losing a bite, he had already persuaded -his customer, by the time the roast arrived, to order not only the new -thresher but also a mowing machine. M. Firon-Badinier was to take the -train for Evreux at nine-twenty, and when nine o'clock struck, the -other, now eager to be rid of him, contrived to pack him off in a cab to -the St.-Lazare railway station. - -For a moment Beauchene remained standing on the pavement with Mathieu, -and took off his hat in order that the mild breezes of that delightful -May evening might cool his burning head. - -"Well, that's settled," he said with a laugh. "But it wasn't so easily -managed. It was the Pommard which induced the beggar to make up his -mind. All the same, I was dreadfully afraid he would make me miss my -appointment." - -These remarks, which escaped him amid his semi-intoxication, led him to -more confidential talk. He put on his hat again, lighted a fresh -cigar, and took Mathieu's arm. Then they walked on slowly through the -passion-stirred throng and the nightly blaze of the Boulevards. - -"There's plenty of time," said Beauchene. "I'm not expected till -half-past nine, and it's close by. Will you have a cigar? No? You never -smoke?" - -"Never." - -"Well, my dear fellow, it would be ridiculous to feign with you, since -you happened to see me this morning. Oh, it's a stupid affair! I'm quite -of that opinion; but, then, what would you have?" - -Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his marital -life and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and that -girl Norine, old Moineaud's daughter. He professed the greatest respect -for his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance was -now beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyes -when it would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. She -knew very well that it was essential that the business should be kept -together and pass intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe of -children would have meant the ruin of all their plans. - -Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began to -ask questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchene laughed -gayly, like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extreme -volubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming a -semi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with an -air of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of the -Rue Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a little -bachelor's lodging, which was kept in order by the concierge of the -house, who, being very well paid, proved an extremely discreet domestic. - -As he hurried off, Mathieu, still standing at the corner of the street, -could not help thinking of the scenes which he had witnessed at the -Beauchene works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whom -he again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women's workroom while -his daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchene, and while -Norine, the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler's -children have grown up and gone to join, the lads the army of slaughter, -and the girls the army of vice, the father, degraded by the ills of -life, pays little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter of -indifference to what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings who -fall from the nest. - -It was now half-past nine o'clock, and Mathieu had more than an hour -before him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry, -but strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunk -far more than usual, and Beauchene's insidious confidential talk, still -buzzing in his ears, helped on his intoxication. His hands were hot, -and now and again a sudden glow passed over his face. And what a warm -evening it was, too, on those Boulevards, blazing with electric lights, -fevered by a swarming, jostling throng, amid a ceaseless rumble of cabs -and omnibuses! It was all like a stream of ardent life flowing away into -the night, and Mathieu allowed himself to be carried on by the torrent, -whose hot breath, whose glow of passion, he ever felt sweeping over him. - -Then, in a reverie, he pictured the day he had just spent. First he -was at the Beauchenes' in the morning, and saw the father and mother -standing, like accomplices who fully shared one another's views, beside -the sofa on which Maurice, their only son, lay dozing with a pale and -waxen face. The works must never be exposed to the danger of being -subdivided. Maurice alone must inherit all the millions which the -business might yield, so that he might become one of the princes of -industry. And therefore the husband hurried off to sin while the wife -closed her eyes. In this sense, in defiance of morality and health, -did the capitalist bourgeoisie, which had replaced the old nobility, -virtually re-establish the law of primogeniture. That law had been -abolished at the Revolution for the bourgeoisie's benefit; but now, also -for its own purposes, it revived it. Each family must have but one son. - -Mathieu had reached this stage in his reflections when his thoughts were -diverted by several street hawkers who, in selling the last edition of -an evening print, announced a "drawing" of the lottery stock of some -enterprise launched by the Credit National. And then he suddenly -recalled the Moranges in their dining-room, and heard them recapitulate -their dream of making a big fortune as soon as the accountant should -have secured a post in one of the big banking establishments, where the -principals raise men of value to the highest posts. Those Moranges lived -in everlasting dread of seeing their daughter marry a needy petty clerk; -succumbing to that irresistible fever which, in a democracy ravaged by -political equality and economic inequality, impels every one to climb -higher up the social ladder. Envy consumed them at the thought of -the luxury of others; they plunged into debt in order that they might -imitate from afar the elegance of the upper class, and all their natural -honesty and good nature was poisoned by the insanity born of ambitious -pride. And here again but one child was permissible, lest they should -be embarrassed, delayed, forever impeded in the attainment of the future -they coveted. - -A crowd of people now barred Mathieu's way, and he perceived that he -was near the theatre, where a first performance was taking place that -evening. It was a theatre where free farcical pieces were produced, and -on its walls were posted huge portraits of its "star," a carroty wench -with a long flat figure, destitute of all womanliness, and seemingly -symbolical of perversity. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the bills, the -vilest remarks were heard, and Mathieu remembered that the Seguins and -Santerre were inside the house, laughing at the piece, which was of so -filthy a nature that the spectators at the dress rehearsal, though they -were by no means over-nice in such matters, had expressed their disgust -by almost wrecking the auditorium. And while the Seguins were gloating -over this horror, yonder, at their house in the Avenue d'Antin, Celeste -had just put the children, Gaston and Lucie, to bed, and had then -hastily returned to the kitchen, where a friend, Madame Menoux, who kept -a little haberdasher's shop in the neighborhood, awaited her. Gaston, -having been given some wine to drink, was already asleep; but Lucie, who -again felt sick, lay shivering in her bed, not daring to call Celeste, -lest the servant, who did not like to be disturbed, should ill-treat -her. And, at two o'clock in the morning, after offering Santerre an -oyster supper at a night restaurant, the Seguins would come home, their -minds unhinged by the imbecile literature and art to which they had -taken for fashion's sake, vitiated yet more by the ignoble performance -they had witnessed, and the base society they had elbowed at supper. -They seemed to typify vice for vice's sake, elegant vice and pessimism -as a principle. - -Indeed, when Mathieu tried to sum up his day, he found vice on every -side, in each of the spheres with which he had come in contact. And now -the examples he had witnessed filled him no longer with mere surprise; -they disturbed him, they shook his beliefs, they made him doubt -whether his notions of life, duty, and happiness might not after all be -inaccurate. - -He stopped short and drew a long breath, seeking to drive away his -growing intoxication. He had passed the Grand Opera and was reaching -the crossway of the Rue Drouot. Perhaps his increase of fever was due -to those glowing Boulevards. The private rooms of the restaurants were -still ablaze, the cafes threw bright radiance across the road, the -pavement was blocked by their tables and chairs and customers. All Paris -seemed to have come down thither to enjoy that delightful evening. There -was endless elbowing, endless mingling of breath as the swelling crowd -sauntered along. Couples lingered before the sparkling displays of -jewellers' shops. Middle-class families swept under dazzling arches -of electric lamps into cafes concerts, whose huge posters promised -the grossest amusements. Hundreds and hundreds of women went by with -trailing skirts, and whispered and jested and laughed; while men darted -in pursuit, now of a fair chignon, now of a dark one. In the open -cabs men and women sat side by side, now husbands and wives long since -married, now chance couples who had met but an hour ago. But Mathieu -went on again, yielding to the force of the current, carried along -like all the others, a prey to the same fever which sprang from the -surroundings, from the excitement of the day, from the customs of the -age. And he no longer took the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins as -isolated types; it was all Paris that symbolized vice, all Paris that -yielded to debauchery and sank into degradation. There were the folks of -high culture, the folks suffering from literary neurosis; there were -the merchant princes; there were the men of liberal professions, the -lawyers, the doctors, the engineers; there were the people of the lower -middle-class, the petty tradesmen, the petty clerks; there were even -the manual workers, poisoned by the example of the upper spheres--all -practising the doctrines of egotism as vanity and the passion for money -grew more and more intense.. .. No more children! Paris was bent on -dying. And Mathieu recalled how Napoleon I., one evening after battle, -on beholding a plain strewn with the corpses of his soldiers, had put -his trust in Paris to repair the carnage of that day. But times -had changed. Paris would no longer supply life, whether it were for -slaughter or for toil. - -And as Mathieu thought of it all a sudden weakness came upon him. Again -he asked himself whether the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins, and -all those thousands and thousands around him were not right, and whether -he were not the fool, the dupe, the criminal, with his belief in life -ever renascent, ever growing and spreading throughout the world. And -before him arose, too, the image of Seraphine, the temptress, opening -her perfumed arms to him and carrying him off to the same existence of -pleasure and baseness which the others led. - -Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in his -pocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, though -out of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. The -remainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jam -for the youngsters' bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, the -others, the Beauchenes and the Seguins, were rich. He bitterly recalled -their wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildings -covering a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmen -ever increasing the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomely -appointed pavilion and whose only son was growing up for future -sovereignty, under his mother's vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, the -Seguins' luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, the great hall, the -magnificent staircase, the vast room above, crowded with marvels; he -pictured all the refinement, all the train of wealth, all the tokens of -lavish life, the big dowry which would be given to the little girl, the -high position which would be purchased for the son. And he, bare and -empty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not even a stone at the edge of -a field, would doubtless always possess nothing, neither factory buzzing -with workmen, nor mansion rearing its proud front aloft. And he was the -imprudent one, and the others were the sensible, the wise. What would -ever become of himself and his troop of children? Would he not die in -some garret? would they not lead lives of abject wretchedness? Ah! it -was evident the others were right, the others were sensible. And he felt -unhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, like a fool who has allowed -himself to be duped. - -Then once more the image of Seraphine arose before his eyes, more -tempting than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blaze -of the Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic around -it. Wild fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchene. -Why should he not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding to -sudden madness, turned his back upon the station and retraced his steps -towards the Boulevards. Seraphine, he said to himself, was doubtless -waiting for him; she had told him that he would always be welcome. As -for his wife, he would tell her he had missed his train. - -At last a block in the traffic made him pause, and on raising his eyes -he saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still -streamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu's temples were -beating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the -same life as the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it. -But the block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and -while he stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that -increasing obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all -at once the image of Seraphine faded from before his mind's eye and -he beheld another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all -smiles and trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could -he deceive her? ... Then all at once he again rushed off towards -the railway station, in fear lest he should lose his train. He was -determined that he would listen to no further promptings, that he would -cast no further glance upon glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reached -the station just in time to climb into a car. The train started and he -journeyed on, leaning out of his compartment and offering his face to -the cool night breeze in order that it might calm and carry off the evil -fever that had possessed him. - -The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowing -stars that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a soft -bluish radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Marianne -found herself on the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway between -Chantebled, the pavilion where she and her husband lived, and the -station of Janville. The children were fast asleep; she had left them -in the charge of Zoe, the servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, the -light of which could be seen from afar, showing like a bright spark amid -the black line of the woods. - -Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o'clock train, as was his -wont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she brought -her two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legs -moved but slowly on the return journey when, in retracing their steps, -a thousand yards or more, they had to climb a rather steep hillside. -And that evening, late though the hour was, Marianne had yielded to -that pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forward -through the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never went -further than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seated -herself on its broad, low parapet, as on some rustic bench, and thence -she overlooked the whole plain as far as the houses of Janville, before -which passed the railway line. And from afar she could see her husband -approaching along the road which wound between the cornfields. - -That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety sky -spangled with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitude -she turned towards the bright little light shining on the verge of the -sombre woods, a light telling of the quietude of the room in which -it burnt, the servant's tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of the -children in the adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wander -all around her, over the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to the -Seguins. The dilapidated pavilion stood at the extreme edge of the -woods whose copses, intersected by patches of heath, spread over a lofty -plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was not -all, for to the west of the plateau lay more than two hundred and fifty -acres of land, a marshy expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, -vast uncultivated tracts, where one went duck-shooting in winter. And -there was yet a third part of the estate, acres upon acres of equally -sterile soil, all sand and gravel, descending in a gentle slope to the -embankment of the railway line. It was indeed a stretch of country lost -to culture, where the few good patches of loam remained unproductive, -inclosed within the waste land. But the spot had all the beauty and -exquisite wildness of solitude, and was one that appealed to healthy -minds fond of seeing nature in freedom. And on that lovely night one -could nowhere have found more perfect and more balmy quiet. - -Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded the -woodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, -and descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over the -expanse, divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though the -darkness now prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woods -an owl raised its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the right -ascended a faint croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like the -vibration of crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, there -came a growing rumble which, little by little, rose above all the other -sounds of the night. She heard it, and at last lent ear to nothing else. -It was the train, for whose familiar roar she waited every evening. As -soon as it left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token of -its coming, but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguish -its rumble amid the other sounds rising from the country side. For -her part, she heard it immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancy -through every phase of its journey. And never had she been better able -to do so than on that splendid night, amid the profound quietude of -the earth's slumber. It had left Monval, it was turning beside the -brickworks, it was skirting St. George's fields. In another two minutes -it would be at Janville. Then all at once its white light shone out -beyond the poplar trees of Le Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of the -engine grew louder, like that of some giant racer drawing near. On that -side the plain spread far away into a dark, unknown region, beneath the -star-spangled sky, which on the very horizon showed a ruddy reflection -like that of some brasier, the reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazing -and smoking in the darkness like a volcano. - -Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then -its rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of -Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes -and ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the -dark patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover -the thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little -bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but -on that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could -distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim -figure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erect -under the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. The -milky whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her beautiful black hair, -caught up in a huge coil, and her big black eyes, which beamed with all -the gentleness of spouse and mother. Her straight brow, her nose, her -mouth, her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed like -savory fruit, her delightful little ears--the whole of her face, full -of love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety which -comes from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that by -loving life she would live as she ought to live. - -"What! so you've come then!" Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was near -her. "But I begged you not to come out so late. Are you not afraid at -being alone on the roads at this time of night?" - -She began to laugh. "Afraid," said she, "when the night is so mild and -healthful? Besides, wouldn't you rather have me here to kiss you ten -minutes sooner?" - -Those simple words brought tears to Mathieu's eyes. All the murkiness, -all the shame through which he had passed in Paris horrified him. He -tenderly took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, the -most human of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields. After the -scorching pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the day -and the degrading spectacles of the night, how reposeful was that -far-spreading silence, that faint bluish radiance, that endless -unrolling of plains, steeped in refreshing gloom and dreaming of -fructification by the morrow's sun! And what suggestions of health, and -rectitude, and felicity rose from productive Nature, who fell asleep -beneath the dew of night solely that she might reawaken in triumph, ever -and ever rejuvenated by life's torrent, which streams even through the -dust of her paths. - -Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more. He -kept her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neither -could forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them from -the stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields. - -"What a splendid night!" murmured Mathieu. "How beautiful and how -pleasant to live in it!" - -Then, after a moment's rapture, during which they both heard their -hearts beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him with -loving interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie. - -"No, the Beauchenes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never cared -much for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in the -legs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed -again. I will tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Moranges -have promised to come. You can't have an idea of the delight and vanity -they displayed in showing me their new flat. What with their eagerness -to make a big fortune I'm much afraid that those worthy folks will do -something very foolish. Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord, -and though I had a good deal of difficulty over it, he ended by -consenting to have the roof entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, those -Seguins have! I came away feeling quite scared. But I will tell you all -about it by and by with the rest." - -Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited his -confidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and the -children. - -"You received your salary, didn't you?" she asked. - -"Yes, yes, you need not be afraid about that." - -"Oh! I'm not afraid, it's only our little debts which worry me." - -Then she asked again: "And did your business dinner go off all right? -I was afraid that Beauchene might detain you and make you miss your -train." - -He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke he -flushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion he -affected sudden gayety. - -"Well, and you, my dear," he asked, "how did you manage with your thirty -sous?" - -"My thirty sous!" she gayly responded, "why, I was much too rich; we -fared like princes, all five of us, and I have six sous left." - -Then, in her turn, she gave an account of her day, her daily life, pure -as crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; she -related how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutest -details respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day was -like another; each morning she set herself to live the same life afresh, -with never-failing happiness. - -"To-day, though, we had a visit," said she; "Madame Lepailleur, the -woman from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some fine -chickens for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, I -believe that she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told her -that I would go to her place to-morrow." - -While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a big -black pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill which -was still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it for -three generations. The last of them, Francois Lepailleur, who considered -himself to be no fool, had come back from his military service with -little inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrich -him, any more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It then -occurred to him to marry a peasant farmer's daughter, Victoire Cornu, -whose dowry consisted of some neighboring fields skirting the Yeuse. -And the young couple then lived fairly at their ease, on the produce of -those fields and such small quantities of corn as the peasants of the -district still brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquated -and badly repaired mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modern -appliances, and if the land, instead of being impoverished by adherence -to old-fashioned practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligent -man who believed in progress, there would no doubt have been a fortune -in it all. But Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treated -the soil with contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grown -weary of his eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers loved -too much. Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilize -the soil, it had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hating -it. All his faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of having -lost its fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some old -cow which one sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, -everything went wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, the -weather was never such as it should be, the seasons no longer came in -their proper order. Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster brought -about by some evil power which had a spite against the peasantry, who -were foolish to give their sweat and their blood to such a thankless -creature. - -"Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow three -years old, called Antonin," resumed Marianne, "and we fell to talking of -children together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, used -to have such large families. But she declared that one child was -quite enough. Yet she's only twenty-four, and her husband not yet -twenty-seven." - -These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu's mind all -day. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, "She gave you her -reasons, no doubt?" - -"Give reasons--she, with her head like a horse's, her long freckled -face, pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth--I think she's simply a fool, -ever in admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa and -reads the newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that children -cost one a good deal more than they bring in. But the husband, no doubt, -has ideas of his own. You have seen him, haven't you? A tall, slim -fellow, as carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, -green eyes, and prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had never -felt in a good humor in his life. And I understand that he is always -complaining of his father-in-law, because the other had three daughters -and a son. Of course that cut down his wife's dowry; she inherited only -a part of her father's property. And, besides, as the trade of a miller -never enriched his father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning till -night, and declares that he won't prevent his boy Antonin from going -to eat white bread in Paris, if he can find a good berth there when he -grows up." - -Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small family -the rule. Among the causes were the fear of having to split up an -inheritance, the desire to rise in the social system, the disgust of -manual toil, and the thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since the -soil was becoming bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when one -knew that one would never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on the -point of explaining these things to his wife, but he hesitated, and then -simply said: "Lepailleur does wrong to complain; he has two cows and a -horse, and when there is urgent work he can take an assistant. We, this -morning, had just thirty sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, no -scrap of land. For my part I think his mill superb; I envy him every -time I cross this bridge. Just fancy! we two being the millers--why, we -should be very rich and very happy!" - -This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seated -there, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between the -willows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully, -scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made it -ripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed sheltering -the wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, and -creepers, the whole forming a spot of romantic prettiness. And at night, -especially when the mill slept, without a light at any of its windows, -there was nothing of more dreamy, more gentle charm. - -"Why!" remarked Mathieu, lowering his voice, "there is somebody under -the willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise." - -"Yes, I know," replied Marianne with tender gayety. "It must be the -young couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder a -fortnight ago. You know whom I mean--Madame Angelin, that schoolmate of -Constance's." - -The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments. -The wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hair -and fine eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And the -husband was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much in -love, with moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of a -musketeer. They had married with sudden passion for one another, having -between them an income of some ten thousand francs a year, which the -husband, a fan painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had it -not been for the spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage had -thrown him. And that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desert -of Janville, that they might love freely, passionately, in the midst of -nature. They were always to be met, holding each other by the waist, -on the secluded paths in the woods; and at night they loved to stroll -across the fields, beside the hedges, along the shady banks of the -Yeuse, delighted when they could linger till very late near the -murmuring water, in the thick shade of the willows. - -But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentioned -it to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appeared -that the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, -and did not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu's worrying -thoughts once more came back to him, and again at this fresh example -he wondered who was right--he who stood alone in his belief, or all the -others. - -"Well," he muttered at last, "we all live according to our fancy. But -come, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them." - -They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where the -lamp shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front door -they groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little house -comprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of the -hall, and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there were -four bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those big -rooms; but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed at -this. By way of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains of -red stuff at the windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangings -seemed to them to impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home. - -They found Zoe, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting beside -the lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her as -quietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp and -entered the children's room to kiss them and make sure that they were -comfortable. It was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placed -the lamp on the mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the three -little beds when Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at one -end of the room lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellows -six years of age; while in the second bed against the opposite wall was -Ambroise, now nearly four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, -a cradle, was occupied by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age and -weaned for three weeks past. She lay there half naked, showing her white -flowerlike skin, and her mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, -which she had thrust aside with her self-willed little fists. Meantime -the father busied himself with Ambroise's pillow, which had slipped -aside. Both husband and wife came and went very gently, and bent again -and again over the children's faces to make sure that they were sleeping -peacefully. They kissed them and lingered yet a little longer, fancying -that they had heard Blaise and Denis stirring. At last the mother took -up the lamp and they went off, one after the other, on tiptoe. - -When they were in their room again Marianne exclaimed: "I didn't want to -worry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I did -not find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at ease -about her." Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she went -on: "Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt the -least fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free from -anxiety." - -She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu, -instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, -and drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket. When he had -counted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a -bitter, jesting way, "The money hasn't grown on the road. Here it is; -you can pay our debts to-morrow." - -This remark gave him a fresh idea. Taking his pencil he began to jot -down the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary. -"We say twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk. How much do -you owe the butcher?" he asked. - -"The butcher," replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes; -"well, say twenty francs." - -"And the grocer and the baker?" - -"I don't know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether. There is -nobody else." - -Then Mathieu added up the items: "That makes sixty-two francs," said he. -"Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and -thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a -nice month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if -little Rose should fall ill." - -The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, -saying: "Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to -be almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as -full of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life -if one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the -little ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!" - -At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and -mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great -length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty -and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges, -the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they -had said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident -starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never -have factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand -francs a year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had -been their own work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, -improvident. And he went on with his recollections, telling Marianne -that he feared nothing for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn -her and the little ones to want and poverty. She was surprised at first, -and by degrees became colder, more constrained, as he told her all that -he had upon his mind. Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, -however lovingly he spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but -burst into sobs. She did not question what he said, she spoke no words -of revolt, but it was evident that her whole being rebelled, and that -her heart was sorely grieved. - -He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to -her own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with -himself. "Do not weep, my darling!" he exclaimed as he pressed her to -him: "it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that -way. Don't distress yourself, I beg you; we'll think it all over and -talk about it some other time." - -She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her -head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving, -trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and more -confused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heed -to the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basis -of their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which had -possessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have been -instilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honor -and rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fast -returning. Through the window, which had remained open, all the sounds -of the lovely spring night poured into the room. It was spring, the -season of love, and beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, -from fields and forests and waters came the murmur of germinating -life. And never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss may -result, whatever difficulty may arise, whatever fate may be in store, -all the creative powers of the world, whether of the animal order, -whether of the order of the plants, for ever and ever wage life's great -incessant battle against death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased among -all the other denizens of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, -seeks death for death's sake, the annihilation of his species. Then -Mathieu again caught his wife in a close embrace, printing on her lips a -long, ardent kiss. - -"Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would be -impossible for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let -the others hold us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us love -and live as nature tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdom -and true courage." - - - - -V - -MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside -the large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at -her, and saw that she was awake and smiling. - -"What! you are not asleep?" said he. "I hardly dared to stir for fear of -waking you. It is nearly nine o'clock, you know." - -It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris. -During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful -at Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This -rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was -again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to -accept Beauchene's amiable offer to place at his disposal the little -pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of the works had -lived before building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who -had occupied this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture -of former days, had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be -near their friend, worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, -and did not intend to return to Chantebled until the first fine days in -April. - -"Wait a moment," resumed Mathieu; "I will let the light in." - -He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow, -wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. "Ah! there's the sun! And it's -splendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for a -little while with the children this afternoon." - -Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the -bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: "Well, I hadn't been sleeping -either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn't move because I wanted -you to lie in bed a little late, as it's Sunday. How amusing to think -that we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide -open!" - -"Oh!" said he, "I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one -delight on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and -spend the whole day with you and the children." Then he uttered a cry of -surprise and remorse: "Why! I haven't kissed you yet." - -She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. -In the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked -radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown -tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with -gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face -all kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of -Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of -sovereign dignity. - -They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which -enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne's pillows, -set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had -tidied the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up -the sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped -a cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoe, the -servant whom they had brought from the country, could very well do all -those things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, -and that he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that there -was to do. Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the -room was cold, and blamed himself for not having already lighted the -fire. Some logs and some small wood were piled in a corner, near the -chimney-piece. - -"How stupid of me!" he exclaimed; "here am I leaving you to freeze." - -Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: "What an -idea! Leave all that, and call Zoe." - -"No, no, she doesn't know how to light the fire properly, and besides, -it amuses me." - -He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle, -filling the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a -little paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and -dressing when the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous -thumping. - -"Ah! the rascals," he gayly exclaimed. "They are awake, you see! Oh! -well, we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday." - -For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion -in the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts -of laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters -flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition -as if it were a drum. - -"Yes, yes," said the mother, smiling and anxious, "answer them; tell -them to come. They will be breaking everything if you don't." - -Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious -outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And -Mathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling -could be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of -them wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they -trotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their -faces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise, -though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the -boldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and -Denis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught the -others to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the -dreamer of them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose, -who looked like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left -amid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily -erect. - -"Ah! mamma," cried Ambroise, "it's dreadfully cold, you know; do make me -a little room." - -Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and -nestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine -curly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of -war, and rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel. - -"Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back, -mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!" - -Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and -indignant. She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back. -"And me, mamma, and me," she pleaded. - -It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with -her little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that -she might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat -anxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him -not to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled -there was so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled. - -"It's very nice, it's so warm," said Ambroise, who was fond of taking -his ease. - -But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it -was they had made so much noise "Blaise said that he had seen a spider. -And then he felt frightened." - -This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: "It isn't -true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it." - -"So did I! so did I!" stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. "I threw my -pillow like that--houp! houp!" - -They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. -The truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence -of killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This -unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole -brood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their -father could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here -and there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into -perfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts. - -"Oh! what fun! what fun!" - -"All the same," Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herself -somewhat from the embraces of the children, "all the same, you know, I -want to get up. I mustn't idle, for it does me no good. And besides, you -little ones need to be washed and dressed." - -They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly ten -o'clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where the -earthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamed -upon the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-room -and a drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a study -on the left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlooked -the Rue de la Federation, and was filled every morning with cheerfulness -by the rising sun. - -The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, when -a ring at the street door was heard. And it was Dr. Boutan who came in. -His arrival brought a renewal of noisy mirth, for the youngsters were -fond of his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at their -births, and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity is -allowable. And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to dart -towards the doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them. - -"Now, please just leave the doctor quiet," said she, adding gayly, "Good -morning, doctor. I'm much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, for -I'm sure you ordered it so that I might go for a walk this afternoon." - -"Why, yes, of course I ordered it--I was passing this way, and thought I -would look in to see how you were getting on." - -Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieu -explained to him that they had remained late in bed. - -"Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as much -exercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see that -she has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to be -a doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call." - -Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busy -breakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in the -conversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, -some train of thought which he did not explain: "I hear that you are to -lunch with the Seguins next Thursday," said he. "Ah! poor little woman! -That is a terrible affair of hers." - -With a gesture he expressed his feelings concerning the drama that had -just upset the Seguins' household. Valentine, like Marianne, was to -become a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husband -had given way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, they -had continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spent -her days on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor's -life. It was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes that -Marianne, on the occasion of her visit to the Seguins, might bring some -good influence to bear on them. - -He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack which -had all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedly -rising from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, and -now they opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found the -twins upon his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round the -waist and the little girl clung to his legs. - -"Puff! puff! do the railway train, do the railway train, please do." - -They pushed and shook him, amid peal after peal of flute-like laughter, -while their father and mother rushed to his assistance, scolding and -angry. But he calmed the parents by saying: "Let them be! they are -simply wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, you -know, since, as our friend Beauchene says, it is a little bit my fault -if they are in the world. What charms me with your children is that they -enjoy such good health, just like their mother. For the present, at all -events, one can ask nothing more of them." - -When he had set them down on the floor, and given each a smacking kiss, -he took hold of Marianne's hands and said to her that everything was -going on beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off, -escorted to the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting and -laughing gayly. - -Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order that -Marianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had been -dressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcely -more than one o'clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de la -Federation and found itself upon the quays. - -This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and the -densely populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspect -all its own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almost -deserted streets running at right angles and fringed by factories with -lofty, interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes along -these streets, and on raising one's head one sees only lofty chimneys -belching forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings with -dusty window panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be open -one may espy deep yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. The -only sounds are the strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumbling -of machinery, and the sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the carts -to the pavement. But on Sundays the factories do not work, and the -district then falls into death-like silence. In summer time there is but -bright sunshine heating the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden wind -rushing down the lonely streets. The population of Grenelle is said to -be the worst of Paris, both the most vicious and the most wretched. -The neighborhood of the Ecole Militaire attracts thither a swarm of -worthless women, who bring in their train all the scum of the populace. -In contrast to all this the gay bourgeois district of Passy rises up -across the Seine; while the rich aristocratic quarters of the Invalides -and the Faubourg St. Germain spread out close by. Thus the Beauchene -works on the quay, as their owner laughingly said, turned their back -upon misery and looked towards all the prosperity and gayety of this -world. - -Mathieu was very partial to the avenues, planted with fine trees, -which radiate from the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides, -supplying great gaps for air and sunlight. But he was particularly fond -of that long diversified Quai d'Orsay, which starts from the Rue du -Bac in the very centre of the city, passes before the Palais Bourbon, -crosses first the Esplanade des Invalides, and then the Champ de Mars, -to end at the Boulevard de Grenelle, in the black factory region. How -majestically it spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were round -that bend of the Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden of -the Eiffel Tower! The river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; the -avenue stretches out under superb foliage. You can really saunter there -amid delicious quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm and -power of Paris. - -It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little ones -that Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety was -felt respecting Rose's little legs. She was intrusted to Ambroise, who, -although the youngest of the boys, was already energetic and determined. -These two opened the march; then came Blaise and Denis, the twins, the -parents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well: -they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winter -afternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very cold -in the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of bright -light. There were a great many people out of doors--all the idle folks, -clad in their Sunday best, whom the faintest sunshine draws in crowds to -the promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herself -up as if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed the -whole extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And her -three brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneath -their steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In other -cities of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by four -children would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectacle -was so unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and even -compassion were exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if they -did not actually hear, these comments, but they cared nothing for -them. They bravely went their way, smiling at one another, and feeling -convinced that the course they had taken in life was the right one, -whatever other folks might think or say. - -It was three o'clock when they turned their steps homeward; and -Marianne, feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa in -the drawing-room, where Zoe had previously lighted a good fire. The -children, quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, -listening to a tale which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitor -was announced. This proved to be Constance, who, after driving out with -Maurice, had thought of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom she -saw only once or twice a week, although the little pavilion was merely -separated by a garden from the large house on the quay. - -"Oh! are you poorly, my dear?" she inquired as she entered the room and -perceived Marianne on the sofa. - -"Oh! dear, no," replied the other, "but I have been out walking for the -last two hours and am now taking some rest." - -Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife's rich, vain -cousin, who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appear -amiable. She apologized for not being able to call more frequently, and -explained what a number of duties she had to discharge as mistress -of her home. Meantime Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round her -petticoats, gazing from a distance at the other children, who one and -all returned his scrutiny. - -"Well, Maurice," exclaimed his mother, "don't you wish your little -cousins good-day?" - -He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all five -remained embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunity -to quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost out -of their element in the presence of this young Parisian with bourgeois -manners. - -"And are all your little folks quite well?" resumed Constance, who, with -her sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. "Ambroise has -grown; his elder brothers also look very strong." - -Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice's advantage. The -latter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion. -Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full of -irony, disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Marianne -was likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of her -disapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever. - -Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussed -the subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. She -inquired after Beauchene. "And Alexandre," said she, "why did you not -bring him with you? I haven't seen him for a week!" - -"Why," broke in Mathieu, "I told you he had gone shooting yesterday -evening. He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled, -so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won't -be home till to-morrow." - -"Ah! yes, I remember now. Well, it's nice weather to be in the woods." - -This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted -having broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchene -might really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availed -himself so often of this pretext to absent himself from home that -Constance was doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of that -household, whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show a -brave front. - -"Well, you know," said she, "it is I who compel him to go about and take -as much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the open -air. Shooting is very good for him." - -At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing -another visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the -room, with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight of -Madame Beauchene, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model -of wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance, -however, profited by the diversion of Valerie's arrival to declare that -she unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be -waiting for her at home. - -"Well, at all events, leave us Maurice," suggested Mathieu. "Here's -Reine here now, and all six children can play a little while together. I -will bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack." - -But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother's -skirts. And she refused the invitation. "Oh! no, no!" said she. "He has -to keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away -from home. Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after you -all in passing. Keep well; good-by." - -Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valerie, but simply shaking -hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other -considered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiled -at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful that -day in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy -black tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed -to be the latter's younger sister. - -Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: "Come and kiss me, my -dear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautiful -and tall. How old is she?" - -"Nearly thirteen," Valerie replied. - -She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu -noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes. -After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries, -and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, -she relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who -thanked her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave -her with his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on her -mind, and perhaps she wished to make a confidante of Marianne. - -"My dear Reine," said he, "come with these little ones into the -dining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay the -cloth." - -This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the children -trooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later, -when everything was ready there, and Valerie came in, the latter's eyes -looked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, when -Mathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was. -Morange's scheme of leaving the Beauchene works and entering the service -of the Credit National, where he would speedily rise to a high and -lucrative position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry and -marrying her off to advantage--all the ambitious dreams of rank and -wealth in which his wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihood -of fulfilment, since it seemed probable that Valerie might again have -a child. Both she and her husband were in despair over it, and though -Marianne had done her utmost to pacify her friend and reconcile her -to circumstances, there were reasons to fear that in her distracted -condition she might do something desperate. - -Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Seguins du Hordel -at the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, they came upon similar -trouble there. Seguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple to -accuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite a -bachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had never -fully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like a -fire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night at -his club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ring -at every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society and -appeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite and -jealousy upon his ailing wife. - -She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferred -against her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part to -give up her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as long -as possible. And now she was really very ill, haunted too by an -unreasoning, irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. -Mathieu, who had seen her but a few months previously looking so -fair and fresh, was amazed to find her such a wreck. And on her side -Valentine gazed, all astonishment, at Marianne, noticing with surprise -how calm and strong the young woman seemed, and how limpid her clear and -smiling eyes remained. - -On the day of the Froments' visit Seguin had gone out early in the -morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch -was for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Celeste, the -maid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was -stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine -turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied: - -"No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my -village is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, -Sophie Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings -nurses to Paris?" - -"Well, what of it?" exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering -Celeste to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be -disturbed in this manner. - -"Well, madame, she's here; and as I told you before, if you would -intrust her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for -you in the country, and bring her here whenever she's wanted." - -La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained -ajar, and scarcely had Celeste finished than, without waiting for an -invitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened -woman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her -frequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed -nose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression of -good nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of -artfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her black -cape, black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her the -appearance of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sunday -best. - -"Have you been a nurse?" Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her. - -"Yes, madame," replied La Couteau, "but that was ten years ago, when I -was only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn't likely to make much money -by remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring -others to Paris." - -As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those -who give their services as wet nurses to bourgeois families are simply -fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much -on the point, and so she added: "But one does what one can, eh, madame? -The doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so -I thought that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another -manner." - -"And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?" - -"Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more -particularly Madame Broquette's office in the Rue Roquepine. It's a very -respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived--And so, if -you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you--the -pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you -can rely on me." - -As her mistress did not immediately reply, Celeste ventured to -intervene, and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had -called that day. - -"When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes -a baby with her, sometimes a nurse's child, and sometimes the child of -people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she -takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now -came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby -she is to take away with her." - -Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the -neighborhood and a great friend of Celeste's. She had married a former -soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty -francs a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, -and had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled -their income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at -their ease. Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to -spend hours gossiping in Madame Menoux's little shop, was forever being -scolded for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full -of anxiety and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud -at being questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux's -baby was a fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a -certain Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher. - -"It was I who recommended her," continued the servant, "for a friend of -mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt -she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome -a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very -kind and obliging." - -Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu's -eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself, -made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no -confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who, -it seemed to him, knew far too much. - -Marianne joined in the conversation. "But why," asked she, "why does not -this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?" - -Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor, -who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to -prevent others from doing business. - -"Oh! it's impossible," exclaimed Celeste, well pleased with -the diversion. "Madame Menoux's shop is no bigger than my -pocket-handkerchief, and at the back of it there is only one little room -where she and her husband take their meals and sleep. And that room, -too, overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe. -The baby would not live a week in such a place. And, besides, Madame -Menoux would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had a -servant, and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in -time for her husband's return from the museum, she never has a moment -to spare. Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little -fellow with her." - -"It is true," said Marianne sadly; "there are some poor mothers whom I -pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and -yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be -able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown -spot and given to another woman." - -La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. -Assuming the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which -she always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: -"Oh, Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it's not far from -Bayeux, so that folks are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, -too, that people come there to recruit their health. And, besides, the -little ones who are confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. -One would have to be heartless to do otherwise than love such little -angels." - -However, like Celeste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how -significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her -rustic ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. -Besides, of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the -region, since that lady, Madame Seguin, wished to have a nurse at her -house? So she resumed: "Then it's understood, madame, I will bring you -the best we have, a real treasure." - -Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found -strength to speak out. "No, no, I won't pledge myself in advance. I -will send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if -there is one to suit me." - -Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to -Marianne, and asked: "Shall you nurse your baby yourself?" - -"Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on -that point, my husband and I." - -"No doubt. I understand you: I should much like to do the same myself; -but it is impossible." - -La Couteau had remained there motionless, vexed at having come on a -fruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she would -have earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all her -spite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, was -evidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, at -a sign which Celeste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in the -company of the maid. - -A few minutes afterwards, Seguin arrived, and, repairing to the -dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious -meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and -white Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and -Marianne would never have met with Dr. Boutan's approval; but Seguin -declared the doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could -ever please. - -He, Seguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day -to be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and -even galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at -times that tears came to the unfortunate woman's eyes. Now that he -scarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was going -wrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him, -entirely his wife's fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon -earth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place -remark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu -and Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a -harsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to -apologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of the -Vaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in her -haughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on him -for his treatment. - -However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last -turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the -game in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such -wise that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that -his income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret -of the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could -he possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile -plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel? - -Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks -in the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. "Are you -really of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?" he asked. "It's pitiful -to see all that land lying waste and idle." - -"Cultivate it!" cried Seguin. "Ah! I should like to see such a miracle! -The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs." - -They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table -Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss -her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on -account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors -arrived in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the -novelist, who of late had seldom called on the Seguins, and the other, -much to Mathieu's dislike, proved to be Beauchene's sister, Seraphine, -the Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, -provoking, significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly -glance of mocking contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the -novelist between them soon turned the conversation on to subjects that -appealed to their vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he had -lately seen Doctor Gaude perform several operations at the Marbeuf -Hospital. He had found there the usual set of society men who attend -first performances at the theatres, and indeed there were also some -women present. - -And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most -precise particulars, much to the delight of Seguin, who every now and -again interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne -grew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with -amazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to -the evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last -book, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with -its theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she at -last glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the -semi-society and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would -like to go off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the -sunlit quays. He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity -rife amid those wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it -was indeed time to take leave. - -"What! are you going already!" Valentine then exclaimed. "Well, I dare -not detain you if you feel tired." However, when Marianne begged her to -kiss the children for her, she added: "Why, yes, it's true you have not -seen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself." - -But when Celeste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced -that Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their -governess. And this made Seguin explode once more. All his rancor -against his wife revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She -spent her days lying on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave -to go out with the children without saying anything? One could not -even see the children now in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of -things. They were left to the servants; in fact, it was the servants now -who controlled the house. - -Thereupon Valentine began to cry. - -"_Mon Dieu_!" said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself out -of doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaning -on his arm; "why, they are quite mad, the people in that house." - -"Yes," Mathieu responded, "they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity -them, for they know not what happiness is." - - - - -VI - -ABOUT nine o'clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as -Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered -near his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated -the pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, -clad in furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchene, who -was accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and -victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife: - -"Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the -fresh air he can. There's nothing like that and good food to make a -man." - -Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. "Has Maurice been poorly -again?" he inquired. - -"Oh, no!" hastily replied the boy's mother, with an appearance of great -gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain -covert fears. "Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so -fine this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition." - -"Don't go along the quays," said Beauchene again. "Go up towards the -Invalides. He'll have much stiffer marching to do when he's a soldier." - -Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went -back into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: "That -youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so -nervous. For my part, I'm quite easy in mind about him, as you can see." -And with a laugh he concluded: "When one has but one son, he keeps him." - -That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke -out between old Moineaud's daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the -factory into a state of commotion. Norine's intrigue with Beauchene -had ended in the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken -himself to some other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her -shame, and all the consequences of her fault; for although it had -hitherto been possible for her to conceal her condition from her -parents, she was unable to deceive her sister, who was her constant -companion. The two girls were always bickering, and Norine had for some -time lived in dread of scandal and exposure. And that day the trouble -came to a climax, beginning with a trivial dispute about a bit of -glass-paper in the workroom, then developing into a furious exchange of -coarse, insulting language, and culminating in a frantic outburst from -Euphrasie, who shrieked to the assembled work-girls all that she knew -about her sister. - -There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and -scratching one another desperately, and could not be separated until -Beauchene, Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, -rushed into the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for -Beauchene, Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after -giving her employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old -Moineaud was present, and the public revelation of his daughter's shame -sent him into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and -threatened to throw her out of window should he find her at home when -he returned there in the evening. And Beauchene, both annoyed at the -scandal and ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture to -interfere. It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing -that he found strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, and -assert his authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one and -all of the girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should -ever occur there again. - -Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What -most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchene regained his -self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which -he withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring -order. Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom -Mathieu, to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, -as if indeed he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy -business. But Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for -other reasons. The scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine's -condition, the fate awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, -icy streets, had revived all his own poignant worries with respect to -Valerie. Mathieu had already heard of the latter's trouble from his -wife, and he speedily grasped the accountant's meaning. It vaguely -seemed to him also that Morange was yielding to the same unreasoning -despair as Valerie, and was almost willing that she should take the -desperate course which she had hinted to Marianne. But it was a very -serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to be in any way mixed up in -it. Having tried his best to pacify the cashier, he sought forgetfulness -of these painful incidents in his work. - -That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cecile Moineaud, the old -fitter's youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from -her mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood -that the woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual -compassionate way he consented to go. The interview took place in one -of the adjacent streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La -Moineaude was there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, -a child eight years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly -while begging Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and -was in a position to approach Beauchene on the subject. La Moineaude was -firmly determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his -future and that of her son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; -for there was no telling what might happen if Beauchene's name should be -mentioned. Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would become -of them all should the family bread-winners be turned away from the -factory? Norine certainly had no legal claim on Beauchene, the law being -peremptory on that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, and -was driven from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want in -the streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting that -she had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchene. In any case, her -lot remained a very hard one. That Beauchene was the father of her child -there could be no doubt; and at last Mathieu, without promising success, -told the mother that he would do all he could in the matter. - -He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of -difficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchene fumed, stormed, denied, -equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of -blackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart -the matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother should -go to his wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simply -suspected things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, -there would be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, should -he do anything for the girl, it would become known, and everybody would -regard him as responsible. And then there would be no end to what he -called the blackmailing. - -However, when Beauchene reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle -was gained. He smiled and answered: "Of course, one can never tell--the -girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond -endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that -she made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; -she simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak -weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my -opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at -a proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before -she is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred -francs in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after." - -Beauchene walked nervously up and down, and then replied: "Well, I -haven't a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will -not inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because -the mere idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. -But if it's a question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must -be understood, however, that I won't mix myself up in anything; I wish -even to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl -where you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor -less." - -Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from -this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge. -And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who -is certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even -jested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions: -"See that my conditions are fully understood. I don't want to know -anything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear -another word of the matter." - -That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening -there was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they were -about to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon -the floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could -be revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted, -accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that -morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish -outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one -another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her -boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first -time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a -terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so -acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in -her, she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely -owner of the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If -she was to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none -other? Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling -of desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning -her cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at last -recovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with a -fair appetite. Then Beauchene immediately shrugged his shoulders, and -began to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went by -Constance herself ceased to think of the incident. - -On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which -he had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Celeste, the -maid, had spoken on the day of his visit to the Seguins. He at first -dismissed all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken -so strangely, but he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame -Bourdieu, who accommodated boarders at the little house where she -resided in the Rue de Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this -woman had attended Madame Morange at the time of Reine's birth, a -circumstance which induced him to question the cashier. - -At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. "Yes, a -lady friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife," said he; "but why -do you ask me?" - -And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, -as if that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu's name signified that the -young fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he -had been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim, -haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his -mind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at -that moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled. - -Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of -placing Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him. - -"My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning," he -began. "Oh! I don't know how it happened, but, as you are aware, -Reine was born so many years ago that I can't give you any precise -information. It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the -head of a first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no -doubt you will find what you want there." - -Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been -warned that Madame Bourdieu's terms were rather high, he stifled his -prejudices and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to -reconnoitre Madame Rouche's establishment and make some inquiries of -her. The mere aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the black -houses of old Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into -a small yard which the nurse's few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the -passage entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name of -Madame Rouche in big letters. She herself proved to be a person of five- -or six-and-thirty, gowned in black and spare of figure, with a leaden -complexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusual -prominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-like -gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous, -unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at her -disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, and -this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have done -with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened by -what he had seen of the place. - -On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu's establishment, a little -three-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boetie -and the Rue de Penthievre, offered an engaging aspect, with its -bright facade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then -two-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white -face, which had greatly helped her on the road to success. She -expatiated to Mathieu on the preliminary training that was required -by one of her profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to make -a position, the responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of all -sorts that she had to face; and she plainly told the young man that her -charge for a boarder would be two hundred francs a month. This was -far more than he was empowered to give; however, after some further -conversation, when Madame Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of four -months' board, she became more accommodating, and agreed to accept a -round sum of six hundred francs for the entire period, provided that -the person for whom Mathieu was acting would consent to occupy a -three-bedded room with two other boarders. - -Altogether there were about a dozen boarders' rooms in the house, some -of these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for -which were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could -accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some -five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the -regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say -who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely -known by some Christian name which they chose to give. - -Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu's terms, and that same -evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble -ensued with Beauchene, who protested when he learnt that five hundred -francs would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu -managed affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only became -reconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a little -linen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten -francs a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered Madame -Bourdieu's establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand the -girl her first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything. - -He found her there in the boarders' refectory with some of her -companions in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with -lifeless eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale -red-haired girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as -Victoire. Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering -to the name of Rosine, a jeweller's daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, -whose story was at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while -waiting to see Madame Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a time -answering Norine's questions, and listening to the others, who conversed -before him in a free and open way. His heart was wrung by much that he -heard, and as soon as he could rid himself of Norine he returned to the -waiting-room, eager to complete his business. There, however, two women -who wished to consult Madame Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by side -on a sofa, told him that she was still engaged, so that he was compelled -to tarry a little longer. He ensconced himself in a large armchair, and -taking a newspaper from his pocket, began to read it. But he had not -been thus occupied for many minutes before the door opened and a servant -entered, ushering in a lady dressed in black and thickly veiled, whom -she asked to be good enough to wait her turn. Mathieu was on the point -of rising, for, though his back was turned to the door, he could see, -in a looking-glass, that the new arrival was none other than Morange's -wife, Valerie. After a moment's hesitation, however, the sight of her -black gown and thick veil, which seemed to indicate that she desired to -escape recognition, induced him to dive back into his armchair and feign -extreme attention to his newspaper. She, on her side, had certainly -not noticed him, but by glancing slantwise towards the looking-glass he -could observe all her movements. - -Meantime the conversation between the other women on the sofa continued, -and to Mathieu's surprise it suddenly turned on Madame Rouche, -concerning whom one of them began telling the most horrible stories, -which fully confirmed the young man's previous suspicions. These stories -seemed to have a powerful fascination for Valerie, who sat in a corner, -never stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her head -towards the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect her -big eyes glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one of -the others inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Rouche -resided, and the other replied, "At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher." - -Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made her -appearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchanged -only a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in his -armchair, the high back of which concealed him from view, Valerie rose -from her seat and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room. - -As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon his -knees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he had -heard, both there and in Norine's company, and shuddering at the thought -of the dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long an -interval elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly roused -by a sound of voices. - -Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door. She had the same -plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the -other was quivering, as with distress and grief. "You are not sensible, -my dear child," said Madame Bourdieu to her. "It is simply foolish of -you. Come, go home and be good." - -Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu -was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. And -she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken -in his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival -of Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly -settled his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would -return some day to see her. - -To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La -Boetie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of -that street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none other -than her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her -in the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they both -stood there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress. -It was plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them. -They stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then -halted once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At one -moment the young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue -La Boetie, they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in -the direction of Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more and -exchanged a few words; and then Mathieu's heart contracted as he saw -them retrace their steps along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue de -la Pepiniere as far as the Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whither -they were going, but some irresistible force impelled him to follow -them; and before long, from an open doorway, in which he prudently -concealed himself, he saw them look round to ascertain whether they were -observed, and then slink, first the wife and afterwards the husband, -into the dark passage of La Rouche's house. For a moment Mathieu -lingered in his hiding-place, quivering, full of dread and horror; and -when at last he turned his steps homeward it was with a heavy heart -indeed. - -The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round, -when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that -day--things which he had vainly striven to forget--was revived in the -most startling fashion. One morning at eight o'clock Morange abruptly -called at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompanied -by his daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and -as soon as Reine had joined Mathieu's children, and could not hear what -he said, he implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he told -the dreadful truth--Valerie was dying. Her daughter believed her to -be in the country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl. -Valerie was elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting -below, but lacked the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was -his grief, so great his dread. - -Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first told -the cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he had -informed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happened -to the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And then -the two men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, and -there found the hapless Valerie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icy -cold. Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell upon -his knees at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also felt -death's heavy hand upon him. - -For a moment, indeed, the young man anticipated exposure and scandal. -But when he hinted this to La Rouche she faintly smiled. She had friends -on many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valerie's death at -the municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify the -demise, would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usual -practice! - -Then Mathieu bethought himself of leading Morange away; but the other, -still plunged in painful stupor, did not heed him. - -"No, no, my friend, I pray you, say nothing," he at last replied, in a -very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate -woman who had fallen asleep forever. "I know what I have done; I shall -never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet -I adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too -much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness -came upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and -dissuaded her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as -for me, it is all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself." - -All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this -confession of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation, -never rose in a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being, -which would evermore be void. "She wished to be gay, and rich, and -happy," he continued. "It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she -was so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to -content her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat. -We spent far too much money on it. Then came that story of the Credit -National and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the -trouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce -all her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her -will. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penury -and drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there." - -Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to -violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent -Mathieu's heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine. - -"Ah, yes!" said the other, "I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her -mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won't you? -Tell her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful -misfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promise -you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her. -Nobody will even hear me; I shan't disturb any one." - -Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases -as he sank into a dream of his wrecked life. - -Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him -there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was -indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and -to breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle. -Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast -sky, all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose -before him like a consolatory promise of life's coming victory, an -atonement for every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting -hope kept full of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her -pangs, love would triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness -for to-morrow's allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that -Mathieu almost despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little -house, that he might once more take part in life's poem, that august -festival instinct with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity's -everlasting hymn, the coming of a new being into the world. - -That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose, -and Reine were sent round to the Beauchenes', where they filled the -house with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, and -had to lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in -the play of the others. "He has pains in his legs," said his father to -Mathieu, when he came round to inquire after Marianne; "he's growing so -fast, and getting such a big fellow, you know." - -Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face -remained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt -the passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had -made Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in -her arms. - -But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne's room to answer -Beauchene's inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now found -the sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new -life. While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to -him: "It is a boy." - -Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautiful -eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already -smiling with happiness. - -"Dear, dear wife," said Mathieu, "how good and brave you are, and how I -love you!" - -"Yes, yes, I am very happy," she faltered, "and I must try to give you -back all the love that you give me." - -Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant -glory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy -suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming -future. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the -faint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life's immense treasure was -increased and eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring -night when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature -had streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around -him amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting -the poem of eternal life that sprang from love the eternal. - - - - -VII - -"I TELL you that I don't need Zoe to give the child a bath," exclaimed -Mathieu half in anger. "Stay in bed, and rest yourself!" - -"But the servant must get the bath ready," replied Marianne, "and bring -you some warm water." - -She laughed as if amused by the dispute, and he ended by laughing also. - -Two days previously they had re-installed themselves in the little -pavilion on the verge of the woods near Janville which they rented from -the Seguins. So impatient, indeed, were they to find themselves once -more among the fields that in spite of the doctor's advice Marianne had -made the journey but fifteen days after giving birth to her little boy. -However, a precocious springtide brought with it that March such balmy -warmth and sunshine that the only ill-effect she experienced was a -little fatigue. And so, on the day after their arrival--Sunday--Mathieu, -glad at being able to remain with her, insisted that she should rest in -bed, and only rise about noon, in time for dejeuner. - -"Why," he repeated, "I can very well attend to the child while you rest. -You have him in your arms from morning till night. And, besides, if you -only knew how pleased I am to be here again with you and the dear little -fellow." - -He approached her to kiss her gently, and with a fresh laugh she -returned his kiss. It was quite true: they were both delighted to be -back at Chantebled, which recalled to them such loving memories. That -room, looking towards the far expanse of sky and all the countryside, -renascent, quivering with sap, was gilded with gayety by the early -springtide. - -Marianne leant over the cradle which was near her, beside the bed. "The -fact is," said she, "Master Gervais is sound asleep. Just look at him. -You will never have the heart to wake him." - -Then both father and mother remained for a moment gazing at their -sleeping child. Marianne had passed her arm round her husband's neck -and was clinging to him, as they laughed delightedly over the cradle -in which the little one slumbered. He was a fine child, pink and white -already; but only a father and mother could thus contemplate their -offspring. As the baby opened his eyes, which were still full of all the -mystery whence he had come, they raised exclamations full of emotion. - -"You know, he saw me!" - -"Certainly, and me too. He looked at me: he turned his head." - -"Oh, the cherub!" - -It was but an illusion, but that dear little face, still so soft and -silent, told them so many things which none other would have heard! They -found themselves repeated in the child, mingled as it were together; -and detected extraordinary likenesses, which for hours and for days -kept them discussing the question as to which of them he most resembled. -Moreover, each proved very obstinate, declaring that he was the living -portrait of the other. - -As a matter of course, Master Gervais had no sooner opened his eyes than -he began to shriek. But Marianne was pitiless: her rule was the bath -first and milk afterwards. Zoe brought up a big jug of hot water, -and then set out the little bath near the window in the sunlight. And -Mathieu, all obstinacy, bathed the child, washing him with a soft sponge -for some three minutes, while Marianne, from her bed, watched over the -operation, jesting about the delicacy of touch that he displayed, as if -the child were some fragile new-born divinity whom he feared to bruise -with his big hands. At the same time they continued marvelling at the -delightful scene. How pretty he looked in the water, his pink skin -shining in the sunlight! And how well-behaved he was, for it was -wonderful to see how quickly he ceased wailing and gave signs of -satisfaction when he felt the all-enveloping caress of the warm water. -Never had father and mother possessed such a little treasure. - -"And now," said Mathieu, when Zoe had helped him to wipe the boy with a -fine cloth, "and now we will weigh Master Gervais." - -This was a complicated operation, which was rendered the more difficult -by the extreme repugnance that the child displayed. He struggled and -wriggled on the platform of the weighing scales to such a degree that -it was impossible to arrive at his correct weight, in order to ascertain -how much this had increased since the previous occasion. As a rule, the -increase varied from six to seven ounces a week. The father generally -lost patience over the operation, and the mother had to intervene. - -"Here! put the scales on the table near my bed, and give me the little -one in his napkin. We will see what the napkin weighs afterwards." - -At this moment, however, the customary morning invasion took place. The -other four children, who were beginning to know how to dress themselves, -the elder ones helping the younger, and Zoe lending a hand at times, -darted in at a gallop, like frolicsome escaped colts. Having -thrown themselves on papa's neck and rushed upon mamma's bed to say -good-morning, the boys stopped short, full of admiration and interest -at the sight of Gervais in the scales. Rose, however, still rather -uncertain on her legs, caught hold of the scales in her impatient -efforts to climb upon the bed, and almost toppled everything over. "I -want to see! I want to see!" she cried in her shrill voice. - -At this the others likewise wished to meddle, and already stretched -out their little hands, so that it became necessary to turn them out of -doors. - -"Now kindly oblige me by going to play outside," said Mathieu. "Take -your hats and remain under the window, so that we may hear you." - -Then, in spite of the complaints and leaps of Master Gervais, Marianne -was at last able to obtain his correct weight. And what delight there -was, for he had gained more than seven ounces during the week. After -losing weight during the first three days, like all new-born children, -he was now growing and filling out like a strong, healthy human plant. -They could already picture him walking, sturdy and handsome. His mother, -sitting up in bed, wrapped his swaddling clothes around him with -her deft, nimble hands, jesting the while and answering each of his -plaintive wails. - -"Yes, yes, I know, we are very, very hungry. But it is all right; the -soup is on the fire, and will be served to Monsieur smoking hot." - -On awakening that morning she had made a real Sunday toilette: her -superb hair was caught up in a huge chignon which disclosed the -whiteness of her neck, and she wore a white flannel lace-trimmed -dressing-jacket, which allowed but a little of her bare arms to be seen. -Propped up by two pillows, she laughingly offered her breast to the -child, who was already protruding his lips and groping with his hands. -And when he found what he wanted he eagerly began to suck. - -Mathieu, seeing that both mother and babe were steeped in sunshine, then -went to draw one of the curtains, but Marianne exclaimed: "No, no, leave -us the sun; it doesn't inconvenience us at all, it fills our veins with -springtide." - -He came back and lingered near the bed. The sun's rays poured over it, -and life blazed there in a florescence of health and beauty. There is no -more glorious blossoming, no more sacred symbol of living eternity -than an infant at its mother's breast. It is like a prolongation of -maternity's travail, when the mother continues giving herself to her -babe, offering him the fountain of life that shall make him a man. - -Scarce is he born to the world than she takes him back and clasps him -to her bosom, that he may there again have warmth and nourishment. And -nothing could be more simple or more necessary. Marianne, both for her -own sake and that of her boy, in order that beauty and health might -remain their portion, was naturally his nurse. - -Little Gervais was still sucking when Zoe, after tidying the room, came -up again with a big bunch of lilac, and announced that Monsieur and -Madame Angelin had called, on their way back from an early walk, to -inquire after Madame. - -"Show them up," said Marianne gayly; "I can well receive them." - -The Angelins were the young couple who, having installed themselves in -a little house at Janville, ever roamed the lonely paths, absorbed in -their mutual passion. She was delicious--dark, tall, admirably formed, -always joyous and fond of pleasure. He, a handsome fellow, fair -and square shouldered, had the gallant mien of a musketeer with his -streaming moustache. In addition to their ten thousand francs a year, -which enabled them to live as they liked, he earned a little money -by painting pretty fans, flowery with roses and little women deftly -postured. And so their life had hitherto been a game of love, an -everlasting billing and cooing. Towards the close of the previous summer -they had become quite intimate with the Froments, through meeting them -well-nigh every day. - -"Can we come in? Are we not intruding?" called Angelin, in his sonorous -voice, from the landing. - -Then Claire, his wife, as soon as she had kissed Marianne, apologized -for having called so early. - -"We only learnt last night, my dear," said she, "that you had arrived -the day before. We didn't expect you for another eight or ten days. And -so, as we passed the house just now, we couldn't resist calling. You -will forgive us, won't you?" Then, never waiting for an answer, she -added with the petulant vivacity of a tom-tit whom the open air had -intoxicated: "Oh! so there is the new little gentleman--a boy, am I -not right? And your health is good? But really I need not ask it. _Mon -Dieu_, what a pretty little fellow he is! Look at him, Robert; how -pretty he is! A real little doll! Isn't he funny now, isn't he funny! He -is quite amusing." - -Her husband, observing her gayety, drew near and began to admire the -child by way of following her example. "Ah yes, he is really a pretty -baby. But I have seen so many frightful ones--thin, puny, bluish little -things, looking like little plucked chickens. When they are white and -plump they are quite nice." - -Mathieu began to laugh, and twitted the Angelins on having no child -of their own. But on this point they held very decided opinions. They -wished to enjoy life, unburdened by offspring, while they were young. As -for what might happen in five or six years' time, that, of course, was -another matter. Nevertheless, Madame Angelin could not help being struck -by the delightful picture which Marianne, so fresh and gay, presented -with her plump little babe at her breast in that white bed amid the -bright sunshine. - -At last she remarked: "There's one thing. I certainly could not feed a -child. I should have to engage a nurse for any baby of mine." - -"Of course!" her husband replied. "I would never allow you to feed it. -It would be idiotic." - -These words had scarcely passed his lips when he regretted them and -apologized to Marianne, explaining that no mother possessed of means was -nowadays willing to face the trouble and worry of nursing. - -"Oh! for my part," Marianne responded, with her quiet smile, "if I had a -hundred thousand francs a year I should nurse all my children, even were -there a dozen of them. To begin with, it is so healthful, you know, both -for mother and child: and if I didn't do my duty to the little one -I should look on myself as a criminal, as a mother who grudged her -offspring health and life." - -Lowering her beautiful soft eyes towards her boy, she watched him with a -look of infinite love, while he continued nursing gluttonously. And in a -dreamy voice she continued: "To give a child of mine to another--oh no, -never! I should feel too jealous. I want my children to be entirely -my own. And it isn't merely a question of a child's physical health. I -speak of his whole being, of the intelligence and heart that will come -to him, and which he ought to derive from me alone. If I should find -him foolish or malicious later on, I should think that his nurse had -poisoned him. Dear little fellow! when he pulls like that it is as if he -were drinking me up entirely." - -Then Mathieu, deeply moved, turned towards the others, saying: "Ah! she -is quite right. I only wish that every mother could hear her, and make -it the fashion in France once more to suckle their infants. It would be -sufficient if it became an ideal of beauty. And, indeed, is it not of -the loftiest and brightest beauty?" - -The Angelins complaisantly began to laugh, but they did not seem -convinced. Just as they rose to take their leave an extraordinary uproar -burst forth beneath the window, the piercing clamor of little wildings, -freely romping in the fields. And it was all caused by Ambroise throwing -a ball, which had lodged itself on a tree. Blaise and Denis were -flinging stones at it to bring it down, and Rose called and jumped and -stretched out her arms as if she hoped to be able to reach the ball. The -Angelins stopped short, surprised and almost nervous. - -"Good heavens!" murmured Claire, "what will it be when you have a -dozen?" - -"But the house would seem quite dead if they did not romp and shout," -said Marianne, much amused. "Good-by, my dear. I will go to see you when -I can get about." - -The months of March and April proved superb, and all went well with -Marianne. Thus the lonely little house, nestling amid foliage, was ever -joyous. Each Sunday in particular proved a joy, for the father did not -then have to go to his office. On the other days he started off early -in the morning, and returned about seven o'clock, ever busily laden with -work in the interval. And if his constant perambulations did not affect -his good-humor, he was nevertheless often haunted by thoughts of the -future. Formerly he had never been alarmed by the penury of his little -home. Never had he indulged in any dream of ambition or wealth. Besides, -he knew that his wife's only idea of happiness, like his own, was to -live there in very simple fashion, leading a brave life of health, -peacefulness, and love. But while he did not desire the power procured -by a high position and the enjoyment offered by a large fortune, he -could not help asking himself how he was to provide, were it ever so -modestly, for his increasing family. What would he be able to do, should -he have other children; how would he procure the necessaries of life -each time that a fresh birth might impose fresh requirements upon him? -One situated as he was must create resources, draw food from the earth -step by step, each time a little mouth opened and cried its hunger -aloud. Otherwise he would be guilty of criminal improvidence. And such -reflections as these came upon him the more strongly as his penury had -increased since the birth of Gervais--to such a point, indeed, that -Marianne, despite prodigies of economy, no longer knew how to make her -money last her till the end of the month. The slightest expenditure had -to be debated; the very butter had to be spread thinly on the children's -bread; and they had to continue wearing their blouses till they were -well-nigh threadbare. To increase the embarrassment they grew every -year, and cost more money. It had been necessary to send the three boys -to a little school at Janville, which was as yet but a small expense. -But would it not be necessary to send them the following year to a -college, and where was the money for this to come from? A grave problem, -a worry which grew from hour to hour, and which for Mathieu somewhat -spoilt that charming spring whose advent was flowering the countryside. - -The worst was that Mathieu deemed himself immured, as it were, in his -position as designer at the Beauchene works. Even admitting that his -salary should some day be doubled, it was not seven or eight thousand -francs a year which would enable him to realize his dream of a numerous -family freely and proudly growing and spreading like some happy forest, -indebted solely for strength, health, and beauty to the good common -mother of all, the earth, which gave to all its sap. And this was why, -since his return to Janville, the earth, the soil had attracted him, -detained him during his frequent walks, while he revolved vague but -ever-expanding thoughts in his mind. He would pause for long minutes, -now before a field of wheat, now on the verge of a leafy wood, now on -the margin of a river whose waters glistened in the sunshine, and now -amid the nettles of some stony moorland. All sorts of vague plans -then rose within him, uncertain reveries of such vast scope, such -singularity, that he had as yet spoken of them to nobody, not even his -wife. Others would doubtless have mocked at him, for he had as yet but -reached that dim, quivering hour when inventors feel the gust of their -discovery sweep over them, before the idea that they are revolving -presents itself with full precision to their minds. Yet why did he not -address himself to the soil, man's everlasting provider and nurse? Why -did he not clear and fertilize those far-spreading lands, those woods, -those heaths, those stretches of stony ground which were left -sterile around him? Since it was just that each man should bring his -contribution to the common weal, create subsistence for himself and his -offspring, why should not he, at the advent of each new child, supply -a new field of fertile earth which would give that child food, without -cost to the community? That was his sole idea; it took no more precise -shape; at the thought of realizing it he was carried off into splendid -dreams. - -The Froments had been in the country fully a month when one evening -Marianne, wheeling Gervais's little carriage in front of her, came as -far as the bridge over the Yeuse to await Mathieu, who had promised -to return early. Indeed, he got there before six o'clock. And as -the evening was fine, it occurred to Marianne to go as far as the -Lepailleurs' mill down the river, and buy some new-laid eggs there. - -"I'm willing," said Mathieu. "I'm very fond of their romantic old mill, -you know; though if it were mine I should pull it down and build another -one with proper appliances." - -In the yard of the picturesque old building, half covered with ivy, -with its mossy wheel slumbering amid water-lilies, they found the -Lepailleurs, the man tall, dry, and carroty, the woman as carroty and -as dry as himself, but both of them young and hardy. Their child Antonin -was sitting on the ground, digging a hole with his little hands. - -"Eggs?" La Lepailleur exclaimed; "yes, certainly, madame, there must be -some." - -She made no haste to fetch them, however, but stood looking at Gervais, -who was asleep in his little vehicle. - -"Ah! so that's your last. He's plump and pretty enough, I must say," she -remarked. - -But Lepailleur raised a derisive laugh, and with the familiarity which -the peasant displays towards the bourgeois whom he knows to be hard up, -he said: "And so that makes you five, monsieur. Ah, well! that would be -a deal too many for poor folks like us." - -"Why?" Mathieu quietly inquired. "Haven't you got this mill, and don't -you own fields, to give labor to the arms that would come and whose -labor would double and treble your produce?" - -These simple words were like a whipstroke that made Lepailleur rear. And -once again he poured forth all his spite. Ah! surely now, it wasn't his -tumble-down old mill that would ever enrich him, since it had enriched -neither his father nor his grandfather. And as for his fields, well, -that was a pretty dowry that his wife had brought him, land in which -nothing more would grow, and which, however much one might water it with -one's sweat, did not even pay for manuring and sowing. - -"But in the first place," resumed Mathieu, "your mill ought to be -repaired and its old mechanism replaced, or, better still, you should -buy a good steam-engine." - -"Repair the mill! Buy an engine! Why, that's madness," the other -replied. "What would be the use of it? As it is, people hereabouts have -almost renounced growing corn, and I remain idle every other month." - -"And then," continued Mathieu, "if your fields yield less, it is because -you cultivate them badly, following the old routine, without proper care -or appliances or artificial manure." - -"Appliances! Artificial manure! All that humbug which has only sent -poor folks to rack and ruin! Ah! I should just like to see you trying to -cultivate the land better, and make it yield what it'll never yield any -more." - -Thereupon he quite lost his temper, became violent and brutal, launching -against the ungrateful earth all the charges which his love of idleness -and his obstinacy suggested. He had travelled, he had fought in Africa -as a soldier, folks could not say that he had always lived in his hole -like an ignorant beast. But, none the less, on leaving his regiment he -had lost all taste for work and come to the conclusion that agriculture -was doomed, and would never give him aught but dry bread to eat. The -land would soon be bankrupt, and the peasantry no longer believed in it, -so old and empty and worn out had it become. And even the sun got out of -order nowadays; they had snow in July and thunderstorms in December, a -perfect upsetting of seasons, which wrecked the crops almost before they -were out of the ground. - -"No, monsieur," said Lepailleur, "what you say is impossible; it's all -past. The soil and work, there's nothing left of either. It's barefaced -robbery, and though the peasant may kill himself with labor, he will -soon be left without even water to drink. Children indeed! No, no! -There's Antonin, of course, and for him we may just be able to provide. -But I assure you that I won't even make Antonin a peasant against his -will! If he takes to schooling and wishes to go to Paris, I shall tell -him that he's quite right, for Paris is nowadays the only chance for -sturdy chaps who want to make a fortune. So he will be at liberty to -sell everything, if he chooses, and try his luck there. The only thing -that I regret is that I didn't make the venture myself when there was -still time." - -Mathieu began to laugh. Was it not singular that he, a bourgeois with -a bachelor's degree and scientific attainments, should dream of coming -back to the soil, to the common mother of all labor and wealth, when -this peasant, sprung from peasants, cursed and insulted the earth, and -hoped that his son would altogether renounce it? Never had anything -struck him as more significant. It symbolized that disastrous exodus -from the rural districts towards the towns, an exodus which year by year -increased, unhinging the nation and reducing it to anaemia. - -"You are wrong," he said in a jovial way so as to drive all bitterness -from the discussion. "Don't be unfaithful to the earth; she's an old -mistress who would revenge herself. In your place I would lay myself out -to obtain from her, by increase of care, all that I might want. As in -the world's early days, she is still the great fruitful spouse, and she -yields abundantly when she is loved in proper fashion." - -But Lepailleur, raising his fists, retorted: "No, no; I've had enough of -her!" - -"And, by the way," continued Mathieu, "one thing which astonishes me -is that no courageous, intelligent man has ever yet come forward to -do something with all that vast abandoned estate yonder--that -Chantebled--which old Seguin, formerly, dreamt of turning into a -princely domain. There are great stretches of waste land, woods which -one might partly fell, heaths and moorland which might easily be -restored to cultivation. What a splendid task! What a work of creation -for a bold man to undertake!" - -This so amazed Lepailleur that he stood there openmouthed. Then his -jeering spirit asserted itself: "But, my dear sir--excuse my saying -it--you must be mad! Cultivate Chantebled, clear those stony tracts, -wade about in those marshes! Why, one might bury millions there -without reaping a single bushel of oats! It's a cursed spot, which my -grandfather's father saw such as it is now, and which my grandson's -son will see just the same. Ah! well, I'm not inquisitive, but it would -really amuse me to meet the fool who might attempt such madness." - -"_Mon Dieu_, who knows?" Mathieu quietly concluded. "When one only loves -strongly one may work miracles." - -La Lepailleur, after going to fetch a dozen eggs, now stood erect -before her husband in admiration at hearing him talk so eloquently to -a bourgeois. They agreed very well together in their avaricious rage at -being unable to amass money by the handful without any great exertion, -and in their ambition to make their son a gentleman, since only a -gentleman could become wealthy. And thus, as Marianne was going off -after placing the eggs under a cushion in Gervais' little carriage, the -other complacently called her attention to Antonin, who, having made a -hole in the ground, was now spitting into it. - -"Oh! he's smart," said she; "he knows his alphabet already, and we are -going to put him to school. If he takes after his father he will be no -fool, I assure you." - -It was on a Sunday, some ten days later, that the supreme revelation, -the great flash of light which was to decide his life and that of those -he loved, fell suddenly upon Mathieu during a walk he took with his wife -and the children. They had gone out for the whole afternoon, taking a -little snack with them in order that they might share it amid the long -grass in the fields. And after scouring the paths, crossing the copses, -rambling over the moorland, they came back to the verge of the woods and -sat down under an oak. Thence the whole expanse spread out before them, -from the little pavilion where they dwelt to the distant village of -Janville. On their right was the great marshy plateau, from which broad, -dry, sterile slopes descended; while lower ground stretched away on -their left. Then, behind them, spread the woods with deep thickets -parted by clearings, full of herbage which no scythe had ever touched. -And not a soul was to be seen around them; there was naught save wild -Nature, grandly quiescent under the bright sun of that splendid April -day. The earth seemed to be dilating with all the sap amassed within it, -and a flood of life could be felt rising and quivering in the vigorous -trees, the spreading plants, and the impetuous growth of brambles and -nettles which stretched invadingly over the soil. And on all sides a -powerful, pungent odor was diffused. - -"Don't go too far," Marianne called to the children; "we shall stay -under this oak. We will have something to eat by and by." - -Blaise and Denis were already bounding along, followed by Ambroise, to -see who could run the fastest; but Rose pettishly called them back, for -she preferred to play at gathering wild flowers. The open air fairly -intoxicated the youngsters; the herbage rose, here and there, to their -very shoulders. But they came back and gathered flowers; and after -a time they set off at a wild run once more, one of the big brothers -carrying the little sister on his back. - -Mathieu, however, had remained absent-minded, with his eyes wandering -hither and thither, throughout their walk. At times he did not hear -Marianne when she spoke to him; he lapsed into reverie before some -uncultivated tract, some copse overrun with brushwood, some spring which -suddenly bubbled up and was then lost in mire. Nevertheless, she felt -that there was no sadness nor feeling of indifference in his heart; for -as soon as he returned to her he laughed once more with his soft, loving -laugh. It was she who often sent him roaming about the country, even -alone, for she felt that it would do him good; and although she had -guessed that something very serious was passing through his mind, she -retained full confidence, waiting till it should please him to speak to -her. - -Now, however, just as he had sunk once more into his reverie, his glance -wandering afar, studying the great varied expanse of land, she raised a -light cry: "Oh! look, look!" - -Under the big oak tree she had placed Master Gervais in his little -carriage, among wild weeds which hid its wheels. And while she handed -a little silver mug, from which it was intended they should drink while -taking their snack, she had noticed that the child raised his head and -followed the movement of her hand, in which the silver sparkled beneath -the sun-rays. Forthwith she repeated the experiment, and again the -child's eyes followed the starry gleam. - -"Ah! it can't be said that I'm mistaken, and am simply fancying it!" she -exclaimed. "It is certain that he can see quite plainly now. My pretty -pet, my little darling!" - -She darted to the child to kiss him in celebration of that first clear -glance. And then, too, came the delight of the first smile. - -"Why, look!" in his turn said Mathieu, who was leaning over the child -beside her, yielding to the same feeling of rapture, "there he is -smiling at you now. But of course, as soon as these little fellows see -clearly they begin to laugh." - -She herself burst into a laugh. "You are right, he is laughing! Ah! how -funny he looks, and how happy I am!" - -Both father and mother laughed together with content at the sight of -that infantile smile, vague and fleeting, like a faint ripple on the -pure water of some spring. - -Amid this joy Marianne called the four others, who were bounding under -the young foliage around them: "Come, Rose! come, Ambroise! come, Blaise -and Denis! It's time now; come at once to have something to eat." - -They hastened up and the snack was set out on a patch of soft grass. -Mathieu unhooked the basket which hung in front of the baby's little -vehicle; and Marianne, having drawn some slices of bread-and-butter from -it, proceeded to distribute them. Perfect silence ensued while all four -children began biting with hearty appetite, which it was a pleasure to -see. But all at once a scream arose. It came from Master Gervais, who -was vexed at not having been served first. - -"Ah! yes, it's true I was forgetting you," said Marianne gayly; "you -shall have your share. There, open your mouth, you darling;" and, with -an easy, simple gesture, she unfastened her dress-body; and then, under -the sunlight which steeped her in golden radiance, in full view of the -far-spreading countryside, where all likewise was bare--the soil, the -trees, the plants, streaming with sap--having seated herself in the long -grass, where she almost disappeared amid the swarming growth of April's -germs, the babe on her breast eagerly sucked in her warm milk, even as -all the encompassing verdure was sucking life from the soil. - -"How hungry you are!" she exclaimed. "Don't pinch me so hard, you little -glutton!" - -Meantime Mathieu had remained standing amid the enchantment of the -child's first smile and the gayety born of the hearty hunger around him. -Then his dream of creation came back to him, and he at last gave voice -to those plans for the future which haunted him, and of which he had so -far spoken to nobody: "Ah, well, it is high time that I should set to -work and found a kingdom, if these children are to have enough soup to -make them grow. Shall I tell you what I've thought--shall I tell you?" - -Marianne raised her eyes, smiling and all attention. "Yes, tell me your -secret if the time has come. Oh! I could guess that you had some great -hope in you. But I did not ask you anything; I preferred to wait." - -He did not give a direct reply, for at a sudden recollection his -feelings rebelled. "That Lepailleur," said he, "is simply a lazy fellow -and a fool in spite of all his cunning airs. Can there be any more -sacrilegious folly than to imagine that the earth has lost her -fruitfulness and is becoming bankrupt--she, the eternal mother, -eternal life? She only shows herself a bad mother to her bad sons, the -malicious, the obstinate, and the dull-witted, who do not know how to -love and cultivate her. But if an intelligent son comes and devotes -himself to her, and works her with the help of experience and all -the new systems of science, you will soon see her quicken and yield -tremendous harvests unceasingly. Ah! folks say in the district that this -estate of Chantebled has never yielded and never will yield anything but -nettles. Well, nevertheless, a man will come who will transform it and -make it a new land of joy and abundance." - -Then, suddenly turning round, with outstretched arm, and pointing to -the spots to which he referred in turn, he went on: "Yonder in the rear -there are nearly five hundred acres of little woods, stretching as far -as the farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. They are separated by clearings -of excellent soil which broad gaps unite, and which could easily be -turned into good pastures, for there are numerous springs. And, indeed, -the springs become so abundant on the right, that they have changed that -big plateau into a kind of marshland, dotted with ponds, and planted -with reeds and rushes. But picture a man of bold mind, a clearer, a -conqueror, who should drain those lands and rid them of superfluous -water by means of a few canals which might easily be dug! Why, then a -huge stretch of land would be reclaimed, handed over to cultivation, and -wheat would grow there with extraordinary vigor. But that is not all. -There is the expanse before us, those gentle slopes from Janville to -Vieux-Bourg, that is another five hundred acres, which are left almost -uncultivated on account of their dryness, the stony poverty of their -soil. So it is all very simple. One would merely have to take the -sources up yonder, the waters, now stagnant, and carry them across -those sterile slopes, which, when irrigated, would gradually develop -extraordinary fertility. I have seen everything, I have studied -everything. I feel that there are at least twelve hundred acres of land -which a bold creator might turn into a most productive estate. Yonder -lies a whole kingdom of corn, a whole new world to be created by labor, -with the help of the beneficent waters and our father the sun, the -source of eternal life." - -Marianne gazed at him and admired him as he stood there quivering, -pondering over all that he evoked from his dream. But she was frightened -by the vastness of such hopes, and could not restrain a cry of -disquietude and prudence. - -"No, no, that is too much; you desire the impossible. How can you think -that we shall ever possess so much--that our fortune will spread over -the entire region? Think of the capital, the arms that would be needed -for such a conquest!" - -For a moment Mathieu remained silent on thus suddenly being brought back -to reality. Then with his affectionate, sensible air, he began to laugh. -"You are right; I have been dreaming and talking wildly," he replied. "I -am not yet so ambitious as to wish to be King of Chantebled. But there -is truth in what I have said to you; and, besides, what harm can -there be in dreaming of great plans to give oneself faith and courage? -Meantime I intend to try cultivating just a few acres, which Seguin will -no doubt sell me cheaply enough, together with the little pavilion in -which we live. I know that the unproductiveness of the estate weighs on -him. And, later on, we shall see if the earth is disposed to love us and -come to us as we go to her. Ah well, my dear, give that little glutton -plenty of life, and you, my darlings, eat and drink and grow in -strength, for the earth belongs to those who are healthy and numerous." - -Blaise and Denis made answer by taking some fresh slices of -bread-and-butter, while Rose drained the mug of wine and water -which Ambroise handed her. And Marianne sat there like the symbol of -blossoming Fruitfulness, the source of vigor and conquest, while Gervais -heartily nursed on. He pulled so hard, indeed, that one could hear the -sound of his lips. It was like the faint noise which attends the rise -of a spring--a slender rill of milk that is to swell and become a river. -Around her the mother heard that source springing up and spreading on -all sides. She was not nourishing alone: the sap of April was dilating -the land, sending a quiver through the woods, raising the long herbage -which embowered her. And beneath her, from the bosom of the earth, -which was ever in travail, she felt that flood of sap reaching and ever -pervading her. And it was like a stream of milk flowing through the -world, a stream of eternal life for humanity's eternal crop. And on -that gay day of spring the dazzling, singing, fragrant countryside was -steeped in it all, triumphal with that beauty of the mother, who, in the -full light of the sun, in view of the vast horizon, sat there nursing -her child. - - - - -VIII - -ON the morrow, after a morning's hard toil at his office at the works, -Mathieu, having things well advanced, bethought himself of going to see -Norine at Madame Bourdieu's. He knew that she had given birth to a child -a fortnight previously, and he wished to ascertain the exact state of -affairs, in order to carry to an end the mission with which Beauchene -had intrusted him. As the other, however, had never again spoken to -him on the subject, he simply told him that he was going out in the -afternoon, without indicating the motive of his absence. At the same -time he knew what secret relief Beauchene would experience when he at -last learnt that the whole business was at an end--the child cast adrift -and the mother following her own course. - -On reaching the Rue de Miromesnil, Mathieu had to go up to Norine's -room, for though she was to leave the house on the following Thursday, -she still kept her bed. And at the foot of the bedstead, asleep in a -cradle, he was surprised to see the infant, of which, he thought, she -had already rid herself. - -"Oh! is it you?" she joyously exclaimed. "I was about to write to you, -for I wanted to see you before going away. My little sister here would -have taken you the letter." - -Cecile Moineaud was indeed there, together with the younger girl, Irma. -The mother, unable to absent herself from her household duties, had -sent them to make inquiries, and give Norine three big oranges, which -glistened on the table beside the bed. The little girls had made the -journey on foot, greatly interested by all the sights of the streets and -the displays in the shop-windows. And now they were enraptured with the -fine house in which they found their big sister sojourning, and full of -curiosity with respect to the baby which slept under the cradle's muslin -curtains. - -Mathieu made the usual inquiries of Norine, who answered him gayly, but -pouted somewhat at the prospect of having so soon to leave the house, -where she had found herself so comfortable. - -"We shan't easily find such soft mattresses and such good food, eh, -Victoire?" she asked. Whereupon Mathieu perceived that another girl was -present, a pale little creature with wavy red hair, tip-tilted nose, and -long mouth, whom he had already seen there on the occasion of a previous -visit. She slept in one of the two other beds which the room contained, -and now sat beside it mending some linen. She was to leave the house on -the morrow, having already sent her child to the Foundling Hospital; and -in the meantime she was mending some things for Rosine, the well-to-do -young person of great beauty whom Mathieu had previously espied, and -whose story, according to Norine, was so sadly pathetic. - -Victoire ceased sewing and raised her head. She was a servant girl by -calling, one of those unlucky creatures who are overtaken by trouble -when they have scarce arrived in the great city from their native -village. "Well," said she, "it's quite certain that one won't be able -to dawdle in bed, and that one won't have warm milk given one to drink -before getting up. But, all the same, it isn't lively to see nothing but -that big gray wall yonder from the window. And, besides, one can't go on -forever doing nothing." - -Norine laughed and jerked her head, as if she were not of this opinion. -Then, as her little sisters embarrassed her, she wished to get rid of -them. - -"And so, my pussies," said she, "you say that papa's still angry with -me, and that I'm not to go back home." - -"Oh!" cried Cecile, "it's not so much that he's angry, but he says that -all the neighbors would point their fingers at him if he let you come -home. Besides, Euphrasie keeps his anger up, particularly since she's -arranged to get married." - -"What! Euphrasie going to be married? You didn't tell me that." - -Norine looked very vexed, particularly when her sisters, speaking both -together, told her that the future husband was Auguste Benard, a jovial -young mason who lived on the floor above them. He had taken a fancy to -Euphrasie, though she had no good looks, and was as thin, at eighteen, -as a grasshopper. Doubtless, however, he considered her strong and -hard-working. - -"Much good may it do them!" said Norine spitefully. "Why, with her evil -temper, she'll be beating him before six months are over. You can just -tell mamma that I don't care a rap for any of you, and that I need -nobody. I'll go and look for work, and I'll find somebody to help me. -So, you hear, don't you come back here. I don't want to be bothered by -you any more." - -At this, Irma, but eight years old and tender-hearted, began to cry. -"Why do you scold us? We didn't come to worry you. I wanted to ask you, -too, if that baby's yours, and if we may kiss it before we go away." - -Norine immediately regretted her spiteful outburst. She once more called -the girls her "little pussies," kissed them tenderly, and told them that -although they must run away now they might come back another day to see -her if it amused them. "Thank mamma from me for her oranges. And as for -the baby, well, you may look at it, but you mustn't touch it, for if it -woke up we shouldn't be able to hear ourselves." - -Then, as the two children leant inquisitively over the cradle, Mathieu -also glanced at it, and saw a healthy, sturdy-looking child, with a -square face and strong features. And it seemed to him that the infant -was singularly like Beauchene. - -At that moment, however, Madame Bourdieu came in, accompanied by -a woman, whom he recognized as Sophie Couteau, "La Couteau," that -nurse-agent whom he had seen at the Seguins' one day when she had gone -thither to offer to procure them a nurse. She also certainly recognized -this gentleman, whose wife, proud of being able to suckle her own -children, had evinced such little inclination to help others to do -business. She pretended, however, that she saw him for the first time; -for she was discreet by profession and not even inquisitive, since so -many matters were ever coming to her knowledge without the asking. - -Little Cecile and little Irma went off at once; and then Madame -Bourdieu, addressing Norine, inquired: "Well, my child, have you -thought it over; have you quite made up your mind about that poor little -darling, who is sleeping there so prettily? Here is the person I spoke -to you about. She comes from Normandy every fortnight, bringing nurses -to Paris; and each time she takes babies away with her to put them out -to nurse in the country. Though you say you won't feed it, you surely -need not cast off your child altogether; you might confide it to this -person until you are in a position to take it back. Or else, if you have -made up your mind to abandon it altogether, she will kindly take it to -the Foundling Hospital at once." - -Great perturbation had come over Norine, who let her head fall back on -her pillow, over which streamed her thick fair hair, whilst her face -darkened and she stammered: "_Mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_! you are going to -worry me again!" - -Then she pressed her hands to her eyes as if anxious to see nothing -more. - -"This is what the regulations require of me, monsieur," said Madame -Bourdieu to Mathieu in an undertone, while leaving the young mother for -a moment to her reflections. "We are recommended to do all we can to -persuade our boarders, especially when they are situated like this one, -to nurse their infants. You are aware that this often saves not only the -child, but the mother herself, from the sad future which threatens her. -And so, however much she may wish to abandon the child, we leave it near -her as long as possible, and feed it with the bottle, in the hope that -the sight of the poor little creature may touch her heart and awaken -feelings of motherliness in her. Nine times out of ten, as soon as she -gives the child the breast, she is vanquished, and she keeps it. That is -why you still see this baby here." - -Mathieu, feeling greatly moved, drew near to Norine, who still lay back -amid her streaming hair, with her hands pressed to her face. "Come," -said he, "you are a goodhearted girl, there is no malice in you. Why not -yourself keep that dear little fellow?" - -Then she uncovered her burning, tearless face: "Did the father even come -to see me?" she asked bitterly. "I can't love the child of a man who -has behaved as he has! The mere thought that it's there, in that cradle, -puts me in a rage." - -"But that dear little innocent isn't guilty. It's he whom you condemn, -yourself whom you punish, for now you will be quite alone, and he might -prove a great consolation." - -"No, I tell you no, I won't. I can't keep a child like that with nobody -to help me. We all know what we can do, don't we? Well, it is of no use -my questioning myself. I'm not brave enough, I'm not stupid enough to do -such a thing. No, no, and no." - -He said no more, for he realized that nothing would prevail over that -thirst for liberty which she felt in the depths of her being. With a -gesture he expressed his sadness, but he was neither indignant nor angry -with her, for others had made her what she was. - -"Well, it's understood, you won't be forced to feed it," resumed Madame -Bourdieu, attempting a final effort. "But it isn't praiseworthy to -abandon the child. Why not trust it to Madame here, who would put it out -to nurse, so that you would be able to take it back some day, when you -have found work? It wouldn't cost much, and no doubt the father would -pay." - -This time Norine flew into a passion. "He! pay? Ah! you don't know -him. It's not that the money would inconvenience him, for he's a -millionnaire. But all he wants is to see the little one disappear. If he -had dared he would have told me to kill it! Just ask that gentleman if I -speak the truth. You see that he keeps silent! And how am I to pay -when I haven't a copper, when to-morrow I shall be cast out-of-doors, -perhaps, without work and without bread. No, no, a thousand times no, I -can't!" - -Then, overcome by an hysterical fit of despair, she burst into sobs. -"I beg you, leave me in peace. For the last fortnight you have been -torturing me with that child, by keeping him near me, with the idea -that I should end by nursing him. You bring him to me, and set him on my -knees, so that I may look at him and kiss him. You are always worrying -me with him, and making him cry with the hope that I shall pity him and -take him to my breast. But, _mon Dieu_! can't you understand that if I -turn my head away, if I don't want to kiss him or even to see him, it is -because I'm afraid of being caught and loving him like a big fool, -which would be a great misfortune both for him and for me? He'll be far -happier by himself! So, I beg you, let him be taken away at once, and -don't torture me any more." - -Sobbing violently, she again sank back in bed, and buried her -dishevelled head in the pillows. - -La Couteau had remained waiting, mute and motionless, at the foot of the -bedstead. In her gown of dark woollen stuff and her black cap trimmed -with yellow ribbons she retained the air of a peasant woman in her -Sunday best. And she strove to impart an expression of compassionate -good-nature to her long, avaricious, false face. Although it seemed to -her unlikely that business would ensue, she risked a repetition of her -customary speech. - -"At Rougemont, you know, madame, your little one would be just the same -as at home. There's no better air in the Department; people come there -from Bayeux to recruit their health. And if you only knew how well the -little ones are cared for! It's the only occupation of the district, -to have little Parisians to coddle and love! And, besides, I wouldn't -charge you dear. I've a friend of mine who already has three nurslings, -and, as she naturally brings them up with the bottle, it wouldn't put -her out to take a fourth for almost next to nothing. Come, doesn't that -suit you--doesn't that tempt you?" - -When, however, she saw that tears were Norine's only answer, she made -an impatient gesture like an active woman who cannot afford to lose -her time. At each of her fortnightly journeys, as soon as she had rid -herself of her batch of nurses at the different offices, she hastened -round the nurses' establishments to pick up infants, so as to take the -train homewards the same evening together with two or three women who, -as she put it, helped her "to cart the little ones about." On this -occasion she was in a greater hurry, as Madame Bourdieu, who employed -her in a variety of ways, had asked her to take Norine's child to the -Foundling Hospital if she did not take it to Rougemont. - -"And so," said La Couteau, turning to Madame Bourdieu, "I shall have -only the other lady's child to take back with me. Well, I had better -see her at once to make final arrangements. Then I'll take this one -and carry it yonder as fast as possible, for my train starts at six -o'clock." - -When La Couteau and Madame Bourdieu had gone off to speak to Rosine, who -was the "other lady" referred to, the room sank into silence save for -the wailing and sobbing of Norine. Mathieu had seated himself near the -cradle, gazing compassionately at the poor little babe, who was still -peacefully sleeping. Soon, however, Victoire, the little servant girl, -who had hitherto remained silent, as if absorbed in her sewing, broke -the heavy silence and talked on slowly and interminably without raising -her eyes from her needle. - -"You were quite right in not trusting your child to that horrid woman!" -she began. "Whatever may be done with him at the hospital, he will be -better off there than in her hands. At least he will have a chance to -live. And that's why I insisted, like you, on having mine taken there -at once. You know I belong in that woman's region--yes, I come from -Berville, which is barely four miles from Rougemont, and I can't help -knowing La Couteau, for folks talk enough about her in our village. -She's a nice creature and no mistake! And it's a fine trade that she -plies, selling other people's milk. She was no better than she should -be at one time, but at last she was lucky enough to marry a big, coarse, -brutal fellow, whom at this time of day she leads by the nose. And he -helps her. Yes, he also brings nurses to Paris and takes babies back -with him, at busy times. But between them they have more murders -on their consciences than all the assassins that have ever been -guillotined. The mayor of Berville, a bourgeois who's retired from -business and a worthy man, said that Rougemont was the curse of the -Department. I know well enough that there's always been some rivalry -between Rougemont and Berville; but, the folks of Rougemont ply a wicked -trade with the babies they get from Paris. All the inhabitants have -ended by taking to it, there's nothing else doing in the whole village, -and you should just see how things are arranged so that there may be -as many funerals as possible. Ah! yes, people don't keep their -stock-in-trade on their hands. The more that die, the more they earn. -And so one can understand that La Couteau always wants to take back as -many babies as possible at each journey she makes." - -Victoire recounted these dreadful things in her simple way, as one -whom Paris has not yet turned into a liar, and who says all she knows, -careless what it may be. - -"And it seems things were far worse years ago," she continued. "I have -heard my father say that, in his time, the agents would bring back four -or five children at one journey--perfect parcels of babies, which they -tied together and carried under their arms. They set them out in rows -on the seats in the waiting-rooms at the station; and one day, indeed, a -Rougemont agent forgot one child in a waiting-room, and there was quite -a row about it, because when the child was found again it was dead. -And then you should have seen in the trains what a heap of poor little -things there was, all crying with hunger. It became pitiable in winter -time, when there was snow and frost, for they were all shivering and -blue with cold in their scanty, ragged swaddling-clothes. One or another -often died on the way, and then it was removed at the next station and -buried in the nearest cemetery. And you can picture what a state those -who didn't die were in. At our place we care better for our pigs, for we -certainly wouldn't send them travelling in that fashion. My father -used to say that it was enough to make the very stones weep. Nowadays, -however, there's more supervision; the regulations allow the agents -to take only one nursling back at a time. But they know all sorts of -tricks, and often take a couple. And then, too, they make arrangements; -they have women who help them, and they avail themselves of those who -may be going back into the country alone. Yes, La Couteau has all sorts -of tricks to evade the law. And, besides, all the folks of Rougemont -close their eyes--they are too much interested in keeping business -brisk; and all they fear is that the police may poke their noses into -their affairs. Ah! it is all very well for the Government to send -inspectors every month, and insist on registers, and the Mayor's -signature and the stamp of the Commune; why, it's just as if it did -nothing. It doesn't prevent these women from quietly plying their trade -and sending as many little ones as they can to kingdom-come. We've got -a cousin at Rougemont who said to us one day: 'La Malivoire's precious -lucky, she got rid of four more during last month.'" - -Victoire paused for a moment to thread her needle. Norine was still -weeping, while Mathieu listened, mute with horror, and with his eyes -fixed upon the sleeping child. - -"No doubt folks say less about Rougemont nowadays than they used to," -the girl resumed; "but there's still enough to disgust one. We know -three or four baby-farmers who are not worth their salt. The rule is -to bring the little ones up with the bottle, you know; and you'd be -horrified if you saw what bottles they are--never cleaned, always -filthy, with the milk inside them icy cold in the winter and sour in the -summer. La Vimeux, for her part, thinks that the bottle system costs too -much, and so she feeds her children on soup. That clears them off all -the quicker. At La Loiseau's you have to hold your nose when you go near -the corner where the little ones sleep--their rags are so filthy. As for -La Gavette, she's always working in the fields with her man, so that the -three or four nurslings that she generally has are left in charge of the -grandfather, an old cripple of seventy, who can't even prevent the fowls -from coming to peck at the little ones.* And things are worse even at La -Cauchois', for, as she has nobody at all to mind the children when she -goes out working, she leaves them tied in their cradles, for fear lest -they should tumble out and crack their skulls. You might visit all the -houses in the village, and you would find the same thing everywhere. -There isn't a house where the trade isn't carried on. Round our part -there are places where folks make lace, or make cheese, or make cider; -but at Rougemont they only make dead bodies." - - * There is no exaggeration in what M. Zola writes on this subject. - I have even read in French Government reports of instances in - which nurslings have been devoured by pigs! And it is a well-known - saying in France that certain Norman and Touraine villages are - virtually "paved with little Parisians."--Trans. - - -All at once she ceased sewing, and looked at Mathieu with her timid, -clear eyes. - -"But the worst of all," she continued, "is La Couillard, an old thief -who once did six months in prison, and who now lives a little way out -of the village on the verge of the wood. No live child has ever left -La Couillard's. That's her specialty. When you see an agent, like La -Couteau, for instance, taking her a child, you know at once what's in -the wind. La Couteau has simply bargained that the little one shall die. -It's settled in a very easy fashion: the parents give a sum of three or -four hundred francs on condition that the little one shall be kept till -his first communion, and you may be quite certain that he dies within -a week. It's only necessary to leave a window open near him, as a nurse -used to do whom my father knew. At winter time, when she had half a -dozen babies in her house, she would set the door wide open and then -go out for a stroll. And, by the way, that little boy in the next room, -whom La Couteau has just gone to see, she'll take him to La Couillard's, -I'm sure; for I heard the mother, Mademoiselle Rosine, agree with her -the other day to give her a sum of four hundred francs down on the -understanding that she should have nothing more to do in the matter." - -At this point Victoire ceased speaking, for La Couteau came in to fetch -Norine's child. Norine, who had emerged from her distress during the -servant girl's stories, had ended by listening to them with great -interest. But directly she perceived the agent she once more hid her -face in her pillows, as though she feared to see what was about to -happen. Mathieu, on his side, had risen from his chair and stood there -quivering. - -"So it's understood, I'm going to take the child," said La Couteau. -"Madame Bourdieu has given me a slip of paper bearing the date of the -birth and the address. Only I ought to have some Christian names. What -do you wish the child to be called?" - -Norine did not at first answer. Then, in a faint distressful voice, she -said: "Alexandre." - -"Alexandre, very well. But you would do better to give the boy a second -Christian name, so as to identify him the more readily, if some day you -take it into your head to run after him." - -It was again necessary to tear a reply from Norine. "Honore," she said. - -"Alexandre Honore--all right. That last name is yours, is it not?* And -the first is the father's? That is settled; and now I've everything I -need. Only it's four o'clock already, and I shall never get back in time -for the six o'clock train if I don't take a cab. It's such a long way -off--the other side of the Luxembourg. And a cab costs money. How shall -we manage?" - - * Norine is, of course, a diminutive of Honorine, which is the - feminine form of Honore.--Trans. - -While she continued whining, to see if she could not extract a few -francs from the distressed girl, it suddenly occurred to Mathieu to -carry out his mission to the very end by driving with her himself to -the Foundling Hospital, so that he might be in a position to inform -Beauchene that the child had really been deposited there, in his -presence. So he told La Couteau that he would go down with her, take a -cab, and bring her back. - -"All right; that will suit me. Let us be off! It's a pity to wake the -little one, since he's so sound asleep; but all the same, we must pack -him off, since it's decided." - -With her dry hands, which were used to handling goods of this -description, she caught up the child, perhaps, however, a little -roughly, forgetting her assumed wheedling good nature now that she was -simply charged with conveying it to hospital. And the child awoke and -began to scream loudly. - -"Ah! dear me, it won't be amusing if he keeps up this music in the cab. -Quick, let us be off." - -But Mathieu stopped her. "Won't you kiss him, Norine?" he asked. - -At the very first squeal that sorry mother had dipped yet lower under -her sheets, carrying her hands to her ears, distracted as she was by -the sound of those cries. "No, no," she gasped, "take him away; take him -away at once. Don't begin torturing me again!" - -Then she closed her eyes, and with one arm repulsed the child who seemed -to be pursuing her. But when she felt that the agent was laying him on -the bed, she suddenly shuddered, sat up, and gave a wild hasty kiss, -which lighted on the little fellow's cap. She had scarcely opened her -tear-dimmed eyes, and could have seen but a vague phantom of that poor -feeble creature, wailing and struggling at the decisive moment when he -was being cast into the unknown. - -"You are killing me! Take him away; take him away!" - -Once in the cab the child suddenly became silent. Either the jolting of -the vehicle calmed him, or the creaking of the wheels filled him with -emotion. La Couteau, who kept him on her knees, at first remained -silent, as if interested in the people on the footwalks, where the -bright sun was shining. Then, all of a sudden, she began to talk, -venting her thoughts aloud. - -"That little woman made a great mistake in not trusting the child to me. -I should have put him out to nurse properly, and he would have grown up -finely at Rougemont. But there! they all imagine that we simply worry -them because we want to do business. But I just ask you, if she had -given me five francs for myself and paid my return journey, would that -have ruined her? A pretty girl like her oughtn't to be hard up for -money. I know very well that in our calling there are some people who -are hardly honest, who speculate and ask for commissions, and then put -out nurslings at cheap rates and rob both the parents and the nurse. -It's really not right to treat these dear little things as if they were -goods--poultry or vegetables. When folks do that I can understand that -their hearts get hardened, and that they pass the little ones on from -hand to hand without any more care than if they were stock-in-trade. But -then, monsieur, I'm an honest woman; I'm authorized by the mayor of our -village; I hold a certificate of morality, which I can show to anybody. -If ever you should come to Rougemont, just ask after Sophie Couteau -there. Folks will tell you that I'm a hard-working woman, and don't owe -a copper to a soul!" - -Mathieu could not help looking at her to see how unblushingly she thus -praised herself. And her speech struck him as if it were a premeditated -reply to all that Victoire had related of her, for, with the keen scent -of a shrewd peasant woman, she must have guessed that charges had been -brought against her. When she felt that his piercing glance was diving -to her very soul, she doubtless feared that she had not lied with -sufficient assurance, and had somehow negligently betrayed herself; for -she did not insist, but put on more gentleness of manner, and contented -herself with praising Rougemont in a general way, saying what a perfect -paradise it was, where the little ones were received, fed, cared for, -and coddled as if they were all sons of princes. Then, seeing that the -gentleman uttered never a word, she became silent once more. It was -evidently useless to try to win him over. And meantime the cab rolled -and rolled along; streets followed streets, ever noisy and crowded; and -they crossed the Seine and at last drew near to the Luxembourg. It was -only after passing the palace gardens that La Couteau again began: - -"Well, it's that young person's own affair if she imagines that her -child will be better off for passing through the Foundling. I don't -attack the Administration, but you know, monsieur, there's a good deal -to be said on the matter. At Rougemont we have a number of nurslings -that it sends us, and they don't grow any better or die less frequently -than the others. Well, well, people are free to act as they fancy; but -all the same I should like you to know, as I do, all that goes on in -there." - -The cab had stopped at the top of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau, at a short -distance from the former outer Boulevard. A big gray wall stretched out, -the frigid facade of a State establishment, and it was through a quiet, -simple, unobtrusive little doorway at the end of this wall that La -Couteau went in with the child. Mathieu followed her, but he did not -enter the office where a woman received the children. He felt too much -emotion, and feared lest he should be questioned; it was, indeed, as if -he considered himself an accomplice in a crime. Though La Couteau told -him that the woman would ask him nothing, and the strictest secrecy -was always observed, he preferred to wait in an anteroom, which led -to several closed compartments, where the persons who came to deposit -children were placed to wait their turn. And he watched the woman go -off, carrying the little one, who still remained extremely well behaved, -with a vacant stare in his big eyes. - -Though the interval of waiting could not have lasted more than twenty -minutes, it seemed terribly long to Mathieu. Lifeless quietude reigned -in that stern, sad-looking anteroom, wainscoted with oak, and pervaded -with the smell peculiar to hospitals. All he heard was the occasional -faint wail of some infant, above which now and then rose a heavy, -restrained sob, coming perhaps from some mother who was waiting in one -of the adjoining compartments. And he recalled the "slide" of other -days, the box which turned within the wall. The mother crept up, -concealing herself much as possible from view, thrust her baby into -the cavity as into an oven, gave a tug at the bell-chain, and then -precipitately fled. Mathieu was too young to have seen the real thing; -he had only seen it represented in a melodrama at the Port St. Martin -Theatre.* But how many stories it recalled--hampers of poor little -creatures brought up from the provinces and deposited at the hospital -by carriers; the stolen babes of Duchesses, here cast into oblivion by -suspicious-looking men; the hundreds of wretched work-girls too who had -here rid themselves of their unfortunate children. Now, however, the -children had to be deposited openly, and there was a staff which took -down names and dates, while giving a pledge of inviolable secrecy. -Mathieu was aware that some few people imputed to the suppression of -the slide system the great increase in criminal offences. But each day -public opinion condemns more and more the attitude of society in former -times, and discards the idea that one must accept evil, dam it in, and -hide it as if it were some necessary sewer; for the only course for a -free community to pursue is to foresee evil and grapple with it, and -destroy it in the bud. To diminish the number of cast-off children one -must seek out the mothers, encourage them, succor them, and give them -the means to be mothers in fact as well as in name. At that moment, -however, Mathieu did not reason; it was his heart that was affected, -filled with growing pity and anguish at the thought of all the crime, -all the shame, all the grief and distress that had passed through that -anteroom in which he stood. What terrible confessions must have been -heard, what a procession of suffering, ignominy, and wretchedness must -have been witnessed by that woman who received the children in her -mysterious little office! To her all the wreckage of the slums, all the -woe lying beneath gilded life, all the abominations, all the tortures -that remain unknown, were carried. There in her office was the port for -the shipwrecked, there the black hole that swallowed up the offspring of -frailty and shame. And while Mathieu's spell of waiting continued he saw -three poor creatures arrive at the hospital. One was surely a work-girl, -delicate and pretty though she looked, so thin, so pale too, and with -so wild an air that he remembered a paragraph he had lately read in a -newspaper, recounting how another such girl, after forsaking her child, -had thrown herself into the river. The second seemed to him to be a -married woman, some workman's wife, no doubt, overburdened with children -and unable to provide food for another mouth; while the third was tall, -strong, and insolent,--one of those who bring three or four children to -the hospital one after the other. And all three women plunged in, and he -heard them being penned in separate compartments by an attendant, while -he, with stricken heart, realizing how heavily fate fell on some, still -stood there waiting. - - * The "slide" system, which enabled a mother to deposit her child - at the hospital without being seen by those within, ceased to be - employed officially as far back as 1847; but the apparatus was - long preserved intact, and I recollect seeing it in the latter - years of the Second Empire, _cir._ 1867-70, when I was often at - the artists' studios in the neighborhood. The aperture through - which children were deposited in the sliding-box was close to - the little door of which M. Zola speaks.--Trans. - -When La Couteau at last reappeared with empty arms she said never a -word, and Mathieu put no question to her. Still in silence, they took -their seats in the cab; and only some ten minutes afterwards, when the -vehicle was already rolling through bustling, populous streets, did the -woman begin to laugh. Then, as her companion, still silent and distant, -did not condescend to ask her the cause of her sudden gayety, she ended -by saying aloud: - -"Do you know why I am laughing? If I kept you waiting a bit longer, it -was because I met a friend of mine, an attendant in the house, just as -I left the office. She's one of those who put the babies out to nurse in -the provinces.* Well, my friend told me that she was going to Rougemont -to-morrow with two other attendants, and that among others they would -certainly have with them the little fellow I had just left at the -hospital." - - * There are only about 600 beds at the Hopital des Enfants - Assistes, and the majority of the children deposited there - are perforce placed out to purse in the country.--Trans. - -Again did she give vent to a dry laugh which distorted her wheedling -face. And she continued: "How comical, eh? The mother wouldn't let me -take the child to Rougemont, and now it's going there just the same. Ah! -some things are bound to happen in spite of everything." - -Mathieu did not answer, but an icy chill had sped through his heart. It -was true, fate pitilessly took its own course. What would become of -that poor little fellow? To what early death, what life of suffering or -wretchedness, or even crime, had he been thus brutally cast? - -But the cab continued rolling on, and for a long while neither Mathieu -nor La Couteau spoke again. It was only when the latter alighted in -the Rue de Miromesnil that she began to lament, on seeing that it was -already half-past five o'clock, for she felt certain that she would miss -her train, particularly as she still had some accounts to settle and -that other child upstairs to fetch. Mathieu, who had intended to keep -the cab and drive to the Northern terminus, then experienced a -feeling of curiosity, and thought of witnessing the departure of the -nurse-agents. So he calmed La Couteau by telling her that if she would -make haste he would wait for her. And as she asked for a quarter of an -hour, it occurred to him to speak to Norine again, and so he also went -upstairs. - -When he entered Norine's room he found her sitting up in bed, eating one -of the oranges which her little sisters had brought her. She had all the -greedy instincts of a plump, pretty girl; she carefully detached each -section of the orange, and, her eyes half closed the while, her flesh -quivering under her streaming outspread hair, she sucked one after -another with her fresh red lips, like a pet cat lapping a cup of milk. -Mathieu's sudden entry made her start, however, and when she recognized -him she smiled faintly in an embarrassed way. - -"It's done," he simply said. - -She did not immediately reply, but wiped her fingers on her -handkerchief. However, it was necessary that she should say something, -and so she began: "You did not tell me you would come back--I was not -expecting you. Well, it's done, and it's all for the best. I assure you -there was no means of doing otherwise." - -Then she spoke of her departure, asked the young man if he thought she -might regain admittance to the works, and declared that in any case she -should go there to see if the master would have the audacity to turn -her away. Thus she continued while the minutes went slowly by. The -conversation had dropped, Mathieu scarcely replying to her, when La -Couteau, carrying the other child in her arms, at last darted in like -a gust of wind. "Let's make haste, let's make haste!" she cried. "They -never end with their figures; they try all they can to leave me without -a copper for myself!" - -But Norine detained her, asking: "Oh! is that Rosine's baby? Pray do -show it me." Then she uncovered the infant's face, and exclaimed: "Oh! -how plump and pretty he is!" And she began another sentence: "What a -pity! Can one have the heart--" But then she remembered, paused, and -changed her words: "Yes, how heartrending it is when one has to forsake -such little angels." - -"Good-by! Take care of yourself!" cried La Couteau; "you will make me -miss my train. And I've got the return tickets, too; the five others are -waiting for me at the station! Ah! what a fuss they would make if I got -there too late!" - -Then, followed by Mathieu, she hurried away, bounding down the stairs, -where she almost fell with her little burden. But soon she threw herself -back in the cab, which rolled off. - -"Ah! that's a good job! And what do you say of that young person, -monsieur? She wouldn't lay out fifteen francs a month on her own -account, and yet she reproaches that good Mademoiselle Rosine, who has -just given me four hundred francs to have her little one taken care of -till his first communion. Just look at him--a superb child, isn't he? -What a pity it is that the finest are often those who die the first." - -Mathieu looked at the infant on the woman's knees. His garments were -very white, of fine texture, trimmed with lace, as if he were some -little condemned prince being taken in all luxury to execution. And the -young man remembered that Norine had told him that the child was the -offspring of crime. Born amid secrecy, he was now, for a fixed sum, -to be handed over to a woman who would quietly suppress him by simply -leaving some door or window wide open. Young though the boy was, he -already had a finely-formed face, that suggested the beauty of a cherub. -And he was very well behaved; he did not raise the faintest wail. But a -shudder swept through Mathieu. How abominable! - -La Couteau quickly sprang from the cab as soon as they reached the -courtyard of the St. Lazare Station. "Thank you, monsieur, you have been -very kind," said she. "And if you will kindly recommend me to any ladies -you may know, I shall be quite at their disposal." - -Then Mathieu, having alighted on the pavement in his turn, saw a scene -which detained him there a few moments longer. Amid all the scramble of -passengers and luggage, five women of peasant aspect, each carrying an -infant, were darting in a scared, uneasy way hither and thither, like -crows in trouble, with big yellow beaks quivering and black wings -flapping with anxiety. Then, on perceiving La Couteau, there was one -general caw, and all five swooped down upon her with angry, voracious -mien. And, after a furious exchange of cries and explanations, the six -banded themselves together, and, with cap-strings waving and skirts -flying, rushed towards the train, carrying the little ones, like birds -of prey who feared delay in returning to the charnel-house. - -And Mathieu remained alone in the great crowd. Thus every year did these -crows of ill omen carry off from Paris no fewer than 20,000 children, -who were never, never seen again! Ah! that great question of the -depopulation of France! Not merely were there those who were resolved -to have no children, not only were infanticide and crime of other kinds -rife upon all sides, but one-half of the babes saved from those dangers -were killed. Thieves and murderesses, eager for lucre, flocked to the -great city from the four points of the compass, and bore away all the -budding Life that their arms could carry in order that they might turn -it to Death! They beat down the game, they watched in the doorways, they -sniffed from afar the innocent flesh on which they preyed. And the babes -were carted to the railway stations; the cradles, the wards of hospitals -and refuges, the wretched garrets of poor mothers, without fires and -without bread--all, all were emptied! And the packages were heaped -up, moved carelessly hither and thither, sent off, distributed to be -murdered either by foul deed or by neglect. The raids swept on like -tempest blasts; Death's scythe never knew dead season, at every hour it -mowed down budding life. Children who might well have lived were taken -from their mothers, the only nurses whose milk would have nourished -them, to be carted away and to die for lack of proper nutriment. - -A rush of blood warmed Mathieu's heart when, all at once, he thought -of Marianne, so strong and healthy, who would be waiting for him on the -bridge over the Yeuse, in the open country, with their little Gervais at -her breast. Figures that he had seen in print came back to his mind. In -certain regions which devoted themselves to baby-farming the mortality -among the nurslings was fifty per cent; in the best of them it was -forty, and seventy in the worst. It was calculated that in one century -seventeen millions of nurslings had died. Over a long period the -mortality had remained at from one hundred to one hundred and twenty -thousand per annum. The most deadly reigns, the greatest butcheries of -the most terrible conquerors, had never resulted in such massacre. It -was a giant battle that France lost every year, the abyss into which her -whole strength sank, the charnel-place into which every hope was cast. -At the end of it is the imbecile death of the nation. And Mathieu, -seized with terror at the thought, rushed away, eager to seek -consolation by the side of Marianne, amid the peacefulness, the wisdom, -and the health which were their happy lot. - - - - -IX - -ONE Thursday morning Mathieu went to lunch with Dr. Boutan in the rooms -where the latter had resided for more than ten years, in the Rue de -l'Universite, behind the Palais-Bourbon. By a contradiction, at which -he himself often laughed, this impassioned apostle of fruitfulness had -remained a bachelor. His extensive practice kept him in a perpetual -hurry, and he had little time free beyond his dejeuner hour. -Accordingly, whenever a friend wished to have any serious conversation -with him, he preferred to invite him to his modest table, to partake -more or less hastily of an egg, a cutlet, and a cup of coffee. - -Mathieu wished to ask the doctor's advice on a grave subject. After a -couple of weeks' reflection, his idea of experimenting in agriculture, -of extricating that unappreciated estate of Chantebled from chaos, -preoccupied him to such a degree that he positively suffered at not -daring to come to a decision. The imperious desire to create, to produce -life, health, strength, and wealth grew within him day by day. Yet -what fine courage and what a fund of hope he needed to venture upon an -enterprise which outwardly seemed so wild and rash, and the wisdom of -which was apparent to himself alone. With whom could he discuss such -a matter, to whom could he confide his doubts and hesitation? When the -idea of consulting Boutan occurred to him, he at once asked the doctor -for an appointment. Here was such a confidant as he desired, a man -of broad, brave mind, one who worshipped life, who was endowed with -far-seeing intelligence, and who would therefore at once look beyond the -first difficulties of execution. - -As soon as they were face to face on either side of the table, Mathieu -began to pour forth his confession, recounting his dream--his poem, as -he called it. And the doctor listened without interrupting, evidently -won over by the young man's growing, creative emotion. When at last -Boutan had to express an opinion he replied: "_Mon Dieu_, my friend, I -can tell you nothing from a practical point of view, for I have never -even planted a lettuce. I will even add that your project seems to me -so hazardous that any one versed in these matters whom you might consult -would assuredly bring forward substantial and convincing arguments to -dissuade you. But you speak of this affair with such superb confidence -and ardor and affection, that I feel convinced you would succeed. -Moreover, you flatter my own views, for I have long endeavored to show -that, if numerous families are ever to flourish again in France, people -must again love and worship the soil, and desert the towns, and lead a -fruitful fortifying country life. So how can I disapprove your plans? -Moreover, I suspect that, like all people who ask advice, you simply -came here in the hope that you would find in me a brother ready, in -principle at all events, to wage the same battle." - -At this they both laughed heartily. Then, on Boutan inquiring with what -capital he would start operations, Mathieu quietly explained that he -did not mean to borrow money and thus run into debt; he would begin, -if necessary, with very few acres indeed, convinced as he was of the -conquering power of labor. His would be the head, and he would assuredly -find the necessary arms. His only worry was whether he would be able to -induce Seguin to sell him the old hunting-box and the few acres round it -on a system of yearly payments, without preliminary disbursement. When -he spoke to the doctor on this subject, the other replied: - -"Oh! I think he is very favorably disposed. I know that he would -be delighted to sell that huge, unprofitable estate, for with his -increasing pecuniary wants he is very much embarrassed by it. You -are aware, no doubt, that things are going from bad to worse in his -household." - -Then the doctor broke off to inquire: "And our friend Beauchene, have -you warned him of your intention to leave the works?" - -"Why, no, not yet," said Mathieu; "and I would ask you to keep the -matter private, for I wish to have everything settled before informing -him." - -Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctor -offered to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going there -himself, for Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, in -order that he might keep an eye on Maurice's health. Not only did -the lad still suffer from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate a -stomach that he had to be dieted severely. - -"It's the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not been -brought up by their own mothers," continued Boutan. "Your plucky wife -doesn't know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever they -fancy. But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such as -four cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion. Well, so it is -settled, I will drive you back to the works. Only I must first make a -call in the Rue Roquepine to choose a nurse. It won't take me long, I -hope. Quick! let us be off." - -When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it was -precisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency. There -was a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d'Antin. A few months -previously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husband -had obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself, -pretending that he knew all about such matters. And he had chosen a -big, sturdy young woman of monumental appearance. Nevertheless, for two -months past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor had -discovered, by analyzing the nurse's milk, that it was deficient in -nutriment. Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation. To change -a nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins' house was in a tempestuous -state. The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors and -declaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything. - -"And so," added Boutan, "I have now been instructed to choose a fresh -nurse. And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxious -about that poor little Andree." - -"But why did not the mother nurse her child?" asked Mathieu. - -The doctor made a gesture of despair. "Ah! my dear fellow, you ask me -too much. But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisie -undertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when she -leads the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees, -and absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little Madame -Seguin is simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress and -says that she would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but that -it was impossible since she had no milk. She never even tried! When her -first child was born she could doubtless have nursed it. But to-day, -with the imbecile, spoilt life she leads, it is quite certain that she -is incapable of making such an effort. The worst is, my dear fellow, -as any doctor will tell you, that after three or four generations of -mothers who do not feed their children there comes a generation that -cannot do so. And so, my friend, we are fast coming, not only in France, -but in other countries where the odious wet-nurse system is in vogue, to -a race of wretched, degenerate women, who will be absolutely powerless -to nourish their offspring." - -Mathieu then remembered what he had witnessed at Madame Bourdieu's and -the Foundling Hospital. And he imparted his impressions to Boutan, -who again made a despairing gesture. There was a great work of -social salvation to be accomplished, said he. No doubt a number of -philanthropists were trying their best to improve things, but private -effort could not cope with such widespread need. There must be general -measures; laws must be passed to save the nation. The mother must be -protected and helped, even in secrecy, if she asked for it; she must be -cared for, succored, from the earliest period, and right through all the -long months during which she fed her babe. All sorts of establishments -would have to be founded--refuges, convalescent homes, and so forth; and -there must be protective enactments, and large sums of money voted to -enable help to be extended to all mothers, whatever they might be. -It was only by such preventive steps that one could put a stop to the -frightful hecatomb of newly-born infants, that incessant loss of life -which exhausted the nation and brought it nearer and nearer to death -every day. - -"And," continued the doctor, "it may all be summed up in this verity: -'It is a mother's duty to nurse her child.' And, besides, a mother, -is she not the symbol of all grandeur, all strength, all beauty? She -represents the eternity of life. She deserves a social culture, she -should be religiously venerated. When we know how to worship motherhood, -our country will be saved. And this is why, my friend, I should like a -mother feeding her babe to be adopted as the highest expression of human -beauty. Ah! how can one persuade our Parisiennes, all our French women, -indeed, that woman's beauty lies in being a mother with an infant on her -knees? Whenever that fashion prevails, we shall be the sovereign nation, -the masters of the world!" - -He ended by laughing in a distressed way, in his despair at being unable -to change manners and customs, aware as he was that the nation could be -revolutionized only by a change in its ideal of true beauty. - -"To sum up, then, I believe in a child being nursed only by its own -mother. Every mother who neglects that duty when she can perform it is -a criminal. Of course, there are instances when she is physically -incapable of accomplishing her duty, and in that case there is the -feeding-bottle, which, if employed with care and extreme cleanliness, -only sterilized milk being used, will yield a sufficiently good result. -But to send a child away to be nursed means almost certain death; and as -for the nurse in the house, that is a shameful transaction, a source of -incalculable evil, for both the employer's child and the nurse's child -frequently die from it." - -Just then the doctor's brougham drew up outside the nurse-agency in the -Rue Roquepine. - -"I dare say you have never been in such a place, although you are the -father of five children," said Boutan to Mathieu, gayly. - -"No, I haven't." - -"Well, then, come with me. One ought to know everything." - -The office in the Rue Roquepine was the most important and the one with -the best reputation in the district. It was kept by Madame Broquette, -a woman of forty, with a dignified if somewhat blotched face, who was -always very tightly laced in a faded silk gown of dead-leaf hue. But if -she represented the dignity and fair fame of the establishment in -its intercourse with clients, the soul of the place, the ever-busy -manipulator, was her husband, Monsieur Broquette, a little man with a -pointed nose, quick eyes, and the agility of a ferret. Charged with the -police duties of the office, the supervision and training of the nurses, -he received them, made them clean themselves, taught them to smile and -put on pleasant ways, besides penning them in their various rooms and -preventing them from eating too much. From morn till night he was ever -prowling about, scolding and terrorizing those dirty, ill-behaved, and -often lying and thieving women. The building, a dilapidated private -house, with a damp ground floor, to which alone clients were -admitted, had two upper stories, each comprising six rooms arranged as -dormitories, in which the nurses and their infants slept. There was no -end to the arrivals and departures there: the peasant women were ever -galloping through the place, dragging trunks about, carrying babes in -swaddling clothes, and filling the rooms and the passages with wild -cries and vile odors. And amid all this the house had another inmate, -Mademoiselle Broquette, Herminie as she was called, a long, pale, -bloodless girl of fifteen, who mooned about languidly among that swarm -of sturdy young women. - -Boutan, who knew the house well, went in, followed by Mathieu. The -central passage, which was fairly broad, ended in a glass door, which -admitted one to a kind of courtyard, where a sickly conifer stood on -a round patch of grass, which the dampness rotted. On the right of the -passage was the office, whither Madame Broquette, at the request of her -customers, summoned the nurses, who waited in a neighboring room, -which was simply furnished with a greasy deal table in the centre. The -furniture of the office was some old Empire stuff, upholstered in red -velvet. There was a little mahogany centre table, and a gilt clock. -Then, on the left of the passage, near the kitchen, was the general -refectory, with two long tables, covered with oilcloth, and surrounded -by straggling chairs, whose straw seats were badly damaged. Just a -make-believe sweep with a broom was given there every day: one could -divine long-amassed, tenacious dirt in every dim corner; and the place -reeked with an odor of bad cookery mingled with that of sour milk. - -When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette was -busy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses. -She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret. "No matter, no -matter," he exclaimed; "I am not in a hurry: I will wait." - -Through the open door Mathieu had caught sight of Mademoiselle Herminie, -the daughter of the house, ensconced in one of the red velvet armchairs -near the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother, -standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the old -gentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemed -unable to make up his mind. - -"Let us have a look at the garden," said the doctor, with a laugh. - -One of the boasts of the establishment, indeed, as set forth in its -prospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty of -good air there, as in the country. They opened the glass door, and on -a bench near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had just -arrived, pretending to clean a squealing infant. She herself looked -sordid, and had evidently not washed since her journey. In one corner -there was an overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots and -greasy and rusty saucepans. Then, at the other end, a French window gave -access to the nurses' waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseous -spectacle of dirt and untidiness. - -All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had come -it was hard to say. At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a client -that needed attention. "Is my wife busy, then?" said he. "I cannot allow -you to remain waiting here, doctor. Come, come, I pray you." - -With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girl -cleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should see -nothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of the -establishment. "Pray, doctor, follow me," he repeated, and understanding -that an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, "What -business have you to be here? Why haven't you gone upstairs to wash and -dress? I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don't hurry -off and tidy yourself." - -Then he forced her to rise and drove her off, all scared and terrified, -in front of him. When she had gone upstairs he led the two gentlemen to -the office entrance and began to complain: "Ah! doctor, if you only knew -what trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands! We who -are so clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean. If ever -a speck of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault." - -Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on the -upper floors, whence also a vile smell descended. Some dispute, some -battle, seemed to be in progress. There were shouts and howls, followed -by a furious exchange of vituperation. - -"Pray excuse me," at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; "my wife will -receive you in a minute." - -Thereupon he slipped off and flew up the stairs with noiseless agility. -And directly afterwards there was an explosion. Then the house suddenly -sank into death-like silence. All that could be heard was the voice -of Madame in the office, as, in a very dignified manner, she kept on -praising her goods. - -"Well, my friend," said Boutan to Mathieu, while they walked up and down -the passage, "all this, the material side of things, is nothing. What -you should see and know is what goes on in the minds of all these -people. And note that this is a fair average place. There are others -which are real dens, and which the police sometimes have to close. No -doubt there is a certain amount of supervision, and there are severe -regulations which compel the nurses to bring certificates of morality, -books setting forth their names, ages, parentage, the situations -they have held, and so on, with other documents on which they have -immediately to secure a signature from the Prefecture, where the final -authorization is granted them. But these precautions don't prevent -fraud and deceit of various kinds. The women assert that they have only -recently begun nursing, when they have been doing it for months; they -show you superb children which they have borrowed and which they assert -to be their own. And there are many other tricks to which they resort in -their eagerness to make money." - -As the doctor and Mathieu chatted on, they paused for a moment near the -door of the refectory, which chanced to be open, and there, among other -young peasant women, they espied La Couteau hastily partaking of -cold meat. Doubtless she had just arrived from Rougemont, and, after -disposing of the batch of nurses she had brought with her, was seeking -sustenance for the various visits which she would have to make before -returning home. The refectory, with its wine-stained tables and greasy -walls, cast a smell like that of a badly-kept sink. - -"Ah! so you know La Couteau!" exclaimed Boutan, when Mathieu had told -him of his meetings with the woman. "Then you know the depths of crime. -La Couteau is an ogress! And yet, think of it, with our fine social -organization, she is more or less useful, and perhaps I myself shall be -happy to choose one of the nurses that she has brought with her." - -At this moment Madame Broquette very amiably asked the visitors into her -office. After long reflection, the old gentleman had gone off without -selecting any nurse, but saying that he would return some other time. - -"There are folks who don't know their own minds," said Madame Broquette -sententiously. "It isn't my fault, and I sincerely beg you to excuse me, -doctor. If you want a good nurse you will be satisfied, for I have just -received some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you." - -Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from her -novel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, with -a weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, after -sitting down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on, -while Boutan stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commander -reviewing his troops. And the procession began. - -Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame -Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick -of her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms. -About a dozen were thus inspected: short ones with big heavy limbs, tall -ones suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones -with the whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and -others who were pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, -silly smile, all swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the -anxious mien of the bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she -may not find a purchaser. They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, -radiant with internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, but -clouding over and casting black glances at their companions when the -latter seemed to have the better chance. Out of the dozen the doctor -began by setting three aside, and finally he detained but one, in order -that he might study her more fully. - -"One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business," Madame -Broquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile. "I don't -often have such pearls. But she has only just arrived, otherwise she -would probably have been engaged already. I can answer for her as I -could for myself, for I have put her out before." - -The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, built -strongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-looking -jaw. Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairly -well. - -"So that child is not your first one?" asked the doctor. - -"No, monsieur, he's my third." - -Then Boutan inquired into her circumstances, studied her papers, took -her into Madame Broquette's private room for examination, and on his -return make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, some -three months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on an -armchair. The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his head -to ask, "And that child is really your own?" - -"Oh! monsieur, where could I have got him otherwise?" - -"Oh! my girl, children are borrowed, you know." - -Then he paused for a moment, still hesitating and looking at the young -woman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed to -embody all requirements. "And are you all quite well in your family?" he -asked; "have none of your relatives ever died of chest complaints?" - -"Never, monsieur." - -"Well, of course you would not tell me if they had. Your books ought to -contain a page for information of that kind. And you, are you of sober -habits? You don't drink?" - -"Oh! monsieur." - -This time the young woman bristled up, and Boutan had to calm her. -Then her face brightened with pleasure as soon as the doctor--with the -gesture of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one may -be there is always an element of chance in such matters--said to her: -"Well, it is understood, I engage you. If you can send your child away -at once, you can go this evening to the address I will give you. Let me -see, what is your name?" - -"Marie Lebleu." - -Madame Broquette, who, without presuming to interfere with a doctor, -had retained her majestic air which so fully proclaimed the high -respectability of her establishment, now turned towards her daughter: -"Herminie, go to see if Madame Couteau is still there." - -Then, as the girl slowly raised her pale dreamy eyes without stirring -from her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had better -execute the commission herself. A moment later she came back with La -Couteau. - -The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for the -nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and -Madame Broquette's charges. Then there was the question of her child's -return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without -counting a gratuity to La Couteau. - -"I'm going back this evening," said the latter; "I'm quite willing to -take the little one with me. In the Avenue d'Antin, did you say? Oh! I -know, there's a lady's maid from my district in that house. Marie can -go there at once. When I've settled my business, in a couple of hours, I -will go and rid her of her baby." - -On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu, -without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his -chair silently watching the scene--first an inspection as of cattle at -a market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother's milk. And by -degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed -through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking -child, of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured -her with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, -like some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was -the pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen -from Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was -threatened; for, however careful one may be, the employer's child often -dies from another's milk, and the nurse's child, carried back into the -country like a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap. - -But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion -drove away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene -works, came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, -the accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by -his daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow -of Valerie's funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of -prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he -had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big -fortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his -flat, though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive. -But then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain -in them. And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all -comfort. All the affection of his weak heart was now given to that -child, whose resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at -her for hours with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing up -within him; his one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happiness -through her, if indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings of -avarice had come to him; he economized with respect to everything that -was not connected with her, and secretly sought supplementary work in -order that he might give her more luxury and increase her dower. Without -her he would have died of weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeed -fast becoming his very life. - -"Why, yes," said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which -Boutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to -be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other -wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir." - -Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as -he was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of -a collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing -her at all ages, which he had hung on the walls. - -"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange," said Boutan, "you do right -in taking a stroll." - -The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the -sun as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fine -weather--and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little." - -Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her -black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored -during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant. -To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned, -and whom he accused himself of having killed. - -"Papa won't believe that one never feels _ennui_ at my age," said the -girl gayly. "Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be -a little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me -out." - -Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the -curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her. - -"Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and -Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here." - -This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to the -carriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughter -had sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusively -thanking the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear child -was going to amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till it -disappeared, he entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, -as if his grief had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelming -him that he quite forgot the others, and did not even take leave of -them. - -"Poor fellow!" muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeing -Seraphine's bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window. - -Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from one -of the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair of -them found Constance and Maurice in the little drawing-room, whither -the father had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutan -immediately attended to the child, who was much better with respect -to his legs, but who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, the -slightest departure from the prescribed diet leading to troublesome -complications. - -Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxious -about the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with all -eagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on one -side. - -"I say," he began, laughing, "why did you not tell me that everything -was finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the street -yesterday." - -Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order to -render an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the first -to raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenses -had proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he could -produce receipts for his various disbursements. He was already entering -into particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him. - -"You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask for -work, not of me of course, but of the foreman of the women's work-room. -Fortunately I had foreseen this and had given strict orders; so the -foreman told her that considerations of order and discipline prevented -him from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be married -next week, is still working here. Just fancy them having another set-to! -Besides, her place is not here." - -Then he went to take a little glass of cognac which stood on the -mantelpiece. - -Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving Madame -Bourdieu's, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, not -caring to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents' home. Besides -her attempt to regain admittance at Beauchene's, she had applied at two -other establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince any -particular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months' idleness and -coddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand's life, and -the inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came back -sipping his cognac, resumed: "Yes, I met her in the street. She was -quite smartly dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded young -fellow, who did nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come to -that, you know. I always thought so." - -Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he remembered -something else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, "What -was it you were telling me about the child?" And as soon as Mathieu had -related that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so as -to be certain that it was deposited there, he warmly pressed his hand. -"That's perfect. Thank you, my dear fellow; I shall be at peace now." - -He felt, indeed, intensely relieved, hummed a lively air, and then took -his stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. She -was holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with the -jealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the health -of her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industry -and wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, she -exclaimed: "Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say that -a child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution than -others, and can the better resist the ailments of childhood?" - -"Oh! there is no doubt of it, madame." - -Beauchene, ceasing to chew his cigar, shrugged his shoulders, and burst -into a sonorous laugh: "Oh! don't you worry, that youngster will live -to be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as a -rock! But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass a -law for obligatory nursing by mothers?" - -At this sally Boutan also began to laugh. "Well, why not?" said he. - -This at once supplied Beauchene with material for innumerable jests. -Why, such a law would completely upset manners and customs, social life -would be suspended, and drawing-rooms would become deserted! Posters -would be placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: "Closed on -account of nursing." - -"Briefly," said Beauchene, in conclusion, "you want to have a -revolution." - -"A revolution, yes," the doctor gently replied, "and we will effect it." - - - - -X - -MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivation -of Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all the -audacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warned -Beauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the -month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had found -him quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acres -around it on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin's affairs -were in a very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gaming -table and spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a most -disastrous life since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomed -the transaction which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that the -young man would end by ridding him of the whole of that unprofitable -estate should his first experiment prove successful. Then came other -interviews between them, and Seguin finally consented to sell on a -system of annual payments, spread over a term of years, the first to be -made in two years' time from that date. As things stood, the property -seemed likely to remain unremunerative forever, and so there was nothing -risked in allowing the purchaser a couple of years' credit. However, -they agreed to meet once more and settle the final details before a -formal deed of sale was drawn up. And one Monday morning, therefore, -about ten o'clock, Mathieu set out for the house in the Avenue d'Antin -in order to complete the business. - -That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid received in the linen -room, where she usually remained, a visit from her friend Madame Menoux, -the little haberdasher of the neighborhood, in whose tiny shop she was -so fond of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever since -La Couteau, at Celeste's instigation, had taken Madame Menoux's child, -Pierre, to Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possible -way for the sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also very -complaisantly promised to call each month at one or another of her -journeys in order to receive the thirty francs, thereby saving the -mother the trouble of sending the money by post, and also enabling her -to obtain fresh news of her child. Thus, each time a payment became -due, if La Couteau's journey happened to be delayed a single day, Madame -Menoux grew terribly frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to make -inquiries of her. And, moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity of -conversing with this girl, who came from the very part where her little -Pierre was being reared. - -"You will excuse, me, won't you, mademoiselle, for calling so early," -said she, "but you told me that your lady never required you before nine -o'clock. And I've come, you know, because I've had no news from over -yonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received a -letter." - -Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poor -clerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad, -expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang her -passionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could have -crushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she was -endowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would have -killed herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognac -which he liked to sip after each repast. - -"Ah! it's hard," she continued, "to have had to send our Pierre so far -away. As it is, I don't see my husband all day, and now I've a child -whom I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, and -how could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, where -from morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can't -help crying at the thought that I wasn't able to keep and nurse him. -When my husband comes home from the museum every evening, we do nothing -but talk about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, -mademoiselle, that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are never -any nasty illnesses about there?" - -But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another early -visitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight. - -"Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it was -of mine to call here!" - -Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that she -had arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had started -on her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the Rue -Roquepine. - -"After bidding Celeste good-day in passing," said she, "I intended to -call on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle our -accounts here, if you are agreeable." - -Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. "And how is -my little Pierre?" she asked. - -"Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of the -strongest; one can't say that he's a big child. Only he's so pretty and -nice-looking with his rather pale face. And it's quite certain that if -there are bigger babies than he is, there are smaller ones too." - -She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words which -might render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. These -were her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers' hearts, and -then extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion she -must have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe a -slight illness to the child. - -"However, I must really tell you, because I don't know how to lie; and -besides, after all, it's my duty--Well, the poor little darling has been -ill, and he's not quite well again yet." - -Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: "_Mon -Dieu_! he will die of it." - -"No, no, since I tell you that he's already a little better. And -certainly he doesn't lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseau -coddles him! When children are well behaved they soon get themselves -loved. And the whole house is at his service, and no expense is spared -The doctor came twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costs -money." - -The last words fell from La Couteau's lips with the weight of a club. -Then, without leaving the scared, trembling mother time to recover, the -nurse-agent continued: "Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?" - -Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning to -her shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked for -a slip of paper on which to set down the figures; first the month's -nursing, thirty francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, with -the medicine, that would make ten francs. - -"Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you," added La Couteau, "that so much -linen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add three -francs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there were -other little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to act -like a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francs -altogether, will that suit you?" - -In spite of her emotion Madame Menoux felt that she was being robbed, -that the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of -surprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money--that -money which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had -to be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the -necessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the -other, would have touched the hardest heart. - -"But that will make another half-month's money," said she. - -At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: "Well, what would you -have? It isn't my fault. One can't let your child die, so one must incur -the necessary expenses. And then, if you haven't confidence in me, say -so; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly -relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I'm -always stupid enough to be too obliging." - -When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another -difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc -pieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the -table. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes. - -"Well, I can't give you your five francs change," she said, "I haven't -any change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this -lady?" - -She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such -a glance that the other immediately understood her. "I have not a copper -in my pocket," she replied. - -Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel -resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her. - -"Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to -take so much trouble. And, _mon Dieu_! may all this money bring me -good luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine -handsome man like his father." - -"Oh! as for that I'll warrant it," cried the other, with enthusiasm. -"Those little ailments don't mean anything--on the contrary. I see -plenty of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, -yours will become an extraordinarily fine child. There won't be better." - -When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and -such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer -regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would -come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak. - -As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began -to laugh in her impudent way: "What a lot of fibs you told her! I don't -believe that her child so much as caught a cold," she exclaimed. - -La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air: "Say that I'm a liar at -once. The child isn't well, I assure you." - -The maid's gayety only increased at this. "Well now, you are really -comical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I know -what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle." - -"The child is quite puny," repeated her friend, more gently. - -"Oh! I can believe that. All the same I should like to see the doctor's -prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar. But, you know, I don't care -a button about the matter. As for that little Madame Menoux, it's here -to-day and gone to-morrow. She has her business, and I have mine. And -you, too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out of -it as you can." - -But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she could -not give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling did -upset her stomach so. Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottle -half-full of malaga and a box of biscuits from the bottom of a cupboard. -This was her little secret store, stolen from the still-room. Then, as -the other expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, she -made a gesture of insolent contempt. Her mistress! Why, she had her nose -in her basins and perfumery pots, and wasn't at all likely to call till -she had fixed herself up so as to look pretty. - -"There are only the children to fear," added Celeste; "that Gaston and -that Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because their -parents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or in -the kitchen from morning till night. And I don't dare lock this door, -for fear they should come rapping and kicking at it." - -When, by way of precaution, she had glanced down the passage and they -had both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out their -minds, soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everything -as if quite unconscious how abominable it was. While sipping her wine -Celeste asked for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutal -truth, between two biscuits. It was at the Vimeux' house that the -servant's last child, born in La Rouche's den, had died a fortnight -after arriving at Rougemont, and the Vimeux, who were more or less her -cousins, had sent her their friendly remembrances and the news that they -were about to marry off their daughter. Then, at La Gavette's, the old -grandfather, who looked after the nurslings while the family was at -work in the fields, had fallen into the fire with a baby in his arms. -Fortunately they had been pulled out of it, and only the little one had -been roasted. La Cauchois, though at heart she wasn't downcast, now had -some fears that she might be worried, because four little ones had gone -off from her house all in a body, a window being forgetfully left open -at night-time. They were all four little Parisians, it seemed--two -foundlings and two that had come from Madame Bourdieu's. Since the -beginning of the year as many had died at Rougemont as had arrived -there, and the mayor had declared that far too many were dying, and -that the village would end by getting a bad reputation. One thing was -certain, La Couillard would be the very first to receive a visit from -the gendarmes if she didn't so arrange matters as to keep at least one -nursling alive every now and then. - -"Ah? that Couillard!" added the nurse-agent. "Just fancy, my dear, I -took her a child, a perfect little angel--the boy of a very pretty young -person who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu's. She paid four hundred -francs to have him brought up until his first communion, and he lived -just five days! Really now, that wasn't long enough! La Couillard need -not have been so hasty. It put me in such a temper! I asked her if she -wanted to dishonor me. What will ruin me is my good heart. I don't know -how to refuse when folks ask me to do them a service. And God in Heaven -knows how fond I am of children! I've always lived among them, and in -future, if anybody who's a friend of mine gives me a child to put out to -nurse, I shall say: 'We won't take the little one to La Couillard, for -it would be tempting Providence. But after all, I'm an honest woman, and -I wash my hands of it, for if I do take the cherubs over yonder I -don't nurse them. And when one's conscience is at ease one can sleep -quietly.'" - -"Of course," chimed in Celeste, with an air of conviction. - -While they thus waxed maudlin over their malaga, there arose a horrible -red vision--a vision of that terrible Rougemont, paved with little -Parisians, the filthy, bloody village, the charnel-place of cowardly -murder, whose steeple pointed so peacefully to the skies in the midst of -the far-spreading plain. - -But all at once a rush was heard in the passage, and the servant -hastened to the door to rid herself of Gaston and Lucie, who were -approaching. "Be off! I don't want you here. Your mamma has told you -that you mustn't come here." - -Then she came back into the room quite furious. "That's true!" said she; -"I can do nothing but they must come to bother me. Why don't they stay a -little with the nurse?" - -"Oh! by the way," interrupted La Couteau, "did you hear that Marie -Lebleu's little one is dead? She must have had a letter about it. Such -a fine child it was! But what can one expect? it's a nasty wind -passing. And then you know the saying, 'A nurse's child is the child of -sacrifice!'" - -"Yes, she told me she had heard of it," replied Celeste, "but she begged -me not to mention it to madame, as such things always have a bad effect. -The worst is that if her child's dead madame's little one isn't much -better off." - -At this La Couteau pricked up her ears. "Ah! so things are not -satisfactory?" - -"No, indeed. It isn't on account of her milk; that's good enough, and -she has plenty of it. Only you never saw such a creature--such a temper! -always brutal and insolent, banging the doors and talking of smashing -everything at the slightest word. And besides, she drinks like a pig--as -no woman ought to drink." - -La Couteau's pale eyes sparkled with gayety, and she briskly nodded her -head as if to say that she knew all this and had been expecting it. In -that part of Normandy, in and around Rougemont, all the women drank more -or less, and the girls even carried little bottles of brandy to school -with them in their baskets. Marie Lebleu, however, was a woman of the -kind that one picks up under the table, and, indeed, it might be said -that since the birth of her last child she had never been quite sober. - -"I know her, my dear," exclaimed La Couteau; "she is impossible. But -then, that doctor who chose her didn't ask my opinion. And, besides, it -isn't a matter that concerns me. I simply bring her to Paris and take -her child back to the country. I know nothing about anything else. Let -the gentlefolks get out of their trouble by themselves." - -This sentiment tickled Celeste, who burst out laughing. "You haven't an -idea," said she, "of the infernal life that Marie leads here! She fights -people, she threw a water-bottle at the coachman, she broke a big vase -in madame's apartments, she makes them all tremble with constant dread -that something awful may happen. And, then, if you knew what tricks she -plays to get something to drink! For it was found out that she drank, -and all the liqueurs were put under lock and key. So you don't know -what she devised? Well, last week she drained a whole bottle of Eau de -Melisse, and was ill, quite ill, from it. Another time she was caught -sipping some Eau de Cologne from one of the bottles in madame's -dressing-room. I now really believe that she treats herself to some of -the spirits of wine that are given her for the warmer!--it's enough to -make one die of laughing. I'm always splitting my sides over it, in my -little corner." - -Then she laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and La Couteau, on -her side highly amused, began to wriggle with a savage delight. All at -once, however, she calmed down and exclaimed, "But, I say, they will -turn her out of doors?" - -"Oh! that won't be long. They would have done so already if they had -dared." - -But at this moment the ringing of a bell was heard, and an oath escaped -Celeste. "Good! there's madame ringing for me now! One can never be at -peace for a moment." - -La Couteau, however, was already standing up, quite serious, intent on -business and ready to depart. - -"Come, little one, don't be foolish, you must do your work. For my part -I have an idea. I'll run to fetch one of the nurses whom I brought this -morning, a girl I can answer for as for myself. In an hour's time I'll -be back here with her, and there will be a little present for you if you -help me to get her the situation." - -She disappeared while the maid, before answering a second ring, -leisurely replaced the malaga and the biscuits at the bottom of the -cupboard. - -At ten o'clock that day Seguin was to take his wife and their friend -Santerre to Mantes, to lunch there, by way of trying an electric -motor-car, which he had just had built at considerable expense. He had -become fond of this new "sport," less from personal taste, however, than -from his desire to be one of the foremost in taking up a new fashion. -And a quarter of an hour before the time fixed for starting he was -already in his spacious "cabinet," arrayed in what he deemed an -appropriate costume: a jacket and breeches of greenish ribbed velvet, -yellow shoes, and a little leather hat. And he poked fun at Santerre -when the latter presented himself in town attire, a light gray suit of -delicate effect. - -Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, the -novelist had again become a constant frequenter of the house in the -Avenue d'Antin. He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that he -had begun there and felt confident of victory. Valentine, on her side, -after a period of terror followed by great relief, had set about making -up for lost time, throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortex -of fashionable life. She had recovered her good looks and youthfulness, -and had never before experienced such a desire to divert herself, -leaving her children more and more to the care of servants, and going -about, hither and thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since her -husband did the same in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, which -broke out every now and again in the most imbecile fashion without the -slightest cause. It was the collapse of all family life, with the threat -of a great disaster in the future; and Santerre lived there in the midst -of it, helping on the work of destruction. - -He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance -gowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her -head. But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that -she would be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree, -and given her last orders to the nurse. - -"Well, make haste," cried her husband. "You are quite unbearable, you -are never ready." - -It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in -order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business -matters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he -was willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to -stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right -of purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and -at fixed dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this -proposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult--distant shouts, wild -hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors. - -"Why! what is it? what is it?" he muttered, turning towards the shaking -walls. - -The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with -fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled -in her arms. - -"There, there, my pet," gasped the mother, "don't cry, she shan't hurt -you any more. There, it's nothing, darling; be quiet, do." - -Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at -once became quiet again. She was a very pretty child, but still so puny, -although nearly four months old, that there seemed to be nothing but her -beautiful big eyes in her pale little face. - -"Well, what is the matter?" asked Seguin, in astonishment. - -"The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across -the cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. If -I had been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at ten -o'clock in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticed -that she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able to -keep her, since her milk is so good. But do you know what she had -drunk? Why, the methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle had -remained beside her." - -"But what did she say to you?" - -"She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in a -drunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escape -with the little one, while she began barricading herself in the room, -where she is now smashing the furniture! There! just listen!" - -Indeed, a distant uproar of destruction reached them. They looked one at -the other, and deep silence fell, full of embarrassment and alarm. - -"And then?" Seguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice. - -"Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can't leave -Andree in her charge to be killed by her. I have brought the child here, -and I certainly shall not take her back. I will even own that I won't -run the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girl -out of doors, after paying her wages." - -"I! I!" cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the -anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: "I've had enough, you -know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect -hell upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but -fighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended -that the nurse whom I took the trouble to choose wasn't healthy. Well, -then a second nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the -child. And now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile -creature who will prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it's too -exasperating, I won't have it." - -Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. "What won't you -have? There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have -a nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have -told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable -than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But -I won't nurse--I can't. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it's -simple enough, and we'll do so at once and risk it." - -Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight -of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he -perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, -who had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, -full of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they -remained there, and saw and heard everything. - -"The carriage is waiting," resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to -render calm. "Let us make haste, let us go." - -Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. "Come, be reasonable," said -she. "How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust -her?" - -"The carriage is waiting for us," he repeated, quivering; "let us go at -once." - -And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her -shoulders, he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which -impelled him to the greatest violence, even when people were present, -and made him openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd -jealousy which had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing -child, he would have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of -everything, and indeed it was she who was now the obstacle to that -excursion he had planned, that pleasure trip which he had promised -himself, and which now seemed to him of such supreme importance. And -'twas so much the better if friends were there to hear him. So in the -vilest language he began to upbraid his wife, not only reproaching her -for the birth of that child, but even denying that the child was his. -"You will only be content when you have driven me from the house!" he -finished in a fury. "You won't come? Well then, I'll go by myself!" - -And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to -Santerre, who had remained silent, and without even remembering -that Mathieu still stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in -consternation at hearing all these things, had not dared to withdraw -lest by doing so he should seem to be passing judgment on the scene. -Standing there motionless, he turned his head aside, looked at little -Andree who was still crying, and at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with -fright, pressed one against the other behind the armchair in which their -sister was wailing. - -Valentine had sunk upon a chair, stifling with sobs, her limbs -trembling. "The wretch! Ah, how he treats me! To accuse me thus, when -he knows how false it is! Ah! never more; no, never more! I would rather -kill myself; yes, kill myself!" - -Then Santerre, who had hitherto stood on one side, gently drew near -to her and ventured to take her hand with a gesture of affectionate -compassion, while saying in an undertone: "Come, calm yourself. You know -very well that you are not alone, that you are not forsaken. There are -some things which cannot touch you. Calm yourself, cease weeping, I beg -you. You distress me dreadfully." - -He made himself the more gentle since the husband had been the more -brutal; and he leant over her yet the more closely, and again lowered -his voice till it became but a murmur. Only a few words could be heard: -"It is wrong of you to worry yourself like this. Forget all that folly. -I told you before that he doesn't know how to behave towards a woman." - -Twice was that last remark repeated with a sort of mocking pity; and she -smiled vaguely amid her drying tears, in her turn murmuring: "You are -kind, you are. Thank you. And you are quite right.... Ah! if I could -only be a little happy!" - -Then Mathieu distinctly saw her press Santerre's hand as if in -acceptance of his consolation. It was the logical, fatal outcome of the -situation--given a wife whom her husband had perverted, a mother who -refused to nurse her babe. And yet a cry from Andree suddenly set -Valentine erect, awaking to the reality of her position. If that poor -creature were so puny, dying for lack of her mother's milk, the mother -also was in danger from her refusal to nurse her and clasp her to her -breast like a buckler of invincible defence. Life and salvation one -through the other, or disaster for both, such was the law. And doubtless -Valentine became clearly conscious of her peril, for she hastened to -take up the child and cover her with caresses, as if to make of her a -protecting rampart against the supreme madness to which she had felt -prompted. And great was the distress that came over her. Her other -children were there, looking and listening, and Mathieu also was still -waiting. When she perceived him her tears gushed forth again, and she -strove to explain things, and even attempted to defend her husband. - -"Excuse him, there are moments when he quite loses his head. _Mon Dieu_! -What will become of me with this child? Yet I can't nurse her now, it is -too late. It is frightful to be in such a position without knowing what -to do. Ah! what will become of me, good Lord?" - -Santerre again attempted to console her, but she no longer listened to -him, and he was about to defer all further efforts till another time -when unexpected intervention helped on his designs. - -Celeste, who had entered noiselessly, stood there waiting for her -mistress to allow her to speak. "It is my friend who has come to see -me, madame," said she; "you know, the person from my village, Sophie -Couteau, and as she happens to have a nurse with her--" - -"There is a nurse here?" - -"Oh! yes, madame, a very fine one, an excellent one." - -Then, on perceiving her mistress's radiant surprise, her joy at this -relief, she showed herself zealous: "Madame must not tire herself by -holding the little one. Madame hasn't the habit. If madame will allow -me, I will bring the nurse to her." - -Heaving a sigh of happy deliverance, Valentine had allowed the servant -to take the child from her. So Heaven had not abandoned her! However, -she began to discuss the matter, and was not inclined to have the nurse -brought there. She somehow feared that if the other one, who was drunk -in her room, should come out and meet the new arrival, she would set -about beating them all and breaking everything. At last she insisted on -taking Santerre and Mathieu into the linen-room, saying that the -latter must certainly have some knowledge of these matters, although he -declared the contrary. Only Gaston and Lucie were formally forbidden to -follow. - -"You are not wanted," said their mother, "so stay here and play. But -we others will all go, and as softly as possible, please, so that that -drunken creature may not suspect anything." - -Once in the linen-room, Valentine ordered all the doors to be carefully -secured. La Couteau was standing there with a sturdy young person of -five-and-twenty, who carried a superb-looking infant in her arms. -She had dark hair, a low forehead, and a broad face, and was very -respectably dressed. And she made a little courtesy like a well-trained -nurse, who has already served with gentlefolks and knows how to behave. -But Valentine's embarrassment remained extreme; she looked at the nurse -and at the babe like an ignorant woman who, though her elder children -had been brought up in a room adjoining her own, had never troubled or -concerned herself about anything. In her despair, seeing that Santerre -kept to himself, she again appealed to Mathieu, who once more excused -himself. And it was only then that La Couteau, after glancing askance at -the gentleman who, somehow or other, always turned up whenever she had -business to transact, ventured to intervene: - -"Will madame rely on me? If madame will kindly remember, I once before -ventured to offer her my services, and if she had accepted them -she would have saved herself no end of worry. That Marie Lebleu is -impossible, and I certainly could have warned madame of it at the time -when I came to fetch Marie's child. But since madame's doctor had chosen -her, it was not for me to speak. Oh! she has good milk, that's quite -sure; only she also has a good tongue, which is always dry. So if madame -will now place confidence in me--" - -Then she rattled on interminably, expatiating on the respectability of -her calling, and praising the value of the goods she offered. - -"Well, madame, I tell you that you can take La Catiche with your eyes -shut. She's exactly what you want, there's no better in Paris. Just look -how she's built, how sturdy and how healthy she is! And her child, just -look at it! She's married, she even has a little girl of four at the -village with her husband. She's a respectable woman, which is more than -can be said for a good many nurses. In a word, madame, I know her and -can answer for her. If you are not pleased with her I myself will give -you your money back." - -In her haste to get it all over Valentine made a great gesture of -surrender. She even consented to pay one hundred francs a month, since -La Catiche was a married woman. Moreover, La Couteau explained that she -would not have to pay the office charges, which would mean a saving -of forty-five francs, though, perhaps, madame would not forget all -the trouble which she, La Couteau, had taken. On the other hand, there -would, of course, be the expense of taking La Catiche's child back to -the village, a matter of thirty francs. Valentine liberally promised to -double that sum; and all seemed to be settled, and she felt delivered, -when she suddenly bethought herself of the other nurse, who had -barricaded herself in her room. How could they get her out in order to -install La Catiche in her place? - -"What!" exclaimed La Couteau, "does Marie Lebleu frighten you? She had -better not give me any of her nonsense if she wants me ever to find her -another situation. I'll speak to her, never fear." - -Celeste thereupon placed Andree on a blanket, which was lying there, -side by side with the infant of which the new nurse had rid herself a -moment previously, and undertook to conduct La Couteau to Marie Lebleu's -room. Deathlike silence now reigned there, but the nurse-agent only -had to give her name to secure admittance. She went in, and for a few -moments one only heard her dry curt voice. Then, on coming out, she -tranquillized Valentine, who had gone to listen, trembling. - -"I've sobered her, I can tell you," said she. "Pay her her month's -wages. She's packing her box and going off." - -Then, as they went back into the linen-room, Valentine settled pecuniary -matters and added five francs for this new service. But a final -difficulty arose. La Couteau could not come back to fetch La Catiche's -child in the evening, and what was she to do with it during the rest -of the day? "Well, no matter," she said at last, "I'll take it; I'll -deposit it at the office, before I go my round. They'll give it a bottle -there, and it'll have to grow accustomed to the bottle now, won't it?" - -"Of course," the mother quietly replied. - -Then, as La Couteau, on the point of leaving, after all sorts of bows -and thanks, turned round to take the little one, she made a gesture of -hesitation on seeing the two children lying side by side on the blanket. - -"The devil!" she murmured; "I mustn't make a mistake." - -This seemed amusing, and enlivened the others. Celeste fairly exploded, -and even La Catiche grinned broadly; while La Couteau caught up the -child with her long claw-like hands and carried it away. Yet another -gone, to be carted away yonder in one of those ever-recurring _razzias_ -which consigned the little babes to massacre! - -Mathieu alone had not laughed. He had suddenly recalled his conversation -with Boutan respecting the demoralizing effects of that nurse trade, the -shameful bargaining, the common crime of two mothers, who each risked -the death of her child--the idle mother who bought another's services, -the venal mother who sold her milk. He felt cold at heart as he saw one -child carried off still full of life, and the other remain there already -so puny. And what would be fate's course? Would not one or the other, -perhaps both of them be sacrificed? - -Valentine, however, was already leading both him and Santerre to the -spacious salon again; and she was so delighted, so fully relieved, that -she had recovered all her cavalier carelessness, her passion for noise -and pleasure. And as Mathieu was about to take his leave, he heard the -triumphant Santerre saying to her, while for a moment he retained her -hand in his clasp: "Till to-morrow, then." And she, who had cast her -buckler of defence aside, made answer: "Yes--yes, to-morrow." - -A week later La Catiche was the acknowledged queen of the house. Andree -had recovered a little color, and was increasing in weight daily. And -in presence of this result the others bowed low indeed. There was every -disposition to overlook all possible faults on the nurse's part. She was -the third, and a fourth would mean the child's death; so that she was -an indispensable, a providential helper, one whose services must be -retained at all costs. Moreover, she seemed to have no defects, for -she was a calm, cunning, peasant woman, one who knew how to rule her -employers and extract from them all that was to be extracted. Her -conquest of the Seguins was effected with extraordinary skill. At first -some unpleasantness seemed likely, because Celeste was, on her own side, -pursuing a similar course; but they were both too intelligent to do -otherwise than come to an understanding. As their departments were -distinct, they agreed that they could prosecute parallel invasions. And -from that moment they even helped one another, divided the empire, and -preyed upon the house in company. - -La Catiche sat upon a throne, served by the other domestics, with her -employers at her feet. The finest dishes were for her; she had her -special wine, her special bread, she had everything most delicate and -most nourishing that could be found. Gluttonous, slothful, and proud, -she strutted about, bending one and all to her fancies. The others gave -way to her in everything to avoid sending her into a temper which might -have spoilt her milk. At her slightest indisposition everybody was -distracted. One night she had an attack of indigestion, and all the -doctors in the neighborhood were rung up to attend on her. Her only -real defect, perhaps, was a slight inclination for pilfering; she -appropriated some linen that was lying about, but madame would not hear -of the matter being mentioned. - -There was also the chapter of the presents which were heaped on her in -order to keep her in good temper. Apart from the regulation present -when the child cut its first tooth, advantage was taken of various other -occasions, and a ring, a brooch, and a pair of earrings were given her. -Naturally she was the most adorned nurse in the Champs-Elysees, with -superb cloaks and the richest of caps, trimmed with long ribbons which -flared in the sunlight. Never did lady lead a life of more sumptuous -idleness. There were also the presents which she extracted for her -husband and her little girl at the village. Parcels were sent them by -express train every week. And on the morning when news came that her -own baby, carried back by La Couteau, had died from the effects of a bad -cold, she was presented with fifty francs as if in payment for the loss -of her child. Little Andree, meanwhile, grew ever stronger, and thus La -Catiche rose higher and higher, with the whole house bending low beneath -her tyrannical sway. - -On the day when Mathieu called to sign the deed which was to insure -him the possession of the little pavilion of Chantebled with some fifty -acres around it, and the privilege of acquiring other parts of the -estate on certain conditions, he found Seguin on the point of starting -for Le Havre, where a friend, a wealthy Englishman, was waiting for him -with his yacht, in order that they might have a month's trip round the -coast of Spain. - -"Yes," said Seguin feverishly, alluding to some recent heavy losses at -the gaming table, "I'm leaving Paris for a time--I have no luck here -just now. But I wish you plenty of courage and all success, my dear sir. -You know how much I am interested in the attempt you are about to make." - -A little later that same day Mathieu was crossing the Champs-Elysees, -eager to join Marianne at Chantebled, moved as he was by the decisive -step he had taken, yet quivering also with faith and hope, when in a -deserted avenue he espied a cab waiting, and recognized Santerre inside -it. Then, as a veiled lady furtively sprang into the vehicle, he turned -round wondering: Was that not Valentine? And as the cab drove off he -felt convinced it was. - -There came other meetings when he reached the main avenue; first Gaston -and Lucie, already tired of play, and dragging about their puny limbs -under the careless supervision of Celeste, who was busy laughing with a -grocer's man; while farther off La Catiche, superb and royal, decked out -like the idol of venal motherhood, was giving little Andree an outing, -with her long purple ribbons streaming victoriously in the sunshine. - - - - -XI - -ON the day when the first blow with the pick was dealt, Marianne, with -Gervais in her arms, came and sat down close by, full of happy emotion -at this work of faith and hope which Mathieu was so boldly undertaking. -It was a clear, warm day in the middle of June, with a pure, broad -sky that encouraged confidence. And as the children had been given a -holiday, they played about in the surrounding grass, and one could hear -the shrill cries of little Rose while she amused herself with running -after the three boys. - -"Will you deal the first blow?" Mathieu gayly asked his wife. - -But she pointed to her baby. "No, no, I have my work. Deal it yourself, -you are the father." - -He stood there with two men under his orders, but ready himself -to undertake part of the hard manual toil in order to help on the -realization of his long thought of, ripening scheme. With great prudence -and wisdom he had assured himself a modest livelihood for a year of -effort, by an intelligent scheme of association and advances repayable -out of profits, which would enable him to wait for his first harvest. -And it was his life that he risked on that future crop, should the earth -refuse his worship and his labor. But he was a faithful believer, one -who felt certain of conquering, since love and determination were his. - -"Well then, here goes!" he gallantly cried. "May the earth prove a good -mother to us!" - -Then he dealt the first blow with his pick. - -The work was begun to the left of the old pavilion, in a corner of that -extensive marshy tableland, where little streams coursed on all sides -through the reeds which sprang up everywhere. It was at first simply a -question of draining a few acres by capturing these streams and turning -them into canals, in order to direct them afterwards over the dry sandy -slopes which descended towards the railway line. After an attentive -examination Mathieu had discovered that the work might easily be -executed, and that water-furrows would suffice, such was the disposition -and nature of the ground. This, indeed, was his real discovery, not to -mention the layer of humus which he felt certain would be found amassed -on the plateau, and the wondrous fertility which it would display as -soon as a ploughshare had passed through it. And so with his pick he -now began to open the trench which was to drain the damp soil above, and -fertilize the dry, sterile, thirsty ground below. - -The open air, however, had doubtless given Gervais an appetite, for he -began to cry. He was now a strong little fellow, three months and a half -old, and never neglected mealtime. He was growing like one of the young -trees in the neighboring wood, with hands which did not easily release -what they grasped, with eyes too full of light, now all laughter and now -all tears, and with the ever open beak of a greedy bird, that raised a -tempest whenever his mother kept him waiting. - -"Yes, yes, I know you are there," said she; "come, don't deafen us any -longer." - -Then she gave him the breast and he became quiet, simply purring like a -happy little kitten. The beneficent source had begun to flow once more, -as if it were inexhaustible. The trickling milk murmured unceasingly. -One might have said that it could be heard descending and spreading, -while Mathieu on his side continued opening his trench, assisted by the -two men whose apprenticeship was long since past. - -He rose up at last, wiped his brow, and with his air of quiet certainty -exclaimed: "It's only a trade to learn. In a few months' time I shall -be nothing but a peasant. Look at that stagnant pond there, green with -water-plants. The spring which feeds it is yonder in that big tuft of -herbage. And when this trench has been opened to the edge of the slope, -you will see the pond dry up, and the spring gush forth and take its -course, carrying the beneficent water away." - -"Ah!" said Marianne, "may it fertilize all that stony expanse, for -nothing can be sadder than dead land. How happy it will be to quench its -thirst and live again!" - -Then she broke off to scold Gervais: "Come, young gentleman, don't pull -so hard," said she. "Wait till it comes; you know very well that it's -all for you." - -Meantime the blows of the pickaxes rang out, the trench rapidly made its -way through the fat, moist soil, and soon the water would flow into -the parched veins of the neighboring sandy tracts to endow them -with fruitfulness. And the light trickling of the mother's milk also -continued with the faint murmur of an inexhaustible source, flowing from -her breast into the mouth of her babe, like a fountain of eternal life. -It ever and ever flowed, it created flesh, intelligence, and labor, and -strength. And soon its whispering would mingle with the babble of the -delivered spring as it descended along the trenches to the dry hot -lands. And at last there would be but one and the same stream, one -and the same river, gradually overflowing and carrying life to all the -earth, a mighty river of nourishing milk flowing through the world's -veins, creating without a pause, and producing yet more youth and more -health at each return of springtide. - -Four months later, when Mathieu and his men had finished the autumn -ploughing, there came the sowing on the same spot. Marianne was there -again, and it was such a very mild gray day that she was still able to -sit down, and once more gayly give the breast to little Gervais. He was -already eight months old and had become quite a personage. He grew a -little more every day, always in his mother's arms, on that warm breast -whence he sucked life. He was like the seed which clings to the seed-pod -so long as it is not ripe. And at that first quiver of November, that -approach of winter through which the germs would slumber in the furrows, -he pressed his chilly little face close to his mother's warm bosom, -and nursed on in silence as if the river of life were lost, buried deep -beneath the soil. - -"Ah!" said Marianne, laughing, "you are not warm, young gentleman, are -you? It is time for you to take up your winter quarters." - -Just then Mathieu, with his sower's bag at his waist, was returning -towards them, scattering the seed with broad rhythmical gestures. He had -heard his wife, and he paused to say to her: "Let him nurse and sleep -till the sun comes back. He will be a man by harvest time." And, -pointing to the great field which he was sowing with his assistants, he -added: "All this will grow and ripen when our Gervais has begun to walk -and talk--just look, see our conquest!" - -He was proud of it. From ten to fifteen acres of the plateau were now -rid of the stagnant pools, cleared and levelled; and they spread out -in a brown expanse, rich with humus, while the water-furrows which -intersected them carried the streams to the neighboring slopes. Before -cultivating those dry lands one must yet wait until the moisture should -have penetrated and fertilized them. That would be the work of the -future, and thus, by degrees, life would be diffused through the whole -estate. - -"Evening is coming on," resumed Mathieu, "I must make haste." - -Then he set off again, throwing the seed with his broad rhythmical -gesture. And while Marianne, gravely smiling, watched him go, it -occurred to little Rose to follow in his track, and take up handfuls of -earth, which she scattered to the wind. The three boys perceived -her, and Blaise and Denis then hastened up, followed by Ambroise, all -gleefully imitating their father's gesture, and darting hither and -thither around him. And for a moment it was almost as if Mathieu with -the sweep of his arm not only cast the seed of expected corn into the -furrows, but also sowed those dear children, casting them here and there -without cessation, so that a whole nation of little sowers should spring -up and finish populating the world. - -Two months more went by, and January had arrived with a hard frost, -when one day the Froments unexpectedly received a visit from Seguin and -Beauchene, who had come to try their luck at wild-duck shooting, among -such of the ponds on the plateau as had not yet been drained. It was a -Sunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheered -by a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading -countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal -casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April's resurrection. And, -that day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also was -slumbering in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, but -plump even as larks are in the cold weather, and waiting, he also, -simply for life's revival, in order to reappear in all the triumph of -his acquired strength. - -The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, -the four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbed -in a playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, the -twins, Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces of -cardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, -a church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch the -scissors, presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself even -to her hair. In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang at -intervals, their father and mother had remained seated side by side in -front of the blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace after -the week's hard work. - -They lived there very simply, like genuine peasants, without any luxury, -any amusement, save that of being together. Their gay, bright kitchen -was redolent of that easy primitive life, lived so near the earth, which -frees one from fictitious wants, ambition, and the longing for pleasure. -And no fortune, no power could have brought such quiet delight as that -afternoon of happy intimacy, while the last-born slept so soundly and -quietly that one could not even hear him breathe. - -Beauchene and Seguin broke in upon the quiet like unlucky sportsmen, -with their limbs weary and their faces and hands icy cold. Amid the -exclamations of surprise which greeted them, they complained of the -folly that had possessed them to venture out of Paris in such bleak -weather. - -"Just fancy, my dear fellow," said Beauchene, "we haven't seen a single -duck! It's no doubt too cold. And you can't imagine what a bitter -wind blows on the plateau, amid those ponds and bushes bristling with -icicles. So we gave up the idea of any shooting. You must give us each a -glass of hot wine, and then we'll get back to Paris." - -Seguin, who was in even a worse humor, stood before the fire trying to -thaw himself; and while Marianne made haste to warm some wine, he began -to speak of the cleared fields which he had skirted. Under the icy -covering, however, beneath which they stiffly slumbered, hiding the -seed within them, he had guessed nothing of the truth, and already felt -anxious about this business of Mathieu's, which looked anything but -encouraging. Indeed, he already feared that he would not be paid his -purchase money, and so made bold to speak ironically. - -"I say, my dear fellow, I am afraid you have lost your time," he began; -"I noticed it all as I went by, and it did not seem promising. But how -can you hope to reap anything from rotten soil in which only reeds have -been growing for centuries?" - -"One must wait," Mathieu quietly answered. "You must come back and see -it all next June." - -But Beauchene interrupted them. "There is a train at four o'clock, I -think," said he; "let us make haste, for it would annoy us tremendously -to miss it, would it not, Seguin?" - -So saying, he gave him a gay, meaning glance. They had doubtless planned -some little spree together, like husbands bent on availing themselves to -the utmost of the convenient pretext of a day's shooting. Then, having -drunk some wine and feeling warmed and livelier, they began to express -astonishment at their surroundings. - -"It stupefies me, my dear fellow," declared Beauchene, "that you can -live in this awful solitude in the depth of winter. It is enough to kill -anybody. I am all in favor of work, you know; but, dash it! one must -have some amusement too." - -"But we do amuse ourselves," said Mathieu, waving his hand round that -rustic kitchen in which centred all their pleasant family life. - -The two visitors followed his gesture, and gazed in amazement at the -walls covered with utensils, at the rough furniture, and at the table -on which the children were still building their village after offering -their cheeks to be kissed. No doubt they were unable to understand -what pleasure there could possibly be there, for, suppressing a jeering -laugh, they shook their heads. To them it was really an extraordinary -life, a life of most singular taste. - -"Come and see my little Gervais," said Marianne softly. "He is asleep; -mind, you must not wake him." - -For politeness' sake they both bent over the cradle, and expressed -surprise at finding a child but ten months old so big. He was very -good, too. Only, as soon as he should wake, he would no doubt deafen -everybody. And then, too, if a fine child like that sufficed to make -life happy, how many people must be guilty of spoiling their lives! The -visitors came back to the fireside, anxious only to be gone now that -they felt enlivened. - -"So it's understood," said Mathieu, "you won't stay to dinner with us?" - -"Oh, no, indeed!" they exclaimed in one breath. - -Then, to attenuate the discourtesy of such a cry, Beauchene began to -jest, and accepted the invitation for a later date when the warm weather -should have arrived. - -"On my word of honor, we have business in Paris," he declared. "But -I promise you that when it's fine we will all come and spend a day -here--yes, with our wives and children. And you will then show us your -work, and we shall see if you have succeeded. So good-by! All my good -wishes, my dear fellow! Au revoir, cousin! Au revoir, children; be -good!" - -Then came more kisses and hand-shakes, and the two men disappeared. And -when the gentle silence had fallen once more Mathieu and Marianne -again found themselves in front of the bright fire, while the children -completed the building of their village with a great consumption of -paste, and Gervais continued sleeping soundly. Had they been dreaming? -Mathieu wondered. What sudden blast from all the shame and suffering of -Paris had blown into their far-away quiet? Outside, the country retained -its icy rigidity. The fire alone sang the song of hope in life's future -revival. And, all at once, after a few minutes' reverie the young man -began to speak aloud, as if he had at last just found the answer to all -sorts of grave questions which he had long since put to himself. - -"But those folks don't love; they are incapable of loving! Money, power, -ambition, pleasure--yes, all those things may be theirs, but not love! -Even the husbands who deceive their wives do not really love their -mistresses. They have never glowed with the supreme desire, the divine -desire which is the world's very soul, the brazier of eternal life. And -that explains everything. Without desire there is no love, no courage, -and no hope. By love alone can one create. And if love be restricted -in its mission there is but failure. Yes, they lie and deceive, because -they do not love. Then they suffer and lapse into moral and physical -degradation. And at the end lies the collapse of our rotten society, -which breaks up more and more each day before our eyes. That, then, is -the truth I was seeking. It is desire and love that save. Whoever loves -and creates is the revolutionary saviour, the maker of men for the new -world which will shortly dawn." - -Never before had Mathieu so plainly understood that he and his wife were -different from others. This now struck him with extraordinary force. -Comparisons ensued, and he realized that their simple life, free from -the lust of wealth, their contempt for luxury and worldly vanities, all -their common participation in toil which made them accept and glorify -life and its duties, all that mode of existence of theirs which was -at once their joy and their strength, sprang solely from the source of -eternal energy: the love with which they glowed. If, later on, victory -should remain with them, if they should some day leave behind them work -of value and health and happiness, it would be solely because they had -possessed the power of love and the courage to love freely, harvesting, -in an ever-increasing family, both the means of support and the means -of conquest. And this sudden conviction filled Mathieu with such a glow -that he leant towards his wife, who sat there deeply moved by what he -said, and kissed her ardently upon the lips. It was divine love passing -like a flaming blast. But she, though her own eyes were sparkling, -laughingly scolded him, saying: "Hush, hush, you will wake Gervais." - -Then they remained there hand in hand, pressing each other's fingers -amid the silence. Evening was coming on, and at last the children, their -village finished, raised cries of rapture at seeing it standing there -among bits of wood, which figured trees. And then the softened glances -of the parents strayed now through the window towards the crops sleeping -beneath the crystalline rime, and now towards their last-born's cradle, -where hope was likewise slumbering. - -Again did two long months go by. Gervais had just completed his first -year, and fine weather, setting in early, was hastening the awaking -of the earth. One morning, when Marianne and the children went to join -Mathieu on the plateau, they raised shouts of wonder, so completely had -the sun transformed the expanse in a single week. It was now all green -velvet, a thick endless carpet of sprouting corn, of tender, delicate -emerald hue. Never had such a marvellous crop been seen. And thus, as -the family walked on through the mild, radiant April morning, amid the -country now roused from winter's sleep, and quivering with fresh -youth, they all waxed merry at the sight of that healthfulness, that -progressing fruitfulness, which promised the fulfilment of all their -hopes. And their rapture yet increased when, all at once, they noticed -that little Gervais also was awaking to life, acquiring decisive -strength. As he struggled in his little carriage and his mother removed -him from it, behold! he took his flight, and, staggering, made four -steps; then hung to his father's legs with his little fists. A cry of -extraordinary delight burst forth. - -"Why! he walks, he walks!" - -Ah! those first lispings of life, those successive flights of the dear -little ones; the first glance, the first smile, the first step--what joy -do they not bring to parents' hearts! They are the rapturous _etapes_ -of infancy, for which father and mother watch, which they await -impatiently, which they hail with exclamations of victory, as if each -were a conquest, a fresh triumphal entry into life. The child grows, the -child becomes a man. And there is yet the first tooth, forcing its -way like a needle-point through rosy gums; and there is also the first -stammered word, the "pa-pa," the "mam-ma," which one is quite ready -to detect amid the vaguest babble, though it be but the purring of a -kitten, the chirping of a bird. Life does its work, and the father and -the mother are ever wonderstruck with admiration and emotion at the -sight of that efflorescence alike of their flesh and their souls. - -"Wait a moment," said Marianne, "he will come back to me. Gervais! -Gervais!" - -And after a little hesitation, a false start, the child did indeed -return, taking the four steps afresh, with arms extended and beating the -air as if they were balancing-poles. - -"Gervais! Gervais!" called Mathieu in his turn. And the child went back -to him; and again and again did they want him to repeat the journey, -amid their mirthful cries, so pretty and so funny did they find him. - -Then, seeing that the four other children began playing rather roughly -with him in their enthusiasm, Marianne carried him away. And once more, -on the same spot, on the young grass, did she give him the breast. And -again did the stream of milk trickle forth. - -Close by that spot, skirting the new field, there passed a crossroad, in -rather bad condition, leading to a neighboring village. And on this road -a cart suddenly came into sight, jolting amid the ruts, and driven by -a peasant--who was so absorbed in his contemplation of the land which -Mathieu had cleared, that he would have let his horse climb upon a heap -of stones had not a woman who accompanied him abruptly pulled the reins. -The horse then stopped, and the man in a jeering voice called out: "So -this, then, is your work, Monsieur Froment?" - -Mathieu and Marianne thereupon recognized the Lepailleurs, the people of -the mill. They were well aware that folks laughed at Janville over the -folly of their attempt--that mad idea of growing wheat among the marshes -of the plateau. Lepailleur, in particular, distinguished himself by the -violent raillery he levelled at this Parisian, a gentleman born, with -a good berth, who was so stupid as to make himself a peasant, and fling -what money he had to that rascally earth, which would assuredly swallow -him and his children and his money all together, without yielding even -enough wheat to keep them in bread. And thus the sight of the field had -stupefied him. It was a long while since he had passed that way, and -he had never thought that the seed would sprout so thickly, for he had -repeated a hundred times that nothing would germinate, so rotten was -all the land. Although he almost choked with covert anger at seeing his -predictions thus falsified, he was unwilling to admit his error, and put -on an air of ironical doubt. - -"So you think it will grow, eh? Well, one can't say that it hasn't come -up. Only one must see if it can stand and ripen." And as Mathieu quietly -smiled with hope and confidence, he added, striving to poison his joy: -"Ah! when you know the earth you'll find what a hussy she is. I've seen -plenty of crops coming on magnificently, and then a storm, a gust of -wind, a mere trifle, has reduced them to nothing! But you are young at -the trade as yet; you'll get your experience in misfortune." - -His wife, who nodded approval on hearing him talk so finely, then -addressed herself to Marianne: "Oh! my man doesn't say that to -discourage you, madame. But the land you know, is just like children. -There are some who live and some who die; some who give one pleasure, -and others who kill one with grief. But, all considered, one always -bestows more on them than one gets back, and in the end one finds -oneself duped. You'll see, you'll see." - -Without replying, Marianne, moved by these malicious predictions, -gently raised her trustful eyes to Mathieu. And he, though for a moment -irritated by all the ignorance, envy, and imbecile ambition which he -felt were before him, contented himself with jesting. "That's it, we'll -see. When your son Antoine becomes a prefect, and I have twelve peasant -daughters ready, I'll invite you to their weddings, for it's your mill -that ought to be rebuilt, you know, and provided with a fine engine, -so as to grind all the corn of my property yonder, left and right, -everywhere!" - -The sweep of his arm embraced such a far expanse of ground that the -miller, who did not like to be derided, almost lost his temper. He -lashed his horse with his whip, and the cart jolted on again through the -ruts. - -"Wheat in the ear is not wheat in the mill," said he. "Au revoir, and -good luck to you, all the same." - -"Thanks, au revoir." - -Then, while the children still ran about, seeking early primroses among -the mosses, Mathieu came and sat down beside Marianne, who, he saw, -was quivering. He said nothing to her, for he knew that she possessed -sufficient strength and confidence to surmount, unaided, such fears for -the future as threats might kindle in her womanly heart. But he simply -set himself there, so near her that he touched her, looking and smiling -at her the while. And she immediately became calm again and likewise -smiled, while little Gervais, whom the words of the malicious could not -as yet disturb, nursed more eagerly than ever, with a purr of rapturous -satisfaction. The milk was ever trickling, bringing flesh to little -limbs which grew stronger day by day, spreading through the earth, -filling the whole world, nourishing the life which increased hour by -hour. And was not this the answer which faith and hope returned to all -threats of death?--the certainty of life's victory, with fine children -ever growing in the sunlight, and fine crops ever rising from the soil -at each returning spring! To-morrow, yet once again, on the glorious day -of harvest, the corn will have ripened, the children will be men! - -And it was thus, indeed, three months later, when the Beauchenes and the -Seguins, keeping their promise, came--husbands, wives, and children--to -spend a Sunday afternoon at Chantebled. The Froments had even prevailed -on Morange to be of the party with Reine, in their desire to draw him -for a day, at any rate, from the dolorous prostration in which he lived. -As soon as all these fine folks had alighted from the train it was -decided to go up to the plateau to see the famous fields, for everybody -was curious about them, so extravagant and inexplicable did the idea of -Mathieu's return to the soil, and transformation into a peasant, seem -to them. He laughed gayly, and at least he succeeded in surprising them -when he waved his hand towards the great expanse under the broad blue -sky, that sea of tall green stalks whose ears were already heavy and -undulated at the faintest breeze. That warm splendid afternoon, the -far-spreading fields looked like the very triumph of fruitfulness, a -growth of germs which the humus amassed through centuries had nourished -with prodigious sap, thus producing this first formidable crop, as if to -glorify the eternal source of life which sleeps in the earth's -flanks. The milk had streamed, and the corn now grew on all sides with -overflowing energy, creating health and strength, bespeaking man's -labor and the kindliness, the solidarity of the world. It was like a -beneficent, nourishing ocean, in which all hunger would be appeased, and -in which to-morrow might arise, amid that tide of wheat whose waves were -ever carrying good news to the horizon. - -True, neither Constance nor Valentine was greatly touched by the -sight of the waving wheat, for other ambitions filled their minds: and -Morange, though he stared with his vague dim eyes, did not even seem to -see it. But Beauchene and Seguin marvelled, for they remembered their -visit in the month of January, when the frozen ground had been wrapt -in sleep and mystery. They had then guessed nothing, and now they were -amazed at this miraculous awakening, this conquering fertility, which -had changed a part of the marshy tableland into a field of living -wealth. And Seguin, in particular, did not cease praising and admiring, -certain as he now felt that he would be paid, and already hoping that -Mathieu would soon take a further portion of the estate off his hands. - -Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformed -into a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pending -dinner-time, the conversation fell upon children. Marianne, as it -happened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among the -ladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going from -one to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or his -nose. He was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtless -because his health was so good. His big clear eyes were ever laughing; -he offered his little hands in a friendly way, and was very white, very -pink, and very sturdy--quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen and -a half months old. Constance and Valentine admired him, while Marianne -jested and turned him away each time that he greedily put out his little -hands towards her. - -"No, no, monsieur, it's over now. You will have nothing but soup in -future." - -"Weaning is such a terrible business," then remarked Constance. "Did he -let you sleep last night?" - -"Oh! yes, he had good habits, you know; he never troubled me at night. -But this morning he was stupefied and began to cry. Still, you see, he -is fairly well behaved already. Besides, I never had more trouble than -this with the other ones." - -Beauchene was standing there, listening, and, as usual, smoking a cigar. -Constance appealed to him: - -"You are lucky. But you, dear, remember--don't you?--what a life Maurice -led us when his nurse went away. For three whole nights we were unable -to sleep." - -"But just look how your Maurice is playing!" exclaimed Beauchene. "Yet -you'll be telling me again that he is ill." - -"Oh! I no longer say that, my friend; he is quite well now. Besides, I -was never anxious; I know that he is very strong." - -A great game of hide-and-seek was going on in the garden, along the -paths and even over the flower-beds, among the eight children who were -assembled there. Besides the four of the house--Blaise, Denis, Ambroise, -and Rose--there were Gaston and Lucie, the two elder children of -the Seguins, who had abstained, however, from bringing their other -daughter--little Andree. Then, too, both Reine and Maurice were present. -And the latter now, indeed, seemed to be all right upon his legs, though -his square face with its heavy jaw still remained somewhat pale. His -mother watched him running about, and felt so happy and so vain at the -realization of her dream that she became quite amiable even towards -these poor relatives the Froments, whose retirement into the country -seemed to her like an incomprehensible downfall, which forever thrust -them out of her social sphere. - -"Ah! well," resumed Beauchene, "I've only one boy, but he's a sturdy -fellow, I warrant it; isn't he, Mathieu?" - -These words had scarcely passed his lips when he must have regretted -them. His eyelids quivered and a little chill came over him as his -glance met that of his former designer. For in the latter's clear eyes -he beheld, as it were, a vision of that other son, Norine's ill-fated -child, who had been cast into the unknown. Then there came a pause, and -amid the shrill cries of the boys and girls playing at hide-and-seek -a number of little shadows flitted through the sunlight: they were the -shadows of the poor doomed babes who scarce saw the light before they -were carried off from homes and hospitals to be abandoned in corners, -and die of cold, and perhaps even of starvation! - -Mathieu had been unable to answer a word. And his emotion increased -when he noticed Morange huddled up on a chair, and gazing with blurred, -tearful eyes at little Gervais, who was laughingly toddling hither and -thither. Had a vision come to him also? Had the phantom of his dead -wife, shrinking from the duties of motherhood and murdered in a hateful -den, risen before him in that sunlit garden, amid all the turbulent -mirth of happy, playful children? - -"What a pretty girl your daughter Reine is!" said Mathieu, in the hope -of drawing the accountant from his haunting remorse. "Just look at her -running about!--so girlish still, as if she were not almost old enough -to be married." - -Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter. And a smile -returned to his eyes, still moist with tears. Day by day his adoration -increased. As Reine grew up he found her more and more like her mother, -and all his thoughts became centred in her. His one yearning was that -she might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich. That would be a sign -that he was forgiven--that would be the only joy for which he could -yet hope. And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at the -thought that a husband would some day take her from him, and that he -would remain alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his dead -wife. - -"Married?" he murmured; "oh! not yet. She is only fourteen." - -At this the others expressed surprise: they would have taken her to be -quite eighteen, so womanly was her precocious beauty already. - -"As a matter of fact," resumed her father, feeling flattered, "she has -already been asked in marriage. You know that the Baroness de Lowicz -is kind enough to take her out now and then. Well, she told me that an -arch-millionnaire had fallen in love with Reine--but he'll have to wait! -I shall still be able to keep her to myself for another five or six -years at least!" - -He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction, -without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine's -name; for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companion -for a young girl. - -Then Marianne, anxious at seeing the conversation drop, began, -questioning Valentine, while Gervais at last slyly crept to her knees. - -"Why did you not bring your little Andree?" she inquired. "I should have -been so pleased to kiss her. And she would have been able to play -with this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment's -peace." - -But Seguin did not give his wife time to reply. "Ah! no, indeed!" he -exclaimed; "in that case I should not have come. It is quite enough to -have to drag the two others about. That fearful child has not ceased -deafening us ever since her nurse went away." - -Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved. She -had been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, -after terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged it -by her departure into anarchy. Ah! that Catiche, she might compliment -herself on all the money she had cost! Sent away almost by force, like -a queen who is bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded with -presents for herself and her husband, and her little girl at the -village! And now it had been of little use to take a dry-nurse in her -place, for Andree did not cease shrieking from morning till night. They -had discovered, too, that La Catiche had not only carried off with her -a large quantity of linen, but had left the other servants quite spoilt, -disorganized, so that a general clearance seemed necessary. - -"Oh!" resumed Marianne, as if to smooth things, "when the children are -well one can overlook other worries." - -"Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?" cried Seguin, giving way to -one of his brutal fits. "That Catiche certainly set her right at first, -but I don't know what happened afterwards, for now she is simply skin -and bones." Then, as his wife wished to protest, he lost his temper. -"Do you mean to say that I don't speak the truth? Why, look at our two -others yonder: they have papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that you -don't look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre has -of them!" - -For him Santerre's opinion remained authoritative. However, Valentine -contented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others, -feeling slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid the -romping of their companions, soon lost breath and lagged behind, sulky -and distrustful. - -"But, my dear friend," said Constance to Valentine, "didn't our good -Doctor Boutan tell you that all the trouble came from your not nursing -your children yourself? At all events, that was the compliment that he -paid me." - -At the mention of Boutan a friendly shout arose. Oh! Boutan, Boutan! he -was like all other specialists. Seguin sneered; Beauchene jested about -the legislature decreeing compulsory nursing by mothers; and only -Mathieu and Marianne remained silent. - -"Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you," said -Constance, turning towards the latter. "Your children are superb, and -nobody says the contrary." - -Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free to -make fun of her if they pleased. But at this moment she perceived that -Gervais, profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his "paradise -lost." And thereupon she set him on the ground: "Ah, no, no, monsieur!" -she exclaimed. "I have told you that it is all over. Can't you see that -people would laugh at us?" - -Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking at -her with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to -him, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her so -beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with -the triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something -divine had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed -from her bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of -life, glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail -o'er. For there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, -responsible for incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, in -that glory, amid her vigorous children, like the good goddess of -Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt that he adored her. Divine passion swept -by--the glow which makes the fields palpitate, which rolls on through -the waters, and floats in the wind, begetting millions and millions of -existences. And 'twas delightful the ecstasy into which they both sank, -forgetfulness of all else, of all those others who were there. They saw -them no longer; they felt but one desire, to say that they loved each -other, and that the season had come when love blossoms afresh. His lips -protruded, she offered hers, and then they kissed. - -"Oh! don't disturb yourselves!" cried Beauchene merrily. "Why, what is -the matter with you?" - -"Would you like us to move away?" added Seguin. - -But while Valentine laughed wildly, and Constance put on a prudish air, -Morange, in whose voice tears were again rising, spoke these words, -fraught with supreme regret: "Ah! you are right!" - -Astonished at what they had done, without intention of doing it, Mathieu -and Marianne remained for a moment speechless, looking at one another in -consternation. And then they burst into a hearty laugh, gayly excusing -themselves. To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies all -health, all will, and all power. - - - - -XII - -FOUR years went by. And during those four years Mathieu and Marianne had -two more children, a daughter at the end of the first year and a son -at the expiration of the third. And each time that the family thus -increased, the estate at Chantebled was increased also--on the first -occasion by fifty more acres of rich soil reclaimed among the marshes -of the plateau, and the second time by an extensive expanse of wood -and moorland which the springs were beginning to fertilize. It was -the resistless conquest of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the -sunlight, it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation -amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at each -succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the -veins of the world. - -On the day when Mathieu called on Seguin to purchase the wood and -moorland, he lunched with Dr. Boutan, whom he found in an execrable -humor. The doctor had just heard that three of his former patients had -lately passed through the hands of his colleague Gaude, the notorious -surgeon to whose clinic at the Marbeuf Hospital society Paris flocked as -to a theatre. One of these patients was none other than Euphrasie, old -Moineaud's eldest daughter, now married to Auguste Benard, a mason, -and already the mother of three children. She had doubtless resumed her -usual avocations too soon after the birth of her last child, as often -happens in working-class families where the mother is unable to remain -idle. At all events, she had for some time been ailing, and had finally -been removed to the hospital. Mathieu had for a while employed her young -sister Cecile, now seventeen, as a servant in the house at Chantebled, -but she was of poor health and had returned to Paris, where, curiously -enough, she also entered Doctor Gaude's clinic. And Boutan waxed -indignant at the methods which Gaude employed. The two sisters, the -married woman and the girl, had been discharged as cured, and so far, -this might seem to be the case; but time, in Boutan's opinion, would -bring round some terrible revenges. - -One curious point of the affair was that Beauchene's dissolute sister, -Seraphine, having heard of these so-called cures, which the newspapers -had widely extolled, had actually sought out the Benards and the -Moineauds to interview Euphrasie and Cecile on the subject. And in the -result she likewise had placed herself in Gaude's hands. She certainly -was of little account, and, whatever might become of her, the world -would be none the poorer by her death. But Boutan pointed out that -during the fifteen years that Gaude's theories and practices had -prevailed in France, no fewer than half a million women had been treated -accordingly, and, in the vast majority of cases, without any such -treatment being really necessary. Moreover, Boutan spoke feelingly of -the after results of such treatment--comparative health for a few brief -years, followed in some cases by a total loss of muscular energy, and in -others by insanity of a most violent form; so that the padded cells of -the madhouses were filling year by year with the unhappy women who had -passed through the hands of Gaude and his colleagues. From a social -point of view also the effects were disastrous. They ran counter to all -Boutan's own theories, and blasted all his hopes of living to see France -again holding a foremost place among the nations of the earth. - -"Ah!" said he to Mathieu, "if people were only like you and your good -wife!" - -During those four years at Chantebled the Froments had been ever -founding, creating, increasing, and multiplying, again and again proving -victorious in the eternal battle which life wages against death, thanks -to that continual increase both of offspring and of fertile land which -was like their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desire -passed like a gust of flame--desire divine and fruitful, since they -possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energy -did the rest--that will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of -the labor that is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates -the earth. But during the first two years they had to struggle -incessantly. There were two disastrous winters with snow and ice, and -March brought hail-storms and hurricanes which left the crops lying low. -Even as Lepailleur had threateningly predicted with a laugh of impotent -envy, it seemed as if the earth meant to prove a bad mother, ungrateful -to them for their toil, indifferent to their losses. During those two -years they only extricated themselves from trouble thanks to the second -fifty acres that they purchased from Seguin, to the west of the plateau, -a fresh expanse of rich soil which they reclaimed amid the marshes, and -which, in spite of frost and hail, yielded a prodigious first harvest. -As the estate gradually expanded, it also grew stronger, better able to -bear ill-luck. - -But Mathieu and Marianne also had great family worries. Their five elder -children gave them much anxiety, much fatigue. As with the soil, here -again there was a daily battle, endless cares and endless fears. Little -Gervais was stricken with fever and narrowly escaped death. Rose, too, -one day filled them with the direst alarm, for she fell from a tree in -their presence, but fortunately with no worse injury than a sprain. And, -on the other hand, they were happy in the three others, Blaise, Denis, -and Ambroise, who proved as healthy as young oak-trees. And when -Marianne gave birth to her sixth child, on whom they bestowed the gay -name of Claire, Mathieu celebrated the new pledge of their affection by -further acquisitions. - -Then, during the two ensuing years, their battles and sadness and joy -all resulted in victory once more. Marianne gave birth, and Mathieu -conquered new lands. There was ever much labor, much life expended, -and much life realized and harvested. This time it was a question of -enlarging the estate on the side of the moorlands, the sandy, gravelly -slopes where nothing had grown for centuries. The captured sources of -the tableland, directed towards those uncultivated tracts, gradually -fertilized them, covered them with increasing vegetation. There were -partial failures at first, and defeat even seemed possible, so great was -the patient determination which the creative effort demanded. But here, -too, the crops at last overflowed, while the intelligent felling of a -part of the purchased woods resulted in a large profit, and gave Mathieu -an idea of cultivating some of the spacious clearings hitherto overgrown -with brambles. - -And while the estate spread the children grew. It had been necessary to -send the three elder ones--Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise--to a school -in Paris, whither they gallantly repaired each day by the first train, -returning only in the evening. But the three others, little Gervais and -the girls Rose and Claire, were still allowed all freedom in the midst -of Nature. Marianne, however, gave birth to a seventh child, amid -circumstances which caused Mathieu keen anxiety. For a moment, indeed, -he feared that he might lose her. But her healthful temperament -triumphed over all, and the child--a boy, named Gregoire--soon drank -life and strength from her breast, as from the very source of existence. -When Mathieu saw his wife smiling again with that dear little one in her -arms, he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every -sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, -yet an additional force born into the world, another field ready for -to-morrow's harvest. - -And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - * * * * * * - -Then two more years rolled on. And during those two years Mathieu and -Marianne had yet another child, a girl. And again, at the same time as -the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased also--on -one side by five-and-seventy acres of woodland stretching over -the plateau as far as the fields of Mareuil, and on the other by -five-and-seventy acres of sloping moorland, extending to the village of -Monval, alongside the railway line. But the principal change was that, -as the old hunting-box, the little dilapidated pavilion, no longer -offered sufficient accommodation, a whole farmstead had to be -erected--stone buildings, and barns, and sheds, and stables, and -cowhouses--for farm hands and crops and animals, whose number increased -at each enlargement of the estate. - -It was the resistless conquest of life; it was fruitfulness spreading -in the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of -creation amid obstacles and suffering, ever making good all losses, and -at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy -in the veins of the world. - -But during those two years, while Chantebled grew, while labor and worry -and victory alternated, Mathieu suddenly found himself mixed up in a -terribly tragedy. He was obliged to come to Paris at times--more often -indeed than he cared--now through his business relations with Seguin, -now to sell, now to buy, now to order one thing or another. He often -purchased implements and appliances at the Beauchene works, and had thus -kept up intercourse with Morange, who once more seemed a changed man. -Time had largely healed the wound left by his wife's death, particularly -as she seemed to live again in Reine, to whom he was more attached than -ever. Reine was no longer a child; she had become a woman. Still her -father hoped to keep her with him some years yet, while working with all -diligence, saving and saving every penny that he could spare, in order -to increase her dowry. - -But the inevitable was on the march, for the girl had become the -constant companion of Seraphine. The latter, however depraved she -might be, had certainly in the first instance entertained no idea of -corrupting the child whom she patronized. She had at first taken -her solely to such places of amusement as were fit for her years and -understanding. But little by little the descent had come. Reine, too, -as she grew into a woman, amid the hours of idleness when she was -left alone by her father--who, perforce, had to spend his days at the -Beauchene works--developed an ardent temperament and a thirst for every -frivolous pleasure. And by degrees the once simply petted child became a -participator in Seraphine's own reckless and dissolute life. - -When the end came, and Reine found herself in dire trouble because of -a high State functionary, a married man, a friend of Seraphine's--both -women quite lost their heads. Such a blow might kill Morange. Everything -must be hidden from him; but how? Thereupon Seraphine devised a plan. -She obtained permission for Reine to accompany her on a visit into -the country; but while the fond father imagined that his daughter was -enjoying herself among society folk at a chateau in the Loiret, she -was really hiding in Paris. It was indeed a repetition of her mother's -tragic story, with this difference--that Seraphine addressed herself to -no vulgar Madame Rouche, but to an assistant of her own surgeon, Gaude, -a certain Sarraille, who had a dingy den of a clinic in the Passage -Tivoli. - -It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris to -make some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone with -Morange at the latter's flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathless -and in consternation. Reine, she said, had been taken ill in the -country, and she had brought her back to Paris to her own flat. But it -was not thither; it was to Sarraille's den that she drove Morange and -Mathieu. And there the frightful scene which had been enacted at La -Rouche's at the time of Valerie's death was repeated. Reine, too, was -dead--dead like her mother! And Morange, in a first outburst of fury -threatened both Seraphine and Sarraille with the scaffold. For half an -hour there was no mastering him, but all at once he broke down. To lose -his daughter as he had lost his wife, it was too appalling; the blow -was too great; he had strength left only to weep. Sarraille, moreover, -defended himself; he swore that he had known nothing of the truth, that -the deceased had simply come to him for legitimate treatment, and that -both she and the Baroness had deceived him. Then Seraphine on her side -took hold of Morange's hands, protesting her devotion, her frightful -grief, her fear, too, lest the reputation of the poor dear girl should -be dragged through the mire, if he (the father) did not keep the -terrible secret. She accepted her share of responsibility and blame, -admitted that she had been very culpable, and spoke of eternal remorse. -But might the terrible truth be buried in the dead girl's grave, might -there be none but pure flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who lay -therein be regretted by all who had known her, as one snatched away in -all innocence of youth and beauty! - -And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while with -sobs, and scarce repeating that word "Murderers!" which had sprung from -his lips so impulsively a little while before. He thought, too, of -the scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting the -crime, his daughter's memory covered with mire, and--No! no! he could -have none of that. Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly. - -Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration. -It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every -one of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold -and scarce able to beat. And he sank into a sort of second childhood, -clasping his hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseeching -compassion, like one whose sufferings are too hard to bear. - -And when Mathieu sought to console him he muttered: "Oh, it is all over. -They have both gone, one after the other, and I alone am guilty. The -first time it was I who lied to Reine, telling her that her mother was -travelling; and then she in her turn lied to me the other day with that -story of an invitation to a chateau in the country. Ah! if eight years -ago I had only opposed my poor Valerie's madness, my poor Reine would -still be alive to-day.... Yes, it is all my fault; I alone killed them -by my weakness. I am their murderer." - -Shivering, deathly cold, he went on amid his sobs: "And, wretched fool -that I have been, I have killed them through loving them too much. They -were so beautiful, and it was so excusable for them to be rich and gay -and happy. One after the other they took my heart from me, and I lived -only in them and by them and for them. When one had left me, the other -became my all in all, and for her, my daughter, I again indulged in the -dream of ambition which had originated with her mother. And yet I killed -them both, and my mad desire to rise and conquer fortune led me to that -twofold crime. Ah! when I think that even this morning I still dared -to esteem myself happy at having but that one child, that daughter to -cherish! What foolish blasphemy against love and life! She is dead now, -dead like her mother, and I am alone, with nobody to love and nobody -to love me--neither wife nor daughter, neither desire nor will, but -alone--ah! all alone, forever!" - -It was the cry of supreme abandonment that he raised, while sinking to -the floor strengthless, with a great void within him; and all he could -do was to press Mathieu's hands and stammer: "Leave me--tell me nothing. -You alone were right. I refused the offers of life, and life has now -taken everything from me." - -Mathieu, in tears himself, kissed him and lingered yet a few moments -longer in that tragic den, feeling more moved than he had ever felt -before. And when he went off he left the unhappy Morange in the charge -of Seraphine, who now treated him like a little ailing child whose -will-power was entirely gone. - -And at Chantebled, as time went on, Mathieu and Marianne founded, -created, increased, and multiplied. During the two years which elapsed, -they again proved victorious in the eternal battle which life wages -against death, thanks to that continual increase both of offspring and -of fertile land which was like their very existence, their joy, and -their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame--desire divine -and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, and -health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that quiet -bravery in the presence of the labor that is necessary, the labor that -has made and that regulates the world. They were, however, still in the -hard, trying, earlier stage of their work of conquest, and they often -wept with grief and anxiety. Many were their cares, too, in transforming -the old pavilion into a farm. The outlay was considerable, and at -times it seemed as if the crops would never pay the building accounts. -Moreover, as the enterprise grew in magnitude, and there came more and -more cattle, more and more horses, a larger staff of both men and -girls became necessary, to say nothing of additional implements and -appliances, and the increase of supervision which left the Froments -little rest. Mathieu controlled the agricultural part of the enterprise, -ever seeking improved methods for drawing from the earth all the life -that slumbered within it. And Marianne watched over the farmyard, the -dairy, the poultry, and showed herself a first-class accountant, -keeping the books, and receiving and paying money. And thus, in spite of -recurring worries, strokes of bad luck and inevitable mistakes, fortune -smiled on them athwart all worries and losses, so brave and sensible did -they prove in their incessant daily struggle. - -Apart, too, from the new buildings, the estate was increased by -five-and-seventy acres of woodland, and five-and-seventy acres of -sandy sloping soil. Mathieu's battle with those sandy slopes became yet -keener, more and more heroic as his field of action expanded; but he -ended by conquering, by fertilizing them yet more each season, thanks to -the fructifying springs which he directed through them upon every side. -And in the same way he cut broad roads through the new woods which -he purchased on the plateau, in order to increase the means of -communication and carry into effect his idea of using the clearings as -pasture for his cattle, pending the time when he might largely devote -himself to stock-raising. In this wise, then, the battle went on, -and spread incessantly in all directions; and the chances of decisive -victory likewise increased, compensation for possible loss on one side -being found on another where the harvest proved prodigious. - -And, like the estate, the children also grew. Blaise and Denis, the -twins, now already fourteen years of age, reaped prize after prize at -school, putting their younger brother, Ambroise, slightly to shame, for -his quick and ingenious mind was often busy with other matters than his -lessons. Gervais, the girls Rose and Claire, as well as the last-born -boy, little Gregoire, were yet too young to be trusted alone in Paris, -and so they continued growing in the open air of the country, without -any great mishap befalling them. And at the end of those two years -Marianne gave birth to her eighth child, this time a girl, named Louise; -and when Mathieu saw her smiling with the dear little babe in her arms, -he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow -and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet -an additional force born into the world, another field ready for -to-morrow's harvest. - -And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - * * * * * * - -Then two more years rolled on, and during those two years Mathieu and -Marianne had yet another child, another daughter, whom they called -Madeleine. And once again the estate of Chantebled was increased; this -time by all the marshland whose ponds and whose springs remained to be -drained and captured on the west of the plateau. The whole of this part -of the property was now acquired by the Froments--two hundred acres of -land where, hitherto, only water plants had grown, but which now was -given over to cultivation, and yielded abundant crops. And the new -springs, turned into canals on every side, again carried beneficent -life to the sandy slopes, and fertilized them. It was life's resistless -conquest; it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was labor -ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and -suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting -more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - -This time it was Seguin himself who asked Mathieu to purchase a fresh -part of the estate, pressing him even to take all that was left of it, -woods and moorland--extending over some five hundred acres. Nowadays -Seguin was often in need of money, and in order to do business he -offered Mathieu lower terms and all sorts of advantages; but the other -prudently declined the proposals, keeping steadfastly to his original -intentions, which were that he would proceed with his work of creation -step by step, in accordance with his exact means and requirements. -Moreover, a certain difficulty arose with regard to the purchase of the -remaining moors, for enclosed by this land, eastward, near the railway -line, were a few acres belonging to Lepailleur, the miller, who had -never done anything with them. And so Mathieu preferred to select what -remained of the marshy plateau, adding, however, that he would enter -into negotiations respecting the moorland later on, when the miller -should have consented to sell his enclosure. He knew that, ever since -his property had been increasing, Lepailleur had regarded him with the -greatest jealousy and hatred, and he did not think it advisable to -apply to him personally, certain as he felt that he would fail in his -endeavor. Seguin, however, pretended that if he took up the matter -he would know how to bring the miller to reason, and even secure the -enclosure for next to nothing. And indeed, thinking that he might yet -induce Mathieu to purchase all the remaining property, he determined to -see Lepailleur and negotiate with him before even signing the deed which -was to convey to Mathieu the selected marshland on the plateau. - -But the outcome proved as Mathieu had foreseen. Lepailleur asked such -a monstrous price for his few acres enclosed within the estate that -nothing could be done. When he was approached on the subject by Seguin, -he made little secret of the rage he felt at Mathieu's triumph. He had -told the young man that he would never succeed in reaping an ear -of wheat from that uncultivated expanse, given over to brambles for -centuries past; and yet now it was covered with abundant crops! And this -had increased the miller's rancor against the soil; he hated it yet more -than ever for its harshness to him, a peasant's son, and its kindliness -towards that bourgeois, who seemed to have fallen from heaven expressly -to revolutionize the region. Thus, in answer to Seguin, he declared with -a sneer that since sorcerers had sprung up who were able to make wheat -sprout from stones, his patch of ground was now worth its weight in -gold. Several years previously, no doubt, he had offered Seguin the -enclosure for a trifle; but times had changed, and he now crowed loudly -over the other's folly in not entertaining his previous offer. - -On the other hand, there seemed little likelihood of his turning the -enclosure to account himself, for he was more disgusted than ever with -the tilling of the soil. His disposition had been further embittered by -the birth of a daughter, whom he would willingly have dispensed with, -anxious as he was with respect to his son Antonin, now a lad of twelve, -who proved so sharp and quick at school that he was regarded by the -folks of Janville as a little prodigy. Mathieu had mortally offended -the father and mother by suggesting that Antonin should be sent to -an agricultural college--a very sensible suggestion, but one which -exasperated them, determined as they were to make him a gentleman. - -As Lepailleur would not part with his enclosure on any reasonable terms, -Seguin had to content himself for the time with selling Mathieu the -selected marshland on the plateau. A deed of conveyance having been -prepared, they exchanged signatures. And then, on Seguin's hands, -there still remained nearly two hundred and fifty acres of woods in -the direction of Lillebonne, together with the moorlands stretching to -Vieux-Bourg, in which Lepailleur's few acres were enclosed. - -It was on the occasion of the visits which he paid Seguin in reference -to these matters that Mathieu became acquainted with the terrible -break-up of the other's home. The very rooms of the house in the Avenue -d'Antin, particularly the once sumptuous "cabinet," spoke of neglect -and abandonment. The desire to cut a figure in society, and to carry the -"fad" of the moment to extremes, ever possessed Seguin; and thus he -had for a while renounced his pretended artistic tastes for certain new -forms of sport--the motor-car craze, and so forth. But his only real -passion was horseflesh, and to this he at last returned. A racing stable -which he set up quickly helped on his ruin. Women and gaming had been -responsible for the loss of part of his large fortune, and now horses -were devouring the remainder. It was said, too, that he gambled at the -bourse, in the hope of recouping himself for his losses on the turf, and -by way, too, of affecting an air of power and influence, for he allowed -it to be supposed that he obtained information direct from members of -the Government. And as his losses increased and downfall threatened him, -all that remained of the _bel esprit_ and moralist, once so prone -to discuss literature and social philosophy with Santerre, was an -embittered, impotent individual--one who had proclaimed himself a -pessimist for fashion's sake, and was now caught in his own trap; having -so spoilt his existence that he was now but an artisan of corruption and -death. - -All was disaster in his home. Celeste the maid had long since been -dismissed, and the children were now in the charge of a certain German -governess called Nora, who virtually ruled the house. Her position with -respect to Seguin was evident to one and all; but then, what of Seguin's -wife and Santerre? The worst was, that this horrible life, which seemed -to be accepted on either side, was known to the children, or, at all -events, to the elder daughter Lucie, yet scarcely in her teens. There -had been terrible scenes with this child, who evinced a mystical -disposition, and was ever talking of becoming a nun when she grew up. -Gaston, her brother, resembled his father; he was brutal in his ways, -narrow-minded, supremely egotistical. Very different was the little girl -Andree, whom La Catiche had suckled. She had become a pretty child--so -affectionate, docile, and gay, that she scarcely complained even of her -brother's teasing, almost bullying ways. "What a pity," thought Mathieu, -"that so lovable a child should have to grow up amid such surroundings!" - -And then his thoughts turned to his own home--to Chantebled. The debts -contracted at the outset of his enterprise had at last been paid, and he -alone was now the master there, resolved to have no other partners than -his wife and children. It was for each of his children that he conquered -a fresh expanse of land. That estate would remain their home, their -source of nourishment, the tie linking them together, even if they -became dispersed through the world in a variety of social positions. And -thus how decisive was that growth of the property, the acquisition -of that last lot of marshland which allowed the whole plateau to be -cultivated! There might now come yet another child, for there would be -food for him; wheat would grow to provide him with daily bread. And when -the work was finished, when the last springs were captured, and the -land had been drained and cleared, how prodigious was the scene at -springtide!--with the whole expanse, as far as eye could see, one mass -of greenery, full of the promise of harvest. Therein was compensation -for every tear, every worry and anxiety of the earlier days of labor. - -Meantime Mathieu, amid his creative work, received Marianne's gay and -courageous assistance. And she was not merely a skilful helpmate, taking -a share in the general management, keeping the accounts, and watching -over the home. She remained both a loving and well-loved spouse, and a -mother who nursed, reared, and educated her little ones in order to -give them some of her own sense and heart. As Boutan remarked, it is -not enough for a woman to have a child; she should also possess healthy -moral gifts in order that she may bring it up in creditable fashion. -Marianne, for her part, made it her pride to obtain everything from her -children by dint of gentleness and grace. She was listened to, obeyed, -and worshipped by them, because she was so beautiful, so kind, and -so greatly beloved. Her task was scarcely easy, since she had eight -children already; but in all things she proceeded in a very orderly -fashion, utilizing the elder to watch over the younger ones, giving each -a little share of loving authority, and extricating herself from every -embarrassment by setting truth and justice above one and all. Blaise -and Denis, the twins, who were now sixteen, and Ambroise, who was nearly -fourteen, did in a measure escape her authority, being largely in their -father's hands. But around her she had the five others--from Rose, who -was eleven, to Louise, who was two years old; between them, at intervals -of a couple of years, coming Gervais, Claire, and Gregoire. And each -time that one flew away, as it were, feeling his wings strong enough for -flight, there appeared another to nestle beside her. And it was again a -daughter, Madeleine, who came at the expiration of those two years. And -when Mathieu saw his wife erect and smiling again, with the dear little -girl at her breast, he embraced her passionately and triumphed once -again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet more -wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the world, another -field ready for to-morrow's harvest. - -And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - - - -XIII - -TWO more years went by, and during those two years Mathieu and Marianne -had yet another daughter; and this time, as the family increased, -Chantebled also was increased by all the woodland extending eastward -of the plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. All the -northern part of the property was thus acquired: more than five hundred -acres of woods, intersected by clearings which roads soon connected -together. And those clearings, transformed into pasture-land, watered -by the neighboring springs, enabled Mathieu to treble his live-stock and -attempt cattle-raising on a large scale. It was the resistless conquest -of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was labor -ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and -suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting -more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. - -Since the Froments had become conquerors, busily founding a little -kingdom and building up a substantial fortune in land, the Beauchenes -no longer derided them respecting what they had once deemed their -extravagant idea in establishing themselves in the country. Astonished -and anticipating now the fullest success, they treated them as -well-to-do relatives, and occasionally visited them, delighted with the -aspect of that big, bustling farm, so full of life and prosperity. It -was in the course of these visits that Constance renewed her intercourse -with her former schoolfellow, Madame Angelin, the Froments' neighbor. A -great change had come over the Angelins; they had ended by purchasing a -little house at the end of the village, where they invariably spent the -summer, but their buoyant happiness seemed to have departed. They had -long desired to remain unburdened by children, and now they eagerly -longed to have a child, and none came, though Claire, the wife, was as -yet but six-and-thirty. Her husband, the once gay, handsome musketeer, -was already turning gray and losing his eyesight--to such a degree, -indeed, that he could scarcely see well enough to continue his -profession as a fan-painter. - -When Madame Angelin went to Paris she often called on Constance, to -whom, before long, she confided all her worries. She had been in a -doctor's hands for three years, but all to no avail, and now during -the last six months she had been consulting a person in the Rue de -Miromesnil, a certain Madame Bourdieu, said she. - -Constance at first made light of her friend's statements, and in part -declined to believe her. But when she found herself alone she felt -disquieted by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated the -matter as mere idle tittle-tattle, if she had not already regretted that -she herself had no second child. On the day when the unhappy Morange had -lost his only daughter, and had remained stricken down, utterly alone in -life, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish. Since that supreme -loss the wretched accountant had been living on in a state of imbecile -stupefaction, simply discharging his duties in a mechanical sort of way -from force of habit. Scarcely speaking, but showing great gentleness -of manner, he lived as one who was stranded, fated to remain forever -at Beauchene's works, where his salary had now risen to eight thousand -francs a year. It was not known what he did with this amount, which was -considerable for a man who led such a narrow regular life, free from -expenses and fancies outside his home--that flat which was much too big -for him, but which he had, nevertheless, obstinately retained, shutting -himself up therein, and leading a most misanthropic life in fierce -solitude. - -It was his grievous prostration which had at one moment quite upset -and affected Constance, so that she had even sobbed with the desolate -man--she whose tears flowed so seldom! No doubt a thought that she might -have had other children than Maurice came back to her in certain bitter -hours of unconscious self-examination, when from the depths of her -being, in which feelings of motherliness awakened, there rose vague -fear, sudden dread, such as she had never known before. - -Yet Maurice, her son, after a delicate youth which had necessitated -great care, was now a handsome fellow of nineteen, still somewhat pale, -but vigorous in appearance. He had completed his studies in a fairly -satisfactory manner, and was already helping his father in the -management of the works. And his adoring mother had never set higher -hopes upon his head. She already pictured him as the master of that -great establishment, whose prosperity he would yet increase, thereby -rising to royal wealth and power. - -Constance's worship for that only son, to-morrow's hero; increased the -more since his father day by day declined in her estimation, till she -regarded him in fact with naught but contempt and disgust. It was a -logical downfall, which she could not stop, and the successive phases of -which she herself fatally precipitated. At the outset she had overlooked -his infidelity; then from a spirit of duty and to save him from -irreparable folly she had sought to retain him near her; and finally, -failing in her endeavor, she had begun to feel loathing and disgust. He -was now two-and-forty, he drank too much, he ate too much, he smoked too -much. He was growing corpulent and scant of breath, with hanging lips -and heavy eyelids; he no longer took care of his person as formerly, but -went about slipshod, and indulged in the coarsest pleasantries. But it -was more particularly away from his home that he sank into degradation, -indulging in the low debauchery which had ever attracted him. Every now -and again he disappeared from the house and slept elsewhere; then he -concocted such ridiculous falsehoods that he could not be believed, -or else did not take the trouble to lie at all. Constance, who felt -powerless to influence him, ended by allowing him complete freedom. - -The worst was, that the dissolute life he led grievously affected the -business. He who had been such a great and energetic worker had lost -both mental and bodily vigor; he could no longer plan remunerative -strokes of business; he no longer had the strength to undertake -important contracts. He lingered in bed in the morning, and remained for -three or four days without once going round the works, letting disorder -and waste accumulate there, so that his once triumphal stock-takings -now year by year showed a falling-off. And what an end it was for that -egotist, that enjoyer, so gayly and noisily active, who had always -professed that money--capital increased tenfold by the labor of -others--was the only desirable source of power, and whom excess of money -and excess of enjoyment now cast with appropriate irony to slow ruin, -the final paralysis of the impotent. - -But a supreme blow was to fall on Constance and fill her with horror of -her husband. Some anonymous letters, the low, treacherous revenge of -a dismissed servant, apprised her of Beauchene's former intrigue with -Norine, that work-girl who had given birth to a boy, spirited away -none knew whither. Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence, -Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt. Whither had -that child been sent? Was he still alive? What ignominious existence -was he leading? She was vaguely jealous of the boy. The thought that her -husband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now that -all her motherly nature was aroused. But she devoted herself yet more -ardently to her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, and -for his sake even sacrificed her just rancor. She indeed came to the -conclusion that he must not suffer from his father's indignity, and -so it was for him that, with extraordinary strength of will, she -ever preserved a proud demeanor, feigning that she was ignorant of -everything, never addressing a reproach to her husband, but remaining, -in the presence of others, the same respectful wife as formerly. -And even when they were alone together she kept silence and avoided -explanations and quarrels. Never even thinking of the possibility of -revenge, she seemed, in the presence of her husband's profligacy, -to attach herself more firmly to her home, clinging to her son, and -protected by him from thought of evil as much as by her own sternness -of heart and principles. And thus sorely wounded, full of repugnance -but hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of that son who would -purify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith in his strength, -and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once, without -reasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a chill, -affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which she -no longer remembered. - -That little quiver came back while she listened to all that Madame -Angelin confided to her. And at last she became quite interested in her -friend's case, and offered to accompany her some day when she might -be calling on Madame Bourdieu. In the end they arranged to meet one -Thursday afternoon for the purpose of going together to the Rue de -Miromesnil. - -As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o'clock, Mathieu, who had -come to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchene's works, was -quietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile Moineaud, who -was carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string. She was -now nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, since -passing through the hands of Dr. Gaude. Mathieu had taken a great liking -to her during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled; -and later, knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he had -regarded her with deep compassion. He had busied himself to find her -easy work, and a friend of his had given her some cardboard boxes to -paste together, the only employment that did not tire her thin weak -hands. So childish had she remained that one would have taken her for a -young girl suddenly arrested in her growth. Yet her slender fingers were -skilful, and she contrived to earn some two francs a day in making the -little boxes. And as she suffered greatly at her parents' home, tortured -by her brutal surroundings there, and robbed of her earnings week by -week, her dream was to secure a home of her own, to find a little money -that would enable her to install herself in a room where she might -live in peace and quietness. It had occurred to Mathieu to give her -a pleasant surprise some day by supplying her with the small sum she -needed. - -"Where are you running so fast?" he gayly asked her. - -The meeting seemed to take her aback, and she answered in an evasive, -embarrassed way: "I am going to the Rue de Miromesnil for a call I have -to make." - -Noticing his kindly air, however, she soon told him the truth. Her -sister, that poor creature Norine, had just given birth to another -child, her third, at Madame Bourdieu's establishment. A gentleman who -had been protecting her had cast her adrift, and she had been obliged -to sell her few sticks of furniture in order to get together a couple of -hundred francs, and thus secure admittance to Madame Bourdieu's house, -for the mere idea of having to go to a hospital terrified her. Whenever -she might be able to get about again, however, she would find herself -in the streets, with the task of beginning life anew at one-and-thirty -years of age. - -"She never behaved unkindly to me," resumed Cecile. "I pity her with all -my heart, and I have been to see her. I am taking her a little chocolate -now. Ah! if you only saw her little boy! he is a perfect love!" - -The poor girl's eyes shone, and her thin, pale face became radiant with -a smile. The instinct of maternity remained keen within her, though she -could never be a mother. - -"What a pity it is," she continued, "that Norine is so obstinately -determined on getting rid of the baby, just as she got rid of the -others. This little fellow, it's true, cries so much that she has had to -give him the breast. But it's only for the time being; she says that she -can't see him starve while he remains near her. But it quite upsets -me to think that one can get rid of one's children; I had an idea of -arranging things very differently. You know that I want to leave my -parents, don't you? Well, I thought of renting a room and of taking my -sister and her little boy with me. I would show Norine how to cut out -and paste up those little boxes, and we might live, all three, happily -together." - -"And won't she consent?" asked Mathieu. - -"Oh! she told me that I was mad; and there's some truth in that, for -I have no money even to rent a room. Ah! if you only knew how it -distresses me." - -Mathieu concealed his emotion, and resumed in his quiet way: "Well, -there are rooms to be rented. And you would find a friend to help you. -Only I am much afraid that you will never persuade your sister to keep -her child, for I fancy that I know her ideas on that subject. A miracle -would be needed to change them." - -Quick-witted as she was, Cecile darted a glance at him. The friend he -spoke of was himself. Good heavens would her dream come true? She ended -by bravely saying: "Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you really -ought to do me a last favor. It would be to come with me and see Norine -at once. You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps. But let -us walk slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy." - -Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her. They turned the corner of -the Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbed -the stairs of Madame Bourdieu's establishment. Ten years ago! Was it -possible? He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in that -house. And it all seemed to date from yesterday, for the building -had not changed; indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the very -grease-spots on the doors on the various landings. - -Following Cecile to Norine's room, he found Norine up and dressed, but -seated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe. - -"What! is it you, monsieur?" she exclaimed, as soon as she recognized -her visitor. "It is very kind of Cecile to have brought you. Ah! _mon -Dieu_ what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you! We are -none of us any the younger." - -He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged. She was -one of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year. Still, -if her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remained -pleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever. - -Cecile wished to bring matters to the point at once. "Here is your -chocolate," she began. "I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he is -so kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help me -in carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and work -with me. So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevail -on you to keep that poor little fellow of yours. You see, I don't want -to take you unawares; I warn you in advance." - -Norine started with emotion, and began to protest. "What is all this -again?" said she. "No, no, I don't want to be worried. I'm too unhappy -as it is." - -But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if she -reverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lower -and lower. She herself had no illusions on that point; she spoke -bitterly enough of her experiences. Her youth had flown, her good-looks -were departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough. But then what -could she do? When one had fallen into the mire one had to stay there. - -"Ah! yes, ah! yes," said she; "I've had enough of that infernal life -which some folks think so amusing. But it's like a stone round my neck; -I can't get rid of it. I shall have to keep to it till I'm picked up in -some corner and carried off to die at a hospital." - -She spoke these words with the fierce energy of one who all at once -clearly perceives the fate which she cannot escape. Then she glanced at -her infant, who was still nursing. "He had better go his way and I'll go -mine," she added. "Then we shan't inconvenience one another." - -This time her voice softened, and an expression of infinite tenderness -passed over her desolate face. And Mathieu, in astonishment, divining -the new emotion that possessed her, though she did not express it, made -haste to rejoin: "To let him go his way would be the shortest way to -kill him, now that you have begun to give him the breast." - -"Is it my fault?" she angrily exclaimed. "I didn't want to give it to -him; you know what my ideas were. And I flew into a passion and almost -fought Madame Bourdieu when she put him in my arms. But then how could -I hold out? He cried so dreadfully with hunger, poor little mite, and -seemed to suffer so much, that I was weak enough to let him nurse just -a little. I didn't intend to repeat it, but the next day he cried again, -and so I had to continue, worse luck for me! There was no pity shown -me; I've been made a hundred times more unhappy than I should have been, -for, of course, I shall soon have to get rid of him as I got rid of the -others." - -Tears appeared in her eyes. It was the oft-recurring story of the -girl-mother who is prevailed upon to nurse her child for a few days, in -the hope that she will grow attached to the babe and be unable to part -from it. The chief object in view is to save the child, because its -best nurse is its natural nurse, the mother. And Norine, instinctively -divining the trap set for her, had struggled to escape it, and repeated, -sensibly enough, that one ought not to begin such a task when one meant -to throw it up in a few days' time. As soon as she yielded she was -certain to be caught; her egotism was bound to be vanquished by the wave -of pity, love, and hope that would sweep through her heart. The poor, -pale, puny infant had weighed but little the first time he took the -breast. But every morning afterwards he had been weighed afresh, and on -the wall at the foot of the bed had been hung the diagram indicating the -daily difference of weight. At first Norine had taken little interest in -the matter, but as the line gradually ascended, plainly indicating how -much the child was profiting, she gave it more and more attention. All -at once, as the result of an indisposition, the line had dipped down; -and since then she had always feverishly awaited the weighing, eager to -see if the line would once more ascend. Then, a continuous rise having -set in, she laughed with delight. That little line, which ever ascended, -told her that her child was saved, and that all the weight and strength -he acquired was derived from her--from her milk, her blood, her flesh. -She was completing the appointed work; and motherliness, at last -awakened within her, was blossoming in a florescence of love. - -"If you want to kill him," continued Mathieu, "you need only take him -from your breast. See how eagerly the poor little fellow is nursing!" - -This was indeed true. And Norine burst into big sobs: "_Mon Dieu_! you -are beginning to torture me again. Do you think that I shall take any -pleasure in getting rid of him now? You force me to say things which -make me weep at night when I think of them. I shall feel as if my very -vitals were being torn out when this child is taken from me! There, are -you both pleased that you have made me say it? But what good does it do -to put me in such a state, since nobody can remedy things, and he must -needs go to the foundlings, while I return to the gutter, to wait for -the broom that's to sweep me away?" - -But Cecile, who likewise was weeping, kissed and kissed the child, and -again reverted to her dream, explaining how happy they would be, all -three of them, in a nice room, which she pictured full of endless joys, -like some Paradise. It was by no means difficult to cut out and paste up -the little boxes. As soon as Norine should know the work, she, who was -strong, might perhaps earn three francs a day at it. And five francs a -day between them, would not that mean fortune, the rearing of the child, -and all evil things forgotten, at an end? Norine, more weary than ever, -gave way at last, and ceased refusing. - -"You daze me," she said. "I don't know. Do as you like--but certainly it -will be great happiness to keep this dear little fellow with me." - -Cecile, enraptured, clapped her hands; while Mathieu, who was greatly -moved, gave utterance to these deeply significant words: "You have saved -him, and now he saves you." - -Then Norine at last smiled. She felt happy now; a great weight had been -lifted from her heart. And carrying her child in her arms she insisted -on accompanying her sister and their friend to the first floor. - -During the last half-hour Constance and Madame Angelin had been deep in -consultation with Madame Bourdieu. The former had not given her name, -but had simply played the part of an obliging friend accompanying -another on an occasion of some delicacy. Madame Bourdieu, with the keen -scent characteristic of her profession, divined a possible customer in -that inquisitive lady who put such strange questions to her. However, -a rather painful scene took place, for realizing that she could not -forever deceive Madame Angelin with false hopes, Madame Bourdieu decided -to tell the truth--her case was hopeless. Constance, however, at last -made a sign to entreat her to continue deceiving her friend, if only for -charity's sake. The other, therefore, while conducting her visitors to -the landing, spoke a few hopeful words to Madame Angelin: "After all, -dear madame," said she, "one must never despair. I did wrong to speak as -I did just now. I may yet be mistaken. Come back to see me again." - -At this moment Mathieu and Cecile were still on the landing in -conversation with Norine, whose infant had fallen asleep in her arms. -Constance and Madame Angelin were so surprised at finding the farmer -of Chantebled in the company of the two young women that they pretended -they did not see him. All at once, however, Constance, with the help of -memory, recognized Norine, the more readily perhaps as she was now -aware that Mathieu had, ten years previously, acted as her husband's -intermediary. And a feeling of revolt and the wildest fancies instantly -arose within her. What was Mathieu doing in that house? whose child was -it that the young woman carried in her arms? At that moment the other -child seemed to peer forth from the past; she saw it in swaddling -clothes, like the infant there; indeed, she almost confounded one with -the other, and imagined that it was indeed her husband's illegitimate -son that was sleeping in his mother's arms before her. Then all the -satisfaction she had derived from what she had heard Madame Bourdieu -say departed, and she went off furious and ashamed, as if soiled and -threatened by all the vague abominations which she had for some time -felt around her, without knowing, however, whence came the little chill -which made her shudder as with dread. - -As for Mathieu, he saw that neither Norine nor Cecile had recognized -Madame Beauchene under her veil, and so he quietly continued explaining -to the former that he would take steps to secure for her from the -Assistance Publique--the official organization for the relief of -the poor--a cradle and a supply of baby linen, as well as immediate -pecuniary succor, since she undertook to keep and nurse her child. -Afterwards he would obtain for her an allowance of thirty francs a month -for at least one year. This would greatly help the sisters, particularly -in the earlier stages of their life together in the room which they had -settled to rent. When Mathieu added that he would take upon himself the -preliminary outlay of a little furniture and so forth, Norine insisted -upon kissing him. - -"Oh! it is with a good heart," said she. "It does one good to meet a man -like you. And come, kiss my poor little fellow, too; it will bring him -good luck." - -On reaching the Rue La Boetie it occurred to Mathieu, who was bound -for the Beauchene works, to take a cab and let Cecile alight near her -parents' home, since it was in the neighborhood of the factory. But she -explained to him that she wished, first of all, to call upon her sister -Euphrasie in the Rue Caroline. This street was in the same direction, -and so Mathieu made her get into the cab, telling her that he would set -her down at her sister's door. - -She was so amazed, so happy at seeing her dream at last on the point of -realization, that as she sat in the cab by the side of Mathieu she did -not know how to thank him. Her eyes were quite moist, all smiles and -tears. - -"You must not think me a bad daughter, monsieur," said she, "because I'm -so pleased to leave home. Papa still works as much as he is able, though -he does not get much reward for it at the factory. And mamma does all -she can at home, though she hasn't much strength left her nowadays. -Since Victor came back from the army, he has married and has children -of his own, and I'm even afraid that he'll have more than he can provide -for, as, while he was in the army, he seems to have lost all taste for -work. But the sharpest of the family is that lazy-bones Irma, my younger -sister, who's so pretty and so delicate-looking, perhaps because she's -always ill. As you may remember, mamma used to fear that Irma might turn -out badly like Norine. Well, not at all! Indeed, she's the only one of -us who is likely to do well, for she's going to marry a clerk in the -post-office. And so the only ones left at home are myself and Alfred. -Oh! he is a perfect bandit! That is the plain truth. He committed a -theft the other day, and one had no end of trouble to get him out of the -hands of the police commissary. But all the same, mamma has a weakness -for him, and lets him take all my earnings. Yes, indeed, I've had quite -enough of him, especially as he is always terrifying me out of my wits, -threatening to beat and even kill me, though he well knows that ever -since my illness the slightest noise throws me into a faint. And as, all -considered, neither papa nor mamma needs me, it's quite excusable, isn't -it, that I should prefer living quietly alone. It is my right, is it -not, monsieur?" - -She went on to speak of her sister Euphrasie, who had fallen into a most -wretched condition, said she, ever since passing through Dr. Gaude's -hands. Her home had virtually been broken up, she had become decrepit, a -mere bundle of rags, unable even to handle a broom. It made one tremble -to see her. Then, after a pause, just as the cab was reaching the Rue -Caroline, the girl continued: "Will you come up to see her? You might -say a few kind words to her. It would please me, for I'm going on a -rather unpleasant errand. I thought that she would have strength -enough to make some little boxes like me, and thus earn a few pence for -herself; but she has kept the work I gave her more than a month now, and -if she really cannot do it I must take it back." - -Mathieu consented, and in the room upstairs he beheld one of the most -frightful, poignant spectacles that he had ever witnessed. In the centre -of that one room where the family slept and ate, Euphrasie sat on a -straw-bottomed chair; and although she was barely thirty years of age, -one might have taken her for a little old woman of fifty; so thin and so -withered did she look that she resembled one of those fruits, suddenly -deprived of sap, that dry up on the tree. Her teeth had fallen, and -of her hair she only retained a few white locks. But the more -characteristic mark of this mature senility was a wonderful loss of -muscular strength, an almost complete disappearance of will, energy, -and power of action, so that she now spent whole days, idle, stupefied, -without courage even to raise a finger. - -When Cecile told her that her visitor was M. Froment, the former chief -designer at the Beauchene works, she did not even seem to recognize him; -she no longer took interest in anything. And when her sister spoke -of the object of her visit, asking for the work with which she had -entrusted her, she answered with a gesture of utter weariness: "Oh! what -can you expect! It takes me too long to stick all those little bits of -cardboard together. I can't do it; it throws me into a perspiration." - -Then a stout woman, who was cutting some bread and butter for the three -children, intervened with an air of quiet authority: "You ought to take -those materials away, Mademoiselle Cecile. She's incapable of doing -anything with them. They will end by getting dirty, and then your people -won't take them back." - -This stout woman was a certain Madame Joseph, a widow of forty and a -charwoman by calling, whom Benard, the husband, had at first engaged to -come two hours every morning to attend to the housework, his wife not -having strength enough to put on a child's shoes or to set a pot on -the fire. At first Euphrasie had offered furious resistance to this -intrusion of a stranger, but, her physical decline progressing, she had -been obliged to yield. And then things had gone from bad to worse, till -Madame Joseph became supreme in the household. Between times there had -been terrible scenes over it all; but the wretched Euphrasie, stammering -and shivering, had at last resigned herself to the position, like some -little old woman sunk into second childhood and already cut off from the -world. That Benard and Madame Joseph were not bad-hearted in reality -was shown by the fact that although Euphrasie was now but an useless -encumbrance, they kept her with them, instead of flinging her into the -streets as others would have done. - -"Why, there you are again in the middle of the room!" suddenly exclaimed -the fat woman, who each time that she went hither and thither found -it necessary to avoid the other's chair. "How funny it is that you can -never put yourself in a corner! Auguste will be coming in for his four -o'clock snack in a moment, and he won't be at all pleased if he doesn't -find his cheese and his glass of wine on the table." - -Without replying, Euphrasie nervously staggered to her feet, and with -the greatest trouble dragged her chair towards the table. Then she sat -down again limp and very weary. - -Just as Madame Joseph was bringing the cheese, Benard, whose workshop -was near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovial -fellow, and began to jest with his sister-in-law while showing great -politeness towards Mathieu, whom he thanked for taking interest in his -unhappy wife's condition. "_Mon Dieu_, monsieur," said he, "it isn't her -fault; it is all due to those rascally doctors at the hospital. For a -year or so one might have thought her cured, but you see what has now -become of her. Ah! it ought not to be allowed! You are no doubt aware -that they treated Cecile just the same. And there was another, too, -a baroness, whom you must know. She called here the other day to see -Euphrasie, and, upon my word, I didn't recognize her. She used to be -such a fine woman, and now she looks a hundred years old. Yes, yes, I -say that the doctors ought to be sent to prison." - -He was about to sit down to table when he stumbled against Euphrasie's -chair. She sat watching him with an anxious, semi-stupefied expression. -"There you are, in my way as usual!" said he; "one is always tumbling up -against you. Come, make a little room, do." - -He did not seem to be a very terrible customer, but at the sound of -his voice she began to tremble, full of childish fear, as if she were -threatened with a thrashing. And this time she found strength enough to -drag her chair as far as a dark closet, the door of which was open. She -there sought refuge, ensconcing herself in the gloom, amid which one -could vaguely espy her shrunken, wrinkled face, which suggested that of -some very old great-grandmother, who was taking years and years to die. - -Mathieu's heart contracted as he observed that senile terror, -that shivering obedience on the part of a woman whose harsh, dry, -aggressively quarrelsome disposition he so well remembered. Industrious, -self-willed, full of life as she had once been, she was now but a limp -human rag. And yet her case was recorded in medical annals as one of the -renowned Gaude's great miracles of cure. Ah! how truly had Boutan spoken -in saying that people ought to wait to see the real results of those -victorious operations which were sapping the vitality of France. - -Cecile, however, with eager affection, kissed the three children, who -somehow continued to grow up in that wrecked household. Tears came -to her eyes, and directly Madame Joseph had given her back the -work-materials entrusted to Euphrasie she hurried Mathieu away. And, as -they reached the street, she said: "Thank you, Monsieur Froment; I can -go home on foot now--. How frightful, eh? Ah! as I told you, we shall -be in Paradise, Norine and I, in the quiet room which you have so kindly -promised to rent for us." - -On reaching Beauchene's establishment Mathieu immediately repaired to -the workshops, but he could obtain no precise information respecting his -threshing-machine, though he had ordered it several months previously. -He was told that the master's son, Monsieur Maurice, had gone out on -business, and that nobody could give him an answer, particularly as the -master himself had not put in an appearance at the works that week. He -learnt, however, that Beauchene had returned from a journey that very -day, and must be indoors with his wife. Accordingly, he resolved to call -at the house, less on account of the threshing-machine than to decide -a matter of great interest to him, that of the entry of one of his twin -sons, Blaise, into the establishment. - -This big fellow had lately left college, and although he had only -completed his nineteenth year, he was on the point of marrying a -portionless young girl, Charlotte Desvignes, for whom he had conceived -a romantic attachment ever since childhood. His parents, seeing in this -match a renewal of their own former loving improvidence, had felt moved, -and unwilling to drive the lad to despair. But, if he was to marry, -some employment must first be found for him. Fortunately this could -be managed. While Denis, the other of the twins, entered a technical -school, Beauchene, by way of showing his esteem for the increasing -fortune of his good cousins, as he now called the Froments, cordially -offered to give Blaise a situation at his establishment. - -On being ushered into Constance's little yellow salon, Mathieu found her -taking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her from -the Rue de Miromesnil. Beauchene's unexpected arrival on the scene had -disagreeably interrupted their private converse. He had returned from -one of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under the -pretext of making a short business journey, and, still slightly -intoxicated, with feverish, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he was -wearying the two women with his impudent, noisy falsehoods. - -"Ah! my dear fellow!" he exclaimed on seeing Mathieu, "I was just -telling the ladies of my return from Amiens--. What wonderful duck pates -they have there!" - -Then, on Mathieu speaking to him of Blaise, he launched out into -protestations of friendship. It was understood, the young fellow need -only present himself at the works, and in the first instance he should -be put with Morange, in order that he might learn something of the -business mechanism of the establishment. Thus talking, Beauchene puffed -and coughed and spat, exhaling meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, -and musk, which he always brought back from his "sprees," while his wife -smiled affectionately before the others as was her wont, but directed at -him glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turned -her head. - -As Beauchene continued talking too much, owning for instance that he did -not know how far the thresher might be from completion, Mathieu -noticed Constance listening anxiously. The idea of Blaise entering the -establishment had already rendered her grave, and now her husband's -apparent ignorance of important business matters distressed her. -Besides, the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she remembered -the girl's child, and almost feared some fresh understanding between -Beauchene and Mathieu. All at once, however, she gave a cry of great -relief: "Ah! here is Maurice." - -Her son was entering the room--her son, the one and only god on whom she -now set her affection and pride, the crown-prince who to-morrow would -become king, who would save the kingdom from perdition, and who -would exalt her on his right hand in a blaze of glory. She deemed him -handsome, tall, strong, and as invincible in his nineteenth year as -all the knights of the old legends. When he explained that he had just -profitably compromised a worrying transaction in which his father had -rashly embarked, she pictured him repairing disasters and achieving -victories. And she triumphed more than ever on hearing him promise that -the threshing-machine should be ready before the end of that same week. - -"You must take a cup of tea, my dear," she exclaimed. "It would do you -good; you worry your mind too much." - -Maurice accepted the offer, and gayly replied: "Oh! do you know, an -omnibus almost crushed me just now in the Rue de Rivoli!" - -At this his mother turned livid, and the cup which she held escaped from -her hand. Ah! God, was her happiness at the mercy of an accident? Then -once again the fearful threat sped by, that icy gust which came she knew -not whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones. - -"Why, you stupid," said Beauchene, laughing, "it was he who crushed the -omnibus, since here he is, telling you the tale. Ah! my poor Maurice, -your mother is really ridiculous. I know how strong you are, and I'm -quite at ease about you." - -That day Madame Angelin returned to Janville with Mathieu. They found -themselves alone in the railway carriage, and all at once, without any -apparent cause, tears started from the young woman's eyes. At this she -apologized, and murmured as if in a dream: "To have a child, to rear -him, and then lose him--ah! certainly one's grief must then be poignant. -Yet one has had him with one; he has grown up, and one has known for -years all the joy of having him at one's side. But when one never has a -child--never, never--ah! come rather suffering and mourning than such a -void as that!" - -And meantime, at Chantebled, Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, -increased, and multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal -battle which life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase -both of offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very -existence, their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of -flame, desire divine and fruitful, since they possessed the power of -love, of kindliness, and health. And their energy did the rest--that -will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that -is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates the world. Yet -even during those two years it was not without constant struggling that -they achieved victory. True, victory was becoming more and more -certain as the estate expanded. The petty worries of earlier days had -disappeared, and the chief question was now one of ruling sensibly and -equitably. All the land had been purchased northward on the plateau, -from the farm of Mareuil to the farm of Lillebonne; there was not a -copse that did not belong to the Froments, and thus beside the surging -sea of corn there rose a royal park of centenarian trees. Apart from -the question of felling portions of the wood for timber, Mathieu was not -disposed to retain the remainder for mere beauty's sake; and accordingly -avenues were devised connecting the broad clearings, and cattle were -then turned into this part of the property. The ark of life, increased -by hundreds of animals, expanded, burst through the great trees. There -was a fresh growth of fruitfulness: more and more cattle-sheds had to be -built, sheepcotes had to be created, and manure came in loads and loads -to endow the land with wondrous fertility. And now yet other children -might come, for floods of milk poured forth, and there were herds and -flocks to clothe and nourish them. Beside the ripening crops the woods -waved their greenery, quivering with the eternal seeds that germinated -in their shade, under the dazzling sun. And only one more stretch of -land, the sandy slopes on the east, remained to be conquered in order -that the kingdom might be complete. Assuredly this compensated one for -all former tears, for all the bitter anxiety of the first years of toil. - -Then, while Mathieu completed his conquest, there came to Marianne -during those two years the joy of marrying one of her children even -while she was again _enceinte_, for, like our good mother the earth, she -also remained fruitful. 'Twas a delightful fete, full of infinite -hope, that wedding of Blaise and Charlotte; he a strong young fellow -of nineteen, she an adorable girl of eighteen summers, each loving -the other with a love of nosegay freshness that had budded, even in -childhood's hour, along the flowery paths of Chantebled. The eight other -children were all there: first the big brothers, Denis, Ambroise, and -Gervais, who were now finishing their studies; next Rose, the eldest -girl, now fourteen, who promised to become a woman of healthy beauty -and happy gayety of disposition; then Claire, who was still a child, and -Gregoire, who was only just going to college; without counting the very -little ones, Louise and Madeleine. - -Folks came out of curiosity from the surrounding villages to see the -gay troop conduct their big brother to the municipal offices. It was -a marvellous cortege, flowery like springtide, full of felicity, which -moved every heart. Often, moreover, on ordinary holidays, when for the -sake of an outing the family repaired in a band to some village market, -there was such a gallop in traps, on horseback, and on bicycles, while -the girls' hair streamed in the wind and loud laughter rang out from one -and all, that people would stop to watch the charming cavalcade. "Here -are the troops passing!" folks would jestingly exclaim, implying that -nothing could resist those Froments, that the whole countryside -was theirs by right of conquest, since every two years their number -increased. And this time, at the expiration of those last two years it -was again to a daughter, Marguerite, that Marianne gave birth. For a -while she remained in a feverish condition, and there were fears, too, -that she might be unable to nurse her infant as she had done all the -others. Thus, when Mathieu saw her erect once more and smiling, with her -dear little Marguerite at her breast, he embraced her passionately, -and triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another -child, yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the -world, another field ready for to-morrow's harvest! - -And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - - - -XIV - -TWO more years went by, and during those two years yet another child, -this time a boy, was born to Mathieu and Marianne. And on this occasion, -at the same time as the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was -increased also by all the heatherland extending to the east as far as -the village of Vieux-Bourg. And this time the last lot was purchased, -the conquest of the estate was complete. The 1250 acres of uncultivated -soil which Seguin's father, the old army contractor, had formerly -purchased in view of erecting a palatial residence there were now, -thanks to unremitting effort, becoming fruitful from end to end. The -enclosure belonging to the Lepailleurs, who stubbornly refused to sell -it, alone set a strip of dry, stony, desolate land amid the broad green -plain. And it was all life's resistless conquest; it was fruitfulness -spreading in the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its -work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, -and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more -joy in the veins of the world. - -Blaise, now the father of a little girl some ten months old, had been -residing at the Beauchene works since the previous winter. He occupied -the little pavilion where his mother had long previously given birth to -his brother Gervais. His wife Charlotte had conquered the Beauchenes by -her fair grace, her charming, bouquet-like freshness, to such a point, -indeed, that even Constance had desired to have her near her. The -truth was that Madame Desvignes had made adorable creatures of her -two daughters, Charlotte and Marthe. At the death of her husband, a -stockbroker's confidential clerk, who had died, leaving her at thirty -years of age in very indifferent circumstances, she had gathered her -scanty means together and withdrawn to Janville, her native place, where -she had entirely devoted herself to her daughters' education. Knowing -that they would be almost portionless, she had brought them up extremely -well, in the hope that this might help to find them husbands, and it so -chanced that she proved successful. - -Affectionate intercourse sprang up between her and the Froments; the -children played together; and it was, indeed, from those first games -that came the love-romance which was to end in the marriage of Blaise -and Charlotte. By the time the latter reached her eighteenth birthday -and married, Marthe her sister, then fourteen years old, had become the -inseparable companion of Rose Froment, who was of the same age and as -pretty as herself, though dark instead of fair. Charlotte, who had -a more delicate, and perhaps a weaker, nature than her gay, sensible -sister, had become passionately fond of drawing and painting, which -she had learnt at first simply by way of accomplishment. She had ended, -however, by painting miniatures very prettily, and, as her mother -remarked, her proficiency might prove a resource to her in the event of -misfortune. Certainly there was some of the bourgeois respect and esteem -for a good education in the fairly cordial greeting which Constance -extended to Charlotte, who had painted a miniature portrait of her, a -good though a flattering likeness. - -On the other hand, Blaise, who was endowed with the creative fire of the -Froments, ever striving, ever hard at work, became a valuable assistant -to Maurice as soon as a brief stay in Morange's office had made him -familiar with the business of the firm. Indeed it was Maurice who, -finding that his father seconded him less and less, had insisted on -Blaise and Charlotte installing themselves in the little pavilion, in -order that the former's services might at all times be available. And -Constance, ever on her knees before her son, could in this matter -only obey respectfully. She evinced boundless faith in the vastness of -Maurice's intellect. His studies had proved fairly satisfactory; if he -was somewhat slow and heavy, and had frequently been delayed by youthful -illnesses, he had, nevertheless, diligently plodded on. As he was -far from talkative, his mother gave out that he was a reflective, -concentrated genius, who would astonish the world by actions, not by -speech. Before he was even fifteen she said of him, in her adoring way: -"Oh! he has a great mind." And, naturally enough, she only acknowledged -Blaise to be a necessary lieutenant, a humble assistant, one whose hand -would execute the sapient young master's orders. The latter, to her -thinking, was now so strong and so handsome, and he was so quickly -reviving the business compromised by the father's slow collapse, that -surely he must be on the high-road to prodigious wealth, to that final -great triumph, indeed, of which she had been dreaming so proudly, so -egotistically, for so many years. - -But all at once the thunderbolt fell. It was not without some hesitation -that Blaise had agreed to make the little pavilion his home, for he knew -that there was an idea of reducing him to the status of a mere piece -of machinery. But at the birth of his little girl he bravely decided -to accept the proposal, and to engage in the battle of life even as his -father had engaged in it, mindful of the fact that he also might in time -have a large family. But it so happened that one morning, when he went -up to the house to ask Maurice for some instructions, he heard from -Constance herself that the young man had spent a very bad night, and -that she had therefore prevailed on him to remain in bed. She did not -evince any great anxiety on the subject; the indisposition could only -be due to a little fatigue. Indeed, for a week past the two cousins had -been tiring themselves out over the delivery of a very important order, -which had set the entire works in motion. Besides, on the previous day -Maurice, bareheaded and in perspiration, had imprudently lingered in a -draught in one of the sheds while a machine was being tested. - -That evening he was seized with intense fever, and Boutan was hastily -summoned. On the morrow, alarmed, though he scarcely dared to say it, -by the lightning-like progress of the illness, the doctor insisted on a -consultation, and two of his colleagues being summoned, they soon agreed -together. The malady was an extremely infectious form of galloping -consumption, the more violent since it had found in the patient a field -where there was little to resist its onslaught. Beauchene was away from -home, travelling as usual. Constance, for her part, in spite of the -grave mien of the doctors, who could not bring themselves to tell her -the brutal truth, remained, in spite of growing anxiety, full of a -stubborn hope that her son, the hero, the demi-god necessary for her own -life, could not be seriously ill and likely to die. But only three -days elapsed, and during the very night that Beauchene returned home, -summoned by a telegram, the young fellow expired in her arms. - -In reality his death was simply the final decomposition of impoverished, -tainted, bourgeois blood, the sudden disappearance of a poor, mediocre -being who, despite a facade of seeming health, had been ailing since -childhood. But what an overwhelming blow it was both for the mother and -for the father, all whose dreams and calculations it swept away! The -only son, the one and only heir, the prince of industry, whom they had -desired with such obstinate, scheming egotism, had passed away like a -shadow; their arms clasped but a void, and the frightful reality arose -before them; a moment had sufficed, and they were childless. - -Blaise was with the parents at the bedside at the moment when Maurice -expired. It was then about two in the morning, and as soon as possible -he telegraphed the news of the death to Chantebled. Nine o'clock was -striking when Marianne, very pale, quite upset, came into the yard to -call Mathieu. - -"Maurice is dead!... _Mon Dieu_! an only son; poor people!" - -They stood there thunderstruck, chilled and trembling. They had simply -heard that the young man was poorly; they had not imagined him to be -seriously ill. - -"Let me go to dress," said Mathieu; "I shall take the quarter-past ten -o'clock train. I must go to kiss them." - -Although Marianne was expecting her eleventh child before long, she -decided to accompany her husband. It would have pained her to be -unable to give this proof of affection to her cousins, who, all things -considered, had treated Blaise and his young wife very kindly. Moreover, -she was really grieved by the terrible catastrophe. So she and her -husband, after distributing the day's work among the servants, set -out for Janville station, which they reached just in time to catch the -quarter-past ten o'clock train. It was already rolling on again when -they recognized the Lepailleurs and their son Antonin in the very -compartment where they were seated. - -Seeing the Froments thus together in full dress, the miller imagined -that they were going to a wedding, and when he learnt that they had -a visit of condolence to make, he exclaimed: "Oh! so it's just -the contrary. But no matter, it's an outing, a little diversion -nevertheless." - -Since Mathieu's victory, since the whole of the estate of Chantebled had -been conquered and fertilized, Lepailleur had shown some respect for his -bourgeois rival. Nevertheless, although he could not deny the results -hitherto obtained, he did not altogether surrender, but continued -sneering, as if he expected that some rending of heaven or earth would -take place to prove him in the right. He would not confess that he had -made a mistake; he repeated that he knew the truth, and that folks would -some day see plainly enough that a peasant's calling was the very worst -calling there could be, since the dirty land had gone bankrupt and would -yield nothing more. Besides, he held his revenge--that enclosure which -he left barren, uncultivated, by way of protest against the adjoining -estate which it intersected. The thought of this made him ironical. - -"Well," he resumed in his ridiculously vain, scoffing way, "we are going -to Paris too. Yes, we are going to install this young gentleman there." - -He pointed as he spoke to his son Antonin, now a tall, carroty fellow -of eighteen, with an elongated head. A few light-colored bristles were -already sprouting on his chin and cheeks, and he wore town attire, with -a silk hat and gloves, and a bright blue necktie. After astonishing -Janville by his success at school, he had displayed so much repugnance -to manual work that his father had decided to make "a Parisian" of him. - -"So it is decided; you have quite made up your mind?" asked Mathieu in a -friendly way. - -"Why, yes; why should I force him to toil and moil without the least -hope of ever enriching himself? Neither my father nor I ever managed -to put a copper by with that wretched old mill of ours. Why, the -mill-stones wear away with rot more than with grinding corn. And the -wretched fields, too, yield far more pebbles than crowns. And so, as -he's now a scholar, he may as well try his fortune in Paris. There's -nothing like city life to sharpen a man's wits." - -Madame Lepailleur, who never took her eyes from her son, but remained in -admiration before him as formerly before her husband, now exclaimed -with an air of rapture: "Yes, yes, he has a place as a clerk with Maitre -Rousselet, the attorney. We have rented a little room for him; I have -seen about the furniture and the linen, and to-day's the great day; he -will sleep there to-night, after we have dined, all three, at a good -restaurant. Ah! yes, I'm very pleased; he's making a start now." - -"And he will perhaps end by being a minister of state," said Mathieu, -with a smile; "who knows? Everything is possible nowadays." - -It all typified the exodus from the country districts towards the towns, -the feverish impatience to make a fortune, which was becoming general. -Even the parents nowadays celebrated their child's departure, and -accompanied the adventurer on his way, anxious and proud to climb the -social ladder with him. And that which brought a smile to the lips of -the farmer of Chantebled, the bourgeois who had become a peasant, was -the thought of the double change: the miller's son going to Paris, -whereas he had gone to the earth, the mother of all strength and -regeneration. - -Antonin, however, had also begun to laugh with the air of an artful -idler who was more particularly attracted by the free dissipation of -Paris life. "Oh! minister?" said he, "I haven't much taste for that. I -would much sooner win a million at once so as to rest afterwards." - -Delighted with this display of wit, the Lepailleurs burst into noisy -merriment. Oh! their boy would do great things, that was quite certain! - -Marianne, her heart oppressed by thought of the mourning which awaited -her, had hitherto kept silent. She now asked, however, why little -Therese did not form one of the party. Lepailleur dryly replied that he -did not choose to embarrass himself with a child but six years old, -who did not know how to behave. Her arrival had upset everything in the -house; things would have been much better if she had never been born. -Then, as Marianne began to protest, saying that she had seldom seen a -more intelligent and prettier little girl, Madame Lepailleur answered -more gently: "Oh! she's sharp; that's true enough; but one can't send -girls to Paris. She'll have to be put somewhere, and it will mean a lot -of trouble, a lot of money. However, we mustn't talk about all that this -morning, since we want to enjoy ourselves." - -At last the train reached Paris, and the Lepailleurs, leaving the -Northern terminus, were caught and carried off by the impetuously -streaming crowd. - -When Mathieu and Marianne alighted from their cab on the Quai d'Orsay, -in front of the Beauchenes' residence, they recognized the Seguins' -brougham drawn up beside the foot pavement. And within it they perceived -the two girls, Lucie and Andree, waiting mute and motionless in their -light-colored dresses. Then, as they approached the door, they saw -Valentine come out, in a very great hurry as usual. On recognizing them, -however, she assumed an expression of deep pity, and spoke the words -required by the situation: - -"What a frightful misfortune, is it not? an only son!" - -Then she burst out into a flood of words: "You have hastened here, I -see, as I did; it is only natural. I heard of the catastrophe only by -chance less than an hour ago. And you see my luck! My daughters were -dressed, and I myself was dressing to take them to a wedding--a cousin -of our friend Santerre is marrying a diplomatist. And, in addition, I am -engaged for the whole afternoon. Well, although the wedding is fixed for -a quarter-past eleven, I did not hesitate, but drove here before going -to the church. And naturally I went upstairs alone. My daughters have -been waiting in the carriage. We shall no doubt be a little late for -the wedding. But no matter! You will see the poor parents in their empty -house, near the body, which, I must say, they have laid out very nicely -on the bed. Oh! it is heartrending." - -Mathieu was looking at her, surprised to see that she did not age. The -fiery flame of her wild life seemed to scorch and preserve her. He knew -that her home was now completely wrecked. Seguin openly lived with Nora, -the governess, for whom he had furnished a little house. It was there -even that he had given Mathieu an appointment to sign the final transfer -of the Chantebled property. And since Gaston had entered the military -college of St. Cyr, Valentine had only her two daughters with her in the -spacious, luxurious mansion of the Avenue d'Antin, which ruin was slowly -destroying. - -"I think," resumed Madame Seguin, "that I shall tell Gaston to obtain -permission to attend the funeral. For I am not sure whether his father -is in Paris. It's just the same with our friend Santerre; he's starting -on a tour to-morrow. Ah! not only do the dead leave us, but it is -astonishing what a number of the living go off and disappear! Life is -very sad, is it not, dear madame?" - -As she spoke a little quiver passed over her face; the dread of the -coming rupture, which she had felt approaching for several months -past, amid all the skilful preparations of Santerre, who had been long -maturing some secret plan, which she did not as yet divine. However, she -made a devout ecstatic gesture, and added: "Well, we are in the hands of -God." - -Marianne, who was still smiling at the ever-motionless girls in the -closed brougham, changed the subject. "How tall they have grown, how -pretty they have become! Your Andree looks adorable. How old is your -Lucie now? She will soon be of an age to marry." - -"Oh! don't let her hear you," retorted Valentine; "you would make her -burst into tears! She is seventeen, but for sense she isn't twelve. -Would you believe it, she began sobbing this morning and refusing to go -to the wedding, under the pretence that it would make her ill? She is -always talking of convents; we shall have to come to a decision about -her. Andree, though she is only thirteen, is already much more womanly. -But she is a little stupid, just like a sheep. Her gentleness quite -upsets me at times; it jars on my nerves." - -Then Valentine, on the point of getting into her carriage, turned to -shake hands with Marianne, and thought of inquiring after her health. -"Really," said she, "I lose my head at times. I was quite forgetting. -And the baby you're expecting will be your eleventh child, will it now? -How terrible! Still it succeeds with you. And, ah! those poor people -whom you are going to see, their house will be quite empty now." - -When the brougham had rolled away it occurred to Mathieu and Marianne -that before seeing the Beauchenes it might be advisable for them to call -at the little pavilion, where their son or their daughter-in-law might -be able to give them some useful information. But neither Blaise nor -Charlotte was there. They found only a servant who was watching over -the little girl, Berthe. This servant declared that she had not seen -Monsieur Blaise since the previous day, for he had remained at the -Beauchenes' near the body. And as for Madame, she also had gone there -early that morning, and had left instructions that Berthe was to be -brought to her at noon, in order that she might not have to come back -to give her the breast. Then, as Marianne in surprise began to put some -questions, the girl explained matters: "Madame took a box of drawing -materials with her. I fancy that she is painting a portrait of the poor -young man who is dead." - -As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they felt -oppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned in that great city of -labor, usually so full of noise and bustle. Death had suddenly passed -by, and all the ardent life had at once ceased, the machinery had become -cold and mute, the workshops silent and deserted. There was not a sound, -not a soul, not a puff of that vapor which was like the very breath of -the place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress of the -Froments increased when they passed from the works into the house, amid -absolute solitude; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber, the -staircase quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, as -in some uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servant -in the antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds of -embroidered muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in a -circle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, at -first seemed to them to be empty. But at last they detected a shadowy -form moving slowly to and fro in the middle of the room. It was Morange, -bareheaded and frock-coated; he had hastened thither at the first news -with the same air as if he had been repairing to his office. He seemed -to be at home; it was he who received the visitors in a scared way, -overcome as he was by this sudden demise, which recalled to him his -daughter's abominable death. His heart-wound had reopened; he was livid, -all in disorder, with his long gray beard streaming down, while he -stepped hither and thither without a pause, making all the surrounding -grief his own. - -As soon as he recognized the Froments he also spoke the words which came -from every tongue: "What a frightful misfortune, an only son!" - -Then he pressed their hands, and whispered and explained that Madame -Beauchene, feeling quite exhausted, had withdrawn for a few moments, and -that Beauchene and Blaise were making necessary arrangements downstairs. -And then, resuming his maniacal perambulations, he pointed towards an -adjoining room, the folding doors of which were wide open. - -"He is there, on the bed where he died. There are flowers; it looks very -nice. You may go in." - -This room was Maurice's bedchamber. The large curtains had been closely -drawn, and tapers were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on the -deceased's face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closed -as if in sleep. Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, and -with the roses scattered over the sheet the bed was like a couch of -springtide. The odor of the flowers, mingling with that of the burning -wax, seemed rather oppressive amid the deep and tragic stillness. Not -a breath stirred the tall, erect flames of the tapers, burning in the -semi-obscurity, amid which the bed alone showed forth. - -When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived their -daughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door. Lighted by a -little lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, making -a drawing of Maurice's head as it rested among the roses. Hard and -anguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she had -nevertheless yielded to the mother's ardent entreaties. And for three -hours past, pale, looking wondrously beautiful, her face showing all -the flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine golden -hair, she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best. -When Mathieu and Marianne approached her she would not speak, but simply -nodded. Still a little color came to her cheeks, and her eyes smiled. -And when the others, after lingering there for a moment in sorrowful -contemplation, had quietly returned to the drawing-room, she resumed her -work alone, in the presence of the dead, among the roses and the tapers. - -Morange was still walking the drawing-room like a lost, wandering -phantom. Mathieu remained standing there, while Marianne sat down near -the folding doors. Not another word was exchanged; the spell of waiting -continued amid the oppressive silence of the dim, closed room. When -some ten minutes had elapsed, two other visitors arrived, a lady and a -gentleman, whom the Froments could not at first recognize. Morange bowed -and received them in his dazed way. Then, as the lady did not release -her hold of the gentleman's hand, but led him along, as if he were -blind, between the articles of furniture, so that he might not knock -against them, Marianne and Mathieu realized that the new comers were the -Angelins. - -Since the previous winter they had sold their little house at Janville -to fix themselves in Paris, for a last misfortune had befallen them--the -failure of a great banking house had carried away almost the whole of -their modest fortune. The wife had fortunately secured a post as one of -the delegates of the Poor Relief Board, an inspectorship with various -duties, such as watching over the mothers and children assisted by the -board, and reporting thereon. And she was wont to say, with a sad smile, -that this work of looking after the little ones was something of a -consolation for her, since it was now certain that she would never have -a child of her own. As for her husband, whose eyesight was failing more -and more, he had been obliged to relinquish painting altogether, and -he dragged out his days in morose desolation, his life wrecked, -annihilated. - -With short steps, as if she were leading a child, Madame Angelin brought -him to an armchair near Marianne and seated him in it. He had retained -the lofty mien of a musketeer, but his features had been ravaged by -anxiety, and his hair was white, though he was only forty-four years of -age. And what memories arose at the sight of that sorrowful lady leading -that infirm, aged man, for those who had known the young couple, -all tenderness and good looks, rambling along the secluded paths of -Janville, amid the careless delights of their love. - -As soon as Madame Angelin had clasped Marianne's hands with her own -trembling fingers, she also uttered in low, stammering accents, those -despairing words: "Ah! what a frightful misfortune, an only son!" - -Her eyes filled with tears, and she would not sit down before going -for a moment to see the body in the adjoining room. When she came back, -sobbing in her handkerchief, she sank into an armchair between Marianne -and her husband. He remained there motionless, staring fixedly with his -dim eyes. And silence fell again throughout the lifeless house, whither -the rumble of the works, now deserted, fireless and frozen, ascended no -longer. - -But Beauchene, followed by Blaise, at last made his appearance. The -heavy blow he had received seemed to have made him ten years older. -It was as if the heavens had suddenly fallen upon him. Never amid his -conquering egotism, his pride of strength and his pleasures, had he -imagined such a downfall to be possible. Never had he been willing to -admit that Maurice might be ill--such an idea was like casting a -doubt upon his own strength; he thought himself beyond the reach of -thunderbolts; misfortune would never dare to fall on him. And at the -first overwhelming moment he had found himself weak as a woman, weary -and limp, his strength undermined by his dissolute life, the slow -disorganization of his faculties. He had sobbed like a child before his -dead son, all his vanity crushed, all his calculations destroyed. The -thunderbolt had sped by, and nothing remained. In a minute his life had -been swept away; the world was now all black and void. And he remained -livid, in consternation at it all, his bloated face swollen with grief, -his heavy eyelids red with tears. - -When he perceived the Froments, weakness again came upon him, and he -staggered towards them with open arms, once more stifling with sobs. - -"Ah! my dear friends, what a terrible blow! And I wasn't here! When I -got here he had lost consciousness; he did not recognize me--. Is it -possible? A lad who was in such good health! I cannot believe it. It -seems to me that I must be dreaming, and that he will get up presently -and come down with me into the workshops!" - -They kissed him, they pitied him, struck down like this upon his return -from some carouse or other, still intoxicated, perhaps, and tumbling -into the midst of such an awful disaster, his prostration increased by -the stupor following upon debauchery. His beard, moist with his tears, -still stank of tobacco and musk. - -Although he scarcely knew the Angelins, he pressed them also in his -arms. "Ah! my poor friends, what a terrible blow! What a terrible blow!" - -Then Blaise in his turn came to kiss his parents. In spite of his grief, -and the horrible night he had spent, his face retained its youthful -freshness. Yet tears coursed down his cheeks, for, working with Maurice -day by day, he had conceived real friendship for him. - -The silence fell again. Morange, as if unconscious of what went on -around him, as if he were quite alone there, continued walking softly -hither and thither like a somnambulist. Beauchene, with haggard mien, -went off, and then came back carrying some little address-books. He -turned about for another moment, and finally sat down at a writing-table -which had been brought out of Maurice's room. Little accustomed as he -was to grief, he instinctively sought to divert his mind, and began -searching in the little address-books for the purpose of drawing up a -list of the persons who must be invited to the funeral. But his eyes -became blurred, and with a gesture he summoned Blaise, who, after going -into the bedchamber to glance at his wife's sketch, was now returning -to the drawing-room. Thereupon the young man, standing erect beside the -writing-table, began to dictate the names in a low voice; and then, amid -the deep silence sounded a low and monotonous murmur. - -The minutes slowly went by. The visitors were still waiting for -Constance. At last a little door of the death-chamber slowly opened, and -she entered that chamber noiselessly, without anybody knowing that she -was there. She looked like a spectre emerging out of the darkness into -the pale light of the tapers. She had not yet wept; her face was -livid, contracted, hardened by cold rage. Her little figure, instead of -bending, seemed to have grown taller beneath the injustice of destiny, -as if borne up by furious rebellion. Yet her loss did not surprise her. -She had immediately felt that she had expected it, although but a minute -before the death she had stubbornly refused to believe it possible. But -the thought of it had remained latent within her for long months, and -frightful evidence thereof now burst forth. She suddenly heard the -whispers of the unknown once more, and understood them; she knew -the meaning of those shivers which had chilled her, those vague, -terror-fraught regrets at having no other child! And that which had been -threatening her had come; irreparable destiny had willed it that her -only son, the salvation of the imperilled home, the prince of to-morrow, -who was to share his empire with her, should be swept away like a -withered leaf. It was utter downfall; she sank into an abyss. And she -remained tearless; fury dried her tears within her. Yet, good mother -that she had always been, she suffered all the torment of motherliness -exasperated, poisoned by the loss of her child. - -She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profile -of her dead son resting among the flowers. And still she did not weep. -She slowly gazed over the bed, filled her eyes with the dolorous scene, -then carried them again to the paper, as if to see what would be left -her of that adored son--those few pencil strokes--when the earth should -have taken him forever. Charlotte, divining that somebody was behind -her, started and raised her head. She did not speak; she had felt -frightened. But both women exchanged a glance. And what a heart pang -came to Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of the -void, the nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other's face, -all love and health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whence -promise of the future radiated through the fine gold of wavy hair. - -But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment: words which were -being whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber, -reached her distinctly. She did not move, but remained erect behind -Charlotte, who had resumed her work. And eagerly lending ear, she -listened, not showing herself as yet, although she had already seen -Marianne and Madame Angelin seated near the doorway, almost among the -folds of the hangings. - -"Ah!" Madame Angelin was saying, "the poor mother had a presentiment of -it, as it were. I saw that she felt very anxious when I told her my own -sad story. There is no hope for me; and now death has passed by, and no -hope remains for her." - -Silence ensued once more; then, prompted by some connecting train of -thought, she went on: "And your next child will be your eleventh, will -it not? Eleven is not a number; you will surely end by having twelve!" - -As Constance heard those words she shuddered in another fit of that fury -which dried up her tears. By glancing sideways she could see that mother -of ten children, who was now expecting yet an eleventh child. She found -her still young, still fresh, overflowing with joy and health and hope. -And she was there, like the goddess of fruitfulness, nigh to the funeral -bier at that hour of the supreme rending, when she, Constance, was bowed -down by the irretrievable loss of her only child. - -But Marianne was answering Madame Angelin: "Oh I don't think that at all -likely. Why, I'm becoming an old woman. You forget that I am already a -grandmother. Here, look at that!" - -So saying, she waved her hand towards the servant of her -daughter-in-law, Charlotte, who, in accordance with the instructions -she had received, was now bringing the little Berthe in order that -her mother might give her the breast. The servant had remained at -the drawing-room door, hesitating, disliking to intrude on all that -mourning; but the child good-humoredly waved her fat little fists, -and laughed lightly. And Charlotte, hearing her, immediately rose and -tripped across the salon to take the little one into a neighboring room. - -"What a pretty child!" murmured Madame Angelin. "Those little ones are -like nosegays; they bring brightness and freshness wherever they come." - -Constance for her part had been dazzled. All at once, amid the -semi-obscurity, starred by the flames of the tapers, amid the deathly -atmosphere, which the odor of the roses rendered the more oppressive, -that laughing child had set a semblance of budding springtime, the -fresh, bright atmosphere of a long promise of life. And it typified -the victory of fruitfulness; it was the child's child, it was Marianne -reviving in her son's daughter. A grandmother already, and she was -only forty-one years old! Marianne had smiled at that thought. But the -hatchet-stroke rang out yet more frightfully in Constance's heart. In -her case the tree was cut down to its very root, the sole scion had been -lopped off, and none would ever sprout again. - -For yet another moment she remained alone amid that nothingness, in that -room where lay her son's remains. Then she made up her mind and passed -into the drawing-room, with the air of a frozen spectre. They all rose, -kissed her, and shivered as their lips touched her cold cheeks, which -her blood was unable to warm. Profound compassion wrung them, so -frightful was her calmness. And they sought kind words to say to her, -but she curtly stopped them. - -"It is all over," said she; "there is nothing to be said. Everything is -ended, quite ended." - -Madame Angelin sobbed, Angelin himself wiped his poor fixed, blurred -eyes. Marianne and Mathieu shed tears while retaining Constance's hands -in theirs. And she, rigid and still unable to weep, refused consolation, -repeating in monotonous accents: "It is finished; nothing can give him -back to me. Is it not so? And thus there remains nothing; all is ended, -quite ended." - -She needed to be brave, for visitors would soon be arriving in a stream. -But a last stab in the heart was reserved for her. Beauchene, who -since her arrival had begun to cry again, could no longer see to write. -Moreover, his hand trembled, and he had to leave the writing-table and -fling himself into an armchair, saying to Blaise: "There sit down there, -and continue to write for me." - -Then Constance saw Blaise seat himself at her son's writing-table, in -his place, dip his pen in the inkstand and begin to write with the very -same gesture that she had so often seen Maurice make. That Blaise, -that son of the Froments! What! her dear boy was not yet buried, and -a Froment already replaced him, even as vivacious, fast-growing plants -overrun neighboring barren fields. That stream of life flowing around -her, intent on universal conquest, seemed yet more threatening; -grandmothers still bore children, daughters suckled already, sons laid -hands upon vacant kingdoms. And she remained alone; she had but her -unworthy, broken-down, worn-out husband beside her; while Morange, the -maniac, incessantly walking to and fro, was like the symbolical spectre -of human distress, one whose heart and strength and reason had been -carried away in the frightful death of his only daughter. And not a -sound came from the cold and empty works; the works themselves were -dead. - -The funeral ceremony two days later was an imposing one. The five -hundred workmen of the establishment followed the hearse, notabilities -of all sorts made up an immense cortege. It was much noticed that an old -workman, father Moineaud, the oldest hand of the works, was one of the -pall-bearers. Indeed, people thought it touching, although the worthy -old man dragged his legs somewhat, and looked quite out of his element -in a frock coat, stiffened as he was by thirty years' hard toil. In the -cemetery, near the grave, Mathieu felt surprised on being approached by -an old lady who alighted from one of the mourning-coaches. - -"I see, my friend," said she, "that you do not recognize me." - -He made a gesture of apology. It was Seraphine, still tall and slim, but -so fleshless, so withered that one might have thought she was a hundred -years old. Cecile had warned Mathieu of it, yet if he had not seen her -himself he would never have believed that her proud insolent beauty, -which had seemed to defy time and excesses, could have faded so swiftly. -What frightful, withering blast could have swept over her? - -"Ah! my friend," she continued, "I am more dead than the poor fellow -whom they are about to lower into that grave. Come and have a chat with -me some day. You are the only person to whom I can tell everything." - -The coffin was lowered, the ropes gave out a creaking sound, and there -came a little thud--the last. Beauchene, supported by a relative, looked -on with dim, vacant eyes. Constance, who had had the bitter courage to -come, and had now wept all the tears in her body, almost fainted. She -was carried away, driven back to her home, which would now forever be -empty, like one of those stricken fields that remain barren, fated to -perpetual sterility. Mother earth had taken back her all. - -And at Chantebled Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, increased, and -multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal battle which -life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase, both of -offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, -their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame, desire -divine and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, -and health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that -quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that is requisite, the labor -that has made and that regulates the world. - -Still, during those two years it was not without constant battling that -victory remained to them. At last it was complete. Piece by piece Seguin -had sold the entire estate, of which Mathieu was now king, thanks to his -prudent system of conquest, that of increasing his empire by degrees -as he gradually felt himself stronger. The fortune which the idler had -disdained and dissipated had passed into the hands of the toiler, the -creator. There were 1250 acres, spreading from horizon to horizon; -there were woods intersected by broad meadows, where flocks and herds -pastured; there was fat land overflowing with harvests, in the place -of marshes that had been drained; there was other land, each year of -increasing fertility, in the place of the moors which the captured -springs now irrigated. The Lepailleurs' uncultivated enclosure alone -remained, as if to bear witness to the prodigy, the great human effort -which had quickened that desert of sand and mud, whose crops would -henceforth nourish so many happy people. Mathieu devoured no other -man's share; he had brought his share into being, increasing the common -wealth, subjugating yet another small portion of this vast world, which -is still so scantily peopled and so badly utilized for human happiness. -The farm, the homestead, had sprung up and grown in the centre of the -estate like a prosperous township, with inhabitants, servants, and live -stock, a perfect focus of ardent triumphal life. And what sovereign -power was that of the happy fruitfulness which had never wearied of -creating, which had yielded all these beings and things that had been -increasing and multiplying for twelve years past, that invading town -which was but a family's expansion, those trees, those plants, those -grain crops, those fruits whose nourishing stream ever rose under the -dazzling sun! All pain and all tears were forgotten in that joy of -creation, the accomplishment of due labor, the conquest of the future -conducting to the infinite of Action. - -Then, while Mathieu completed his work of conquest, Marianne during -those two years had the happiness of seeing a daughter born to her son -Blaise, even while she herself was expecting another child. The branches -of the huge tree had begun to fork, pending the time when they would -ramify endlessly, like the branches of some great royal oak spreading -afar over the soil. There would be her children's children, her -grandchildren's children, the whole posterity increasing from generation -to generation. And yet how carefully and lovingly she still assembled -around her her own first brood, from Blaise and Denis the twins, now -one-and-twenty, to the last born, the wee creature who sucked in life -from her bosom with greedy lips. There were some of all ages in the -brood--a big fellow, who was already a father; others who went to -school; others who still had to be dressed in the morning; there were -boys, Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, and another; there were girls, Rose, -nearly old enough to marry; Claire, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, -the last of whom could scarcely toddle. And it was a sight to see them -roam over the estate like a troop of colts, following one another at -varied pace, according to their growth. She knew that she could not keep -them all tied to her apron-strings; it would be sufficient happiness if -the farm kept two or three beside her; she resigned herself to seeing -the younger ones go off some day to conquer other lands. Such was the -law of expansion; the earth was the heritage of the most numerous race. -Since they had number on their side, they would have strength also; the -world would belong to them. The parents themselves had felt stronger, -more united at the advent of each fresh child. If in spite of terrible -cares they had always conquered, it was because their love, their toil, -the ceaseless travail of their heart and will, gave them the victory. -Fruitfulness is the great conqueress; from her come the pacific heroes -who subjugate the world by peopling it. And this time especially, when -at the lapse of those two years Marianne gave birth to a boy, Nicolas, -her eleventh child, Mathieu embraced her passionately, triumphing over -every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child; yet more wealth and -power; yet an additional force born into the world; another field ready -for to-morrow's harvest. - -And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness -spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over -destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child -was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, -and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope. - - - - -XV - -AMID the deep mourning life slowly resumed its course at the Beauchene -works. One effect of the terrible blow which had fallen on Beauchene was -that for some weeks he remained quietly at home. Indeed, he seemed to -have profited by the terrible lesson, for he no longer coined lies, no -longer invented pressing business journeys as a pretext for dissipation. -He even set to work once more, and busied himself about the factory, -coming down every morning as in his younger days. And in Blaise he found -an active and devoted lieutenant, on whom he each day cast more and more -of the heavier work. Intimates were most struck, however, by the manner -in which Beauchene and his wife drew together again. Constance was most -attentive to her husband; Beauchene no longer left her, and they seemed -to agree well together, leading a very retired life in their quiet -house, where only relatives were now received. - -Constance, on the morrow of Maurice's sudden death, was like one who -has just lost a limb. It seemed to her that she was no longer whole; she -felt ashamed of being, as it were, disfigured. Mingled, too, with her -loving sorrow for Maurice there was humiliation at the thought that she -was no longer a mother, that she no longer had any heir-apparent to her -kingdom beside her. To think that she had been so stubbornly determined -to have but one son, one child, in order that he might become the sole -master of the family fortune, the all-powerful monarch of the future. -Death had stolen him from her, and the establishment now seemed to be -less her own, particularly since that fellow Blaise and his wife and -his child, representing those fruitful and all-invading Froments, were -installed there. She could no longer console herself for having welcomed -and lodged them, and her one passionate, all-absorbing desire was to -have another son, and thereby reconquer her empire. - -This it was which led to her reconciliation with her husband, and for -six months they lived together on the best of terms. Then, however, came -another six months, and it was evident that they no longer agreed so -well together, for Beauchene took himself off at times under the pretext -of seeking fresh air, and Constance remained at home, feverish, her eyes -red with weeping. - -One day Mathieu, who had come to Grenelle to see his daughter-in-law, -Charlotte, was lingering in the garden playing with little Berthe, who -had climbed upon his knees, when he was surprised by the sudden approach -of Constance, who must have seen him from her windows. She invented a -pretext to draw him into the house, and kept him there nearly a quarter -of an hour before she could make up her mind to speak her thoughts. -Then, all at once, she began: "My dear Mathieu, you must forgive me for -mentioning a painful matter, but there are reasons why I should do so. -Nearly fifteen years ago, I know it for a fact, my husband had a child -by a girl who was employed at the works. And I also know that you acted -as his intermediary on that occasion, and made certain arrangements with -respect to that girl and her child--a boy, was it not?" - -She paused for a reply. But Mathieu, stupefied at finding her so well -informed, and at a loss to understand why she spoke to him of that sorry -affair after the lapse of so many years, could only make a gesture by -which he betrayed both his surprise and his anxiety. - -"Oh!" said she, "I do not address any reproach to you; I am convinced -that your motives were quite friendly, even affectionate, and that you -wished to hush up a scandal which might have been very unpleasant for -me. Moreover, I do not desire to indulge in recriminations after so long -a time. My desire is simply for information. For a long time I did not -care to investigate the statements whereby I was informed of the affair. -But the recollection of it comes back to me and haunts me persistently, -and it is natural that I should apply to you. I have never spoken a word -on the subject to my husband, and indeed it is best for our tranquillity -that I should not attempt to extort a detailed confession from him. One -circumstance which has induced me to speak to you is that on an occasion -when I accompanied Madame Angelin to a house in the Rue de Miromesnil, -I perceived you there with that girl, who had another child in her arms. -So you have not lost sight of her, and you must know what she is doing, -and whether her first child is alive, and in that case where he is, and -how he is situated." - -Mathieu still refrained from replying, for Constance's increasing -feverishness put him on his guard, and impelled him to seek the motive -of such a strange application on the part of one who was as a rule so -proud and so discreet. What could be happening? Why did she strive to -provoke confidential revelations which might have far-reaching effects? -Then, as she closely scanned him with her keen eyes, he sought to answer -her with kind, evasive words. - -"You greatly embarrass me. And, besides, I know nothing likely to -interest you. What good would it do yourself or your husband to stir -up all the dead past? Take my advice, forget what people may have told -you--you are so sensible and prudent--" - -But she interrupted him, caught hold of his hands, and held them in her -warm, quivering grasp. Never before had she so behaved, forgetting and -surrendering herself so passionately. "I repeat," said she, "that nobody -has anything to fear from me--neither my husband, nor that girl, nor -the child. Cannot you understand me? I am simply tormented; I suffer at -knowing nothing. Yes, it seems to me that I shall feel more at ease when -I know the truth. It is for myself that I question you, for my own peace -of mind.... Ah! if I could only tell you, if I could tell you!" - -He began to divine many things; it was unnecessary for her to be more -explicit. He knew that during the past year she and her husband had been -hoping for the advent of a second child, and that none had come. As a -woman, Constance felt no jealousy of Norine, but as a mother she was -jealous of her son. She could not drive the thought of that child from -her mind; it ever and ever returned thither like a mocking insult now -that her hopes of replacing Maurice were fading fast. Day by day did -she dream more and more passionately of the other woman's son, wondering -where he was, what had become of him, whether he were healthy, and -whether he resembled his father. - -"I assure you, my dear Mathieu," she resumed, "that you will really -bring me relief by answering me. Is he alive? Tell me simply whether he -is alive. But do not tell me a lie. If he is dead I think that I shall -feel calmer. And yet, good heavens! I certainly wish him no evil." - -Then Mathieu, who felt deeply touched, told her the simple truth. - -"Since you insist on it, for the benefit of your peace of mind, and -since it is to remain entirely between us and to have no effect on your -home, I see no reason why I should not confide to you what I know. But -that is very little. The child was left at the Foundling Hospital in -my presence. Since then the mother, having never asked for news, has -received none. I need not add that your husband is equally ignorant, -for he always refused to have anything to do with the child. Is the lad -still alive? Where is he? Those are things which I cannot tell you. A -long inquiry would be necessary. If, however, you wish for my opinion, -I think it probable that he is dead, for the mortality among these poor -cast-off children is very great." - -Constance looked at him fixedly. "You are telling me the real truth? You -are hiding nothing?" she asked. And as he began to protest, she went on: -"Yes, yes, I have confidence in you. And so you believe that he is dead! -Ah! to think of all those children who die, when so many women would be -happy to save one, to have one for themselves. Well, if you haven't been -able to tell me anything positive, you have at least done your best. -Thank you." - -During the ensuing months Mathieu often found himself alone with -Constance, but she never reverted to the subject. She seemed to set -her energy on forgetting all about it, though he divined that it still -haunted her. Meantime things went from bad to worse in the Beauchene -household. The husband gradually went back to his former life of -debauchery, in spite of all the efforts of Constance to keep him near -her. She, for her part, clung to her fixed idea, and before long she -consulted Boutan. There was a terrible scene that day between husband -and wife in the doctor's presence. Constance raked up the story of -Norine and cast it in Beauchene's teeth, while he upbraided her in a -variety of ways. However, Boutan's advice, though followed for a time, -proved unavailing, and she at last lost confidence in him. Then she -spent months and months in consulting one and another. She placed -herself in the hands of Madame Bourdieu, she even went to see La Rouche, -she applied to all sorts of charlatans, exasperated to fury at finding -that there was no real succor for her. She might long ago have had a -family had she so chosen. But she had elected otherwise, setting all her -egotism and pride on that only son whom death had snatched away; and now -the motherhood she longed for was denied her. - -For nearly two years did Constance battle, and at last in despair she -was seized with the idea of consulting Dr. Gaude. He told her the brutal -truth; it was useless for her to address herself to charlatans; she -would simply be robbed by them; there was absolutely no hope for her. -And Gaude uttered those decisive words in a light, jesting way, as -though surprised and amused by her profound grief. She almost fainted -on the stairs as she left his flat, and for a moment indeed death seemed -welcome. But by a great effort of will she recovered self-possession, -the courage to face the life of loneliness that now lay before her. -Moreover, another idea vaguely dawned upon her, and the first time she -found herself alone with Mathieu she again spoke to him of Norine's boy. - -"Forgive me," said she, "for reverting to a painful subject, but I am -suffering too much now that I know there is no hope for me. I am haunted -by the thought of that illegitimate child of my husband's. Will you do -me a great service? Make the inquiry you once spoke to me about, try to -find out if he is alive or dead. I feel that when I know the facts peace -may perhaps return to me." - -Mathieu was almost on the point of answering her that, even if this -child were found again, it could hardly cure her of her grief at having -no child of her own. He had divined her agony at seeing Blaise take -Maurice's place at the works now that Beauchene had resumed his -dissolute life, and daily intrusted the young man with more and more -authority. Blaise's home was prospering too; Charlotte had now given -birth to a second child, a boy, and thus fruitfulness was invading the -place and usurpation becoming more and more likely, since Constance -could never more have an heir to bar the road of conquest. Without -penetrating her singular feelings, Mathieu fancied that she perhaps -wished to sound him to ascertain if he were not behind Blaise, urging -on the work of spoliation. She possibly imagined that her request -would make him anxious, and that he would refuse to make the necessary -researches. At this idea he decided to do as she desired, if only to -show her that he was above all the base calculations of ambition. - -"I am at your disposal, cousin," said he. "It is enough for me that this -inquiry may give you a little relief. But if the lad is alive, am I to -bring him to you?" - -"Oh! no, no, I do not ask that!" And then, gesticulating almost wildly, -she stammered: "I don't know what I want, but I suffer so dreadfully -that I am scarce able to live!" - -In point of fact a tempest raged within her, but she really had no -settled plan. One could hardly say that she really thought of that -boy as a possible heir. In spite of her hatred of all conquerors from -without, was it likely that she would accept him as a conqueror, in -the face of her outraged womanly feelings and her bourgeois horror -of illegitimacy? And yet if he were not her son, he was at least her -husband's. And perhaps an idea of saving her empire by placing the works -in the hands of that heir was dimly rising within her, above all her -prejudices and her rancor. But however that might be, her feelings for -the time remained confused, and the only clear thing was her desperate -torment at being now and forever childless, a torment which goaded her -on to seek another's child with the wild idea of making that child in -some slight degree her own. - -Mathieu, however, asked her, "Am I to inform Beauchene of the steps I -take?" - -"Do you as you please," she answered. "Still, that would be the best." - -That same evening there came a complete rupture between herself and her -husband. She threw in Beauchene's face all the contempt and loathing -that she had felt for him for years. Hopeless as she was, she revenged -herself by telling him everything that she had on her heart and -mind. And her slim dark figure, upborne by bitter rage, assumed such -redoubtable proportions in his eyes that he felt frightened by her and -fled. Henceforth they were husband and wife in name only. It was logic -on the march, it was the inevitable disorganization of a household -reaching its climax, it was rebellion against nature's law and -indulgence in vice leading to the gradual decline of a man of -intelligence, it was a hard worker sinking into the sloth of so-called -pleasure; and then, death having snatched away the only son, the home -broke to pieces--the wife--fated to childlessness, and the husband -driven away by her, rolling through debauchery towards final ruin. - -But Mathieu, keeping his promise to Constance, discreetly began his -researches. And before he even consulted Beauchene it occurred to him to -apply at the Foundling Hospital. If, as he anticipated, the child were -dead, the affair would go no further. Fortunately enough he remembered -all the particulars: the two names, Alexandre-Honore, given to the -child, the exact date of the deposit at the hospital, indeed all the -little incidents of the day when he had driven thither with La Couteau. -And when he was received by the director of the establishment, and had -explained to him the real motives of his inquiries, at the same time -giving his name, he was surprised by the promptness and precision of -the answer: Alexandre-Honore, put out to nurse with the woman Loiseau -at Rougemont, had first kept cows, and had then tried the calling of a -locksmith; but for three months past he had been in apprenticeship with -a wheelwright, a certain Montoir, residing at Saint-Pierre, a hamlet in -the vicinity of Rougemont. Thus the lad lived; he was fifteen years old, -and that was all. Mathieu could obtain no further information respecting -either his physical health or his morality. - -When Mathieu found himself in the street again, slightly dazed, he -remembered that La Couteau had told him that the child would be sent -to Rougemont. He had always pictured it dying there, carried off by the -hurricane which killed so many babes, and lying in the silent village -cemetery paved with little Parisians. To find the boy alive, saved -from the massacre, came like a surprise of destiny, and brought vague -anguish, a fear of some terrible catastrophe to Mathieu's heart. At the -same time, since the boy was living, and he now knew where to seek him, -he felt that he must warn Beauchene. The matter was becoming serious, -and it seemed to him that he ought not to carry the inquiry any further -without the father's authorization. - -That same day, then, before returning to Chantebled, he repaired to -the factory, where he was lucky enough to find Beauchene, whom Blaise's -absence on business had detained there by force. Thus he was in a very -bad humor, puffing and yawning and half asleep. It was nearly three -o'clock, and he declared that he could never digest his lunch properly -unless he went out afterwards. The truth was that since his rupture with -his wife he had been devoting his afternoons to paying attentions to a -girl serving at a beer-house. - -"Ah! my good fellow," he muttered as he stretched himself. "My blood is -evidently thickening. I must bestir myself, or else I shall be in a bad -way." - -However, he woke up when Mathieu had explained the motive of his visit. -At first he could scarcely understand it, for the affair seemed to him -so extraordinary, so idiotic. - -"Eh? What do you say? It was my wife who spoke to you about that child? -It is she who has taken it into her head to collect information and -start a search?" - -His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violent -that he could scarcely stutter. When he heard, however, of the mission -with which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded: "She -is mad! I tell you that she is raving mad! Were such fancies ever seen? -Every morning she invents something fresh to distract me!" - -Without heeding this interruption, Mathieu quietly finished his -narrative: "And so I have just come back from the Foundling Hospital, -where I learnt that the boy is alive. I have his address--and now what -am I to do?" - -This was the final blow. Beauchene clenched his fists and raised his -arms in exasperation. "Ah! well, here's a nice state of things! But why -on earth does she want to trouble me about that boy? He isn't hers! Why -can't she leave us alone, the boy and me? It's my affair. And I ask you -if it is at all proper for my wife to send you running about after him? -Besides, I hope that you are not going to bring him to her. What on -earth could we do with that little peasant, who may have every vice? -Just picture him coming between us. I tell you that she is mad, mad, -mad!" - -He had begun to walk angrily to and fro. All at once he stopped: "My -dear fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead." - -But he turned pale and recoiled. Constance stood on the threshold -and had heard him. For some time past she had been in the habit of -stealthily prowling around the offices, like one on the watch for -something. For a moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which both -men displayed, she remained silent. Then, without even addressing her -husband, she asked: "He is alive, is he not?" - -Mathieu could but tell her the truth. He answered with a nod. Then -Beauchene, in despair, made a final effort: "Come, be reasonable, -my dear. As I was saying only just now, we don't even know what this -youngster's character is. You surely don't want to upset our life for -the mere pleasure of doing so?" - -Standing there, lean and frigid, she gave him a harsh glance; then, -turning her back on him, she demanded the child's name, and the names of -the wheelwright and the locality. "Good, you say Alexandre-Honore, with -Montoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados. -Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavor -to procure me some precise information about this boy's habits and -disposition. Be prudent, too; don't give anybody's name. And thanks for -what you have done already; thanks for all you are doing for me." - -Thereupon she took herself off without giving any further explanation, -without even telling her husband of the vague plans she was forming. -Beneath her crushing contempt he had grown calm again. Why should he -spoil his life of egotistical pleasure by resisting that mad creature? -All that he need do was to put on his hat and betake himself to his -usual diversions. And so he ended by shrugging his shoulders. - -"After all, let her pick him up if she chooses, it won't be my doing. -Act as she asks you, my dear fellow; continue your researches and try to -content her. Perhaps she will then leave me in peace. But I've had quite -enough of it for to-day; good-by, I'm going out." - -With the view of obtaining some information of Rougemont, Mathieu at -first thought of applying to La Couteau, if he could find her again; for -which purpose it occurred to him that he might call on Madame Bourdieu -in the Rue de Miromesnil. But another and more certain means suggested -itself. He had been led to renew his intercourse with the Seguins, of -whom he had for a time lost sight; and, much to his surprise, he had -found Valentine's former maid, Celeste, in the Avenue d'Antin once more. -Through this woman, he thought, he might reach La Couteau direct. - -The renewal of the intercourse between the Froments and the Seguins was -due to a very happy chance. Mathieu's son Ambroise, on leaving college, -had entered the employment of an uncle of Seguin's, Thomas du Hordel, -one of the wealthiest commission merchants in Paris; and this old man, -who, despite his years, remained very sturdy, and still directed his -business with all the fire of youth, had conceived a growing fondness -for Ambroise, who had great mental endowments and a real genius for -commerce. Du Hordel's own children had consisted of two daughters, one -of whom had died young, while the other had married a madman, who had -lodged a bullet in his head and had left her childless and crazy like -himself. This partially explained the deep grandfatherly interest which -Du Hordel took in young Ambroise, who was the handsomest of all the -Froments, with a clear complexion, large black eyes, brown hair that -curled naturally, and manners of much refinement and elegance. But -the old man was further captivated by the young fellow's spirit of -enterprise, the four modern languages which he spoke so readily, and -the evident mastery which he would some day show in the management of -a business which extended over the five parts of the world. In his -childhood, among his brothers and sisters, Ambroise had always been the -boldest, most captivating and self-assertive. The others might be better -than he, but he reigned over them like a handsome, ambitious, greedy -boy, a future man of gayety and conquest. And this indeed he proved to -be; by the charm of his victorious intellect he conquered old Du Hordel -in a few months, even as later on he was destined to vanquish everybody -and everything much as he pleased. His strength lay in his power of -pleasing and his power of action, a blending of grace with the most -assiduous industry. - -About this time Seguin and his uncle, who had never set foot in the -house of the Avenue d'Antin since insanity had reigned there, drew -together again. Their apparent reconciliation was the outcome of a drama -shrouded in secrecy. Seguin, hard up and in debt, cast off by Nora, -who divined his approaching ruin, and preyed upon by other voracious -creatures, had ended by committing, on the turf, one of those indelicate -actions which honest people call thefts. Du Hordel, on being apprised of -the matter, had hastened forward and had paid what was due in order -to avoid a frightful scandal. And he was so upset by the extraordinary -muddle in which he found his nephew's home, once all prosperity, that -remorse came upon him as if he were in some degree responsible for what -had happened, since he had egotistically kept away from his relatives -for his own peace's sake. But he was more particularly won over by his -grandniece Andree, now a delicious young girl well-nigh eighteen years -of age, and therefore marriageable. She alone sufficed to attract him -to the house, and he was greatly distressed by the dangerous state of -abandonment in which he found her. - -Her father continued dragging out his worthless life away from home. Her -mother, Valentine, had just emerged from a frightful crisis, her final -rupture with Santerre, who had made up his mind to marry a very wealthy -old lady, which, after all, was the logical destiny of such a crafty -exploiter of women, one who behind his affectation of cultured pessimism -had the vilest and greediest of natures. Valentine, distracted by this -rupture, had now thrown herself into religion, and, like her husband, -disappeared from the house for whole days. She was said to be an -active helpmate of old Count de Navarede, the president of a society of -Catholic propaganda. Gaston, her son, having left Saint-Cyr three months -previously, was now at the Cavalry School of Saumur, so fired with -passion for a military career that he already spoke of remaining a -bachelor, since a soldier's sword should be his only love, his only -spouse. Then Lucie, now nineteen years old, and full of mystical -exaltation, had already entered an Ursuline convent for her novitiate. -And in the big empty home, whence father, mother, brother and sister -fled, there remained but the gentle and adorable Andree, exposed to all -the blasts of insanity which even now swept through the household, -and so distressed by loneliness, that her uncle, Du Hordel, full of -compassionate affection, conceived the idea of giving her a husband in -the person of young Ambroise, the future conqueror. - -This plan was helped on by the renewed presence of Celeste the maid. -Eight years had elapsed since Valentine had been obliged to dismiss this -woman for immorality; and during those eight years Celeste, weary of -service, had tried a number of equivocal callings of which she did not -speak. She had ended by turning up at Rougemont, her native place, in -bad health and such a state of wretchedness, that for the sake of a -living she went out as a charwoman there. Then she gradually recovered -her health, and accumulated a little stock of clothes, thanks to the -protection of the village priest, whom she won over by an affectation -of extreme piety. It was at Rougemont, no doubt, that she planned her -return to the Seguins, of whose vicissitudes she was informed by La -Couteau, the latter having kept up her intercourse with Madame Menoux, -the little haberdasher of the neighborhood. - -Valentine, shortly after her rupture with Santerre, one day of furious -despair, when she had again dismissed all her servants, was surprised by -the arrival of Celeste, who showed herself so repentant, so devoted, and -so serious-minded, that her former mistress felt touched. She made her -weep on reminding her of her faults, and asking her to swear before God -that she would never repeat them; for Celeste now went to confession and -partook of the holy communion, and carried with her a certificate from -the Cure of Rougemont vouching for her deep piety and high morality. -This certificate acted decisively on Valentine, who, unwilling to remain -at home, and weary of the troubles of housekeeping, understood what -precious help she might derive from this woman. On her side Celeste -certainly relied upon power being surrendered to her. Two months later, -by favoring Lucie's excessive partiality to religious practices, she had -helped her into a convent. Gaston showed himself only when he secured a -few days' leave. And so Andree alone remained at home, impeding by her -presence the great general pillage that Celeste dreamt of. The maid -therefore became a most active worker on behalf of her young mistress's -marriage. - -Andree, it should be said, was comprised in Ambroise's universal -conquest. She had met him at her uncle Du Hordel's house for a year -before it occurred to the latter to marry them. She was a very gentle -girl, a little golden-haired sheep, as her mother sometimes said. And -that handsome, smiling young man, who evinced so much kindness towards -her, became the subject of her thoughts and hopes whenever she suffered -from loneliness and abandonment. Thus, when her uncle prudently -questioned her, she flung herself into his arms, weeping big tears -of gratitude and confession. Valentine, on being approached, at first -manifested some surprise. What, a son of the Froments! Those Froments -had already taken Chantebled from them, and did they now want to -take one of their daughters? Then, amid the collapse of fortune and -household, she could find no reasonable objection to urge. She had never -been attached to Andree. She accused La Catiche, the nurse, of having -made the child her own. That gentle, docile, emotional little sheep was -not a Seguin, she often remarked. Then, while feigning to defend the -girl, Celeste embittered her mother against her, and inspired her with -a desire to see the marriage promptly concluded, in order that she might -free herself from her last cares and live as she wished. Thus, after a -long chat with Mathieu, who promised his consent, it remained only for -Du Hordel to assure himself of Seguin's approval before an application -in due form was made. It was difficult, however, to find Seguin in a -suitable frame of mind. So weeks were lost, and it became necessary to -pacify Ambroise, who was very much in love, and was doubtless warned by -his all-invading genius that this loving and simple girl would bring him -a kingdom in her apron. - -One day when Mathieu was passing along the Avenue d'Antin, it occurred -to him to call at the house to ascertain if Seguin had re-appeared -there, for he had suddenly taken himself off without warning, and had -gone, so it was believed, to Italy. Then, as Mathieu found himself alone -with Celeste, the opportunity seemed to him an excellent one to discover -La Couteau's whereabouts. He asked for news of her, saying that a friend -of his was in need of a good nurse. - -"Well, monsieur, you are in luck's way," the maid replied; "La Couteau -is to bring a child home to our neighbor, Madame Menoux, this very day. -It is nearly four o'clock now, and that is the time when she promised to -come. You know Madame Menoux's place, do you not? It is the third shop -in the first street on the left." Then she apologized for being unable -to conduct him thither: "I am alone," she said; "we still have no news -of the master. On Wednesdays Madame presides at the meeting of her -society, and Mademoiselle Andree has just gone out walking with her -uncle." - -Mathieu hastily repaired to Madame Menoux's shop. From a distance he saw -her standing on the threshold; age had made her thinner than ever; at -forty she was as slim as a young girl, with a long and pointed face. -Silent labor consumed her; for twenty years she had been desperately -selling bits of cotton and packages of needles without ever making a -fortune, but pleased, nevertheless, at being able to add her modest -gains to her husband's monthly salary in order to provide him with -sundry little comforts. His rheumatism would no doubt soon compel him to -relinquish his post as a museum attendant, and how would they be able to -manage with his pension of a few hundred francs per annum if she did not -keep up her business? Moreover, they had met with no luck. Their first -child had died, and some years had elapsed before the birth of a second -boy, whom they had greeted with delight, no doubt, though he would prove -a heavy burden to them, especially as they had now decided to take him -back from the country. Thus Mathieu found the worthy woman in a state of -great emotion, waiting for the child on the threshold of her shop, and -watching the corner of the avenue. - -"Oh! it was Celeste who sent you, monsieur! No, La Couteau hasn't come -yet. I'm quite astonished at it; I expect her every moment. Will you -kindly step inside, monsieur, and sit down?" - -He refused the only chair which blocked up the narrow passage where -scarcely three customers could have stood in a row. Behind a glass -partition one perceived the dim back shop, which served as kitchen and -dining-room and bedchamber, and which received only a little air from a -damp inner yard which suggested a sewer shaft. - -"As you see, monsieur, we have scarcely any room," continued Madame -Menoux; "but then we pay only eight hundred francs rent, and where else -could we find a shop at that price? And besides, I have been here for -nearly twenty years, and have worked up a little regular custom in the -neighborhood. Oh! I don't complain of the place myself, I'm not big, -there is always sufficient room for me. And as my husband comes home -only in the evening, and then sits down in his armchair to smoke his -pipe, he isn't so much inconvenienced. I do all I can for him, and he is -reasonable enough not to ask me to do more. But with a child I fear that -it will be impossible to get on here." - -The recollection of her first boy, her little Pierre, returned to her, -and her eyes filled with tears. "Ah! monsieur, that was ten years ago, -and I can still see La Couteau bringing him back to me, just as she'll -be bringing the other by and by. I was told so many tales; there was -such good air at Rougemont, and the children led such healthy lives, and -my boy had such rosy cheeks, that I ended by leaving him there till he -was five years old, regretting that I had no room for him here. And no, -you can't have an idea of all the presents that the nurse wheedled out -of me, of all the money that I paid! It was ruination! And then, all at -once, I had just time to send for the boy, and he was brought back to me -as thin and pale and weak, as if he had never tasted good bread in his -life. Two months later he died in my arms. His father fell ill over it, -and if we hadn't been attached to one another, I think we should both -have gone and drowned ourselves." - -Scarce wiping her eyes she feverishly returned to the threshold, and -again cast a passionate expectant glance towards the avenue. And when -she came back, having seen nothing, she resumed: "So you will understand -our emotion when, two years ago, though I was thirty-seven, I again had -a little boy. We were wild with delight, like a young married couple. -But what a lot of trouble and worry! We had to put the little fellow out -to nurse as we let the other one, since we could not possibly keep him -here. And even after swearing that he should not go to Rougemont we -ended by saying that we at least knew the place, and that he would not -be worse off there than elsewhere. Only we sent him to La Vimeux, for we -wouldn't hear any more of La Loiseau since she sent Pierre back in such -a fearful state. And this time, as the little fellow is now two years -old, I was determined to have him home again, though I don't even know -where I shall put him. I've been waiting for an hour now, and I can't -help trembling, for I always fear some catastrophe." - -She could not remain in the shop, but remained standing by the doorway, -with her neck outstretched and her eyes fixed on the street corner. All -at once a deep cry came from her: "Ah! here they are!" - -Leisurely, and with a sour, harassed air, La Couteau came in and placed -the sleeping child in Madame Menoux's arms, saying as she did so: "Well, -your George is a tidy weight, I can tell you. You won't say that I've -brought you this one back like a skeleton." - -Quivering, her legs sinking beneath her for very joy, the mother had -been obliged to sit down, keeping her child on her knees, kissing him, -examining him, all haste to see if he were in good health and likely to -live. He had a fat and rather pale face, and seemed big, though puffy. -When she had unfastened his wraps, her hands trembling the while with -nervousness, she found that he was pot-bellied, with small legs and -arms. - -"He is very big about the body," she murmured, ceasing to smile, and -turning gloomy with renewed fears. - -"Ah, yes! complain away!" said La Couteau. "The other was too thin; this -one will be too fat. Mothers are never satisfied!" - -At the first glance Mathieu had detected that the child was one of those -who are fed on pap, stuffed for economy's sake with bread and water, -and fated to all the stomachic complaints of early childhood. And at -the sight of the poor little fellow, Rougemont, the frightful -slaughter-place, with its daily massacre of the innocents, arose in his -memory, such as it had been described to him in years long past. -There was La Loiseau, whose habits were so abominably filthy that her -nurslings rotted as on a manure heap; there was La Vimeux, who never -purchased a drop of milk, but picked up all the village crusts and made -bran porridge for her charges as if they had been pigs; there was La -Gavette too, who, being always in the fields, left her nurslings in -the charge of a paralytic old man, who sometimes let them fall into the -fire; and there was La Cauchois, who, having nobody to watch the babes, -contented herself with tying them in their cradles, leaving them in -the company of fowls which came in bands to peck at their eyes. And the -scythe of death swept by; there was wholesale assassination; doors were -left wide open before rows of cradles, in order to make room for fresh -bundles despatched from Paris. Yet all did not die; here, for instance, -was one brought home again. But even when they came back alive they -carried with them the germs of death, and another hecatomb ensued, -another sacrifice to the monstrous god of social egotism. - -"I'm tired out; I must sit down," resumed La Couteau, seating herself -on the narrow bench behind the counter. "Ah! what a trade! And to -think that we are always received as if we were heartless criminals and -thieves!" - -She also had become withered, her sunburnt, tanned face suggesting more -than ever the beak of a bird of prey. But her eyes remained very keen, -sharpened as it were by ferocity. She no doubt failed to get rich fast -enough, for she continued wailing, complaining of her calling, of the -increasing avarice of parents, of the demands of the authorities, of the -warfare which was being declared against nurse-agents on all sides. Yes, -it was a lost calling, said she, and really God must have abandoned her -that she should still be compelled to carry it on at forty-five years -of age. "It will end by killing me," she added; "I shall always get more -kicks than money at it. How unjust it is! Here have I brought you back -a superb child, and yet you look anything but pleased--it's enough to -disgust one of doing one's best!" - -In thus complaining her object perhaps was to extract from the -haberdasher as large a present as possible. Madame Menoux was certainly -disturbed by it all. Her boy woke up and began to wail loudly, and it -became necessary to give him a little lukewarm milk. At last, when the -accounts were settled, the nurse-agent, seeing that she would have ten -francs for herself, grew calmer. She was about to take her leave when -Madame Menoux, pointing to Mathieu, exclaimed: "This gentleman wished to -speak to you on business." - -Although La Couteau had not seen the gentleman for several years past, -she had recognized him perfectly well. Still she had not even turned -towards him, for she knew him to be mixed up in so many matters that his -discretion was a certainty. And so she contented herself with saying: -"If monsieur will kindly explain to me what it is I shall be quite at -his service." - -"I will accompany you," replied Mathieu; "we can speak together as we -walk along." - -"Very good, that will suit me well, for I am rather in a hurry." - -Once outside, Mathieu resolved that he would try no ruses with her. The -best course was to tell her plainly what he wanted, and then to buy -her silence. At the first words he spoke she understood him. She well -remembered Norine's child, although in her time she had carried dozens -of children to the Foundling Hospital. The particular circumstances of -that case, however, the conversation which had taken place, her -drive with Mathieu in a cab, had all remained engraved on her memory. -Moreover, she had found that child again, at Rougemont, five days later; -and she even remembered that her friend the hospital-attendant had -left it with La Loiseau. But she had occupied herself no more about it -afterwards; and she believed that it was now dead, like so many others. -When she heard Mathieu speak of the hamlet of Saint-Pierre, of Montoir -the wheelwright, and of Alexandre-Honore, now fifteen, who must be in -apprenticeship there, she evinced great surprise. - -"Oh, you must be mistaken, monsieur," she said; "I know Montoir at -Saint-Pierre very well. And he certainly has a lad from the Foundling, -of the age you mention, at his place. But that lad came from La -Cauchois; he is a big carroty fellow named Richard, who arrived at our -village some days before the other. I know who his mother was; she -was an English woman called Amy, who stopped more than once at Madame -Bourdieu's. That ginger-haired lad is certainly not your Norine's boy. -Alexandre-Honore was dark." - -"Well, then," replied Mathieu, "there must be another apprentice at the -wheelwright's. My information is precise, it was given me officially." - -After a moment's perplexity La Couteau made a gesture of ignorance, -and admitted that Mathieu might be right. "It's possible," said she; -"perhaps Montoir has two apprentices. He does a good business, and as -I haven't been to Saint-Pierre for some months now I can say nothing -certain. Well, and what do you desire of me, monsieur?" - -He then gave her very clear instructions. She was to obtain the most -precise information possible about the lad's health, disposition, and -conduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him, -whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth. Briefly, the -inquiry was to be complete. But, above all things, she was to carry it -on in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boy -himself nor the folks of the district. There must be absolute secrecy. - -"All that is easy," replied La Couteau, "I understand perfectly, and you -can rely on me. I shall need a little time, however, and the best plan -will be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I next -come to Paris. And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, at -two o'clock, at Broquette's office in the Rue Roquepine. I am quite at -home there, and the place is like a tomb." - -Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchene works with his -son Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her and -questioned him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what steps -he had taken. When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau for -the Wednesday of the ensuing week, she said to him in her resolute way: -"Come and fetch me. I wish to question that woman myself. I want to be -quite certain on the matter." - -In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette's nurse-office in the -Rue Roquepine had remained the same as formerly, except that Madame -Broquette was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie. -The sudden loss of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed such -a decorative presence and so ably represented the high morality and -respectability of the establishment, had at first seemed a severe one. -But it so happened that Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creature -that she was, gorged with novel-reading, also proved in her way a -distinguished figurehead for the office. She was already thirty and was -still unmarried, feeling indeed nothing but loathing for all the mothers -laden with whining children by whom she was surrounded. Moreover, M. -Broquette, her father, though now more than five-and-seventy, secretly -remained the all-powerful, energetic director of the place, discharging -all needful police duties, drilling new nurses like recruits, remaining -ever on the watch and incessantly perambulating the three floors of his -suspicious, dingy lodging-house. - -La Couteau was waiting for Mathieu in the doorway. On perceiving -Constance, whom she did not know, for she had never previously met her, -she seemed surprised. Who could that lady be? what had she to do with -the affair? However, she promptly extinguished the bright gleam of -curiosity which for a moment lighted up her eyes; and as Herminie, with -distinguished nonchalance, was at that moment exhibiting a party of -nurses to two gentlemen in the office, she took her visitors into the -empty refectory, where the atmosphere was as usual tainted by a horrible -stench of cookery. - -"You must excuse me, monsieur and madame," she exclaimed, "but there is -no other room free just now. The place is full." - -Then she carried her keen glances from Mathieu to Constance, preferring -to wait until she was questioned, since another person was now in the -secret. - -"You can speak out," said Mathieu. "Did you make the inquiries I spoke -to you about?" - -"Certainly, monsieur. They were made, and properly made, I think." - -"Then tell us the result: I repeat that you can speak freely before this -lady." - -"Oh! monsieur, it won't take me long. You were quite right: there were -two apprentices at the wheelwright's at Saint-Pierre, and one of them -was Alexandre-Honore, the pretty blonde's child, the same that we took -together over yonder. He had been there, I found, barely two months, -after trying three or four other callings, and that explains my -ignorance of the circumstance. Only he's a lad who can stay nowhere, and -so three weeks ago he took himself off." - -Constance could not restrain an exclamation of anxiety: "What! took -himself off?" - -"Yes, madame, I mean that he ran away, and this time it is quite certain -that he has left the district, for he disappeared with three hundred -francs belonging to Montoir, his master." - -La Couteau's dry voice rang as if it were an axe dealing a deadly -blow. Although she could not understand the lady's sudden pallor and -despairing emotion, she certainly seemed to derive cruel enjoyment from -it. - -"Are you quite sure of your information?" resumed Constance, struggling -against the facts. "That is perhaps mere village tittle-tattle." - -"Tittle-tattle, madame? Oh! when I undertake to do anything I do -it properly. I spoke to the gendarmes. They have scoured the whole -district, and it is certain that Alexandre-Honore left no address behind -him when he went off with those three hundred francs. He is still on the -run. As for that I'll stake my name on it." - -This was indeed a hard blow for Constance. That lad, whom she fancied -she had found again, of whom she dreamt incessantly, and on whom she had -based so many unacknowledgable plans of vengeance, escaped her, vanished -once more into the unknown! She was distracted by it as by some -pitiless stroke of fate, some fresh and irreparable defeat. However, she -continued the interrogatory. - -"Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed to -question everybody." - -"That is precisely what I did, madame. I saw the schoolmaster, and I -spoke to the other persons who had employed the lad. They all told me -that he was a good-for-nothing. The schoolmaster remembered that he had -been a liar and a bully. Now he's a thief; that makes him perfect. I -can't say otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plain -truth." - -La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady's -suffering increased. And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang at -each fresh accusation, as if her husband's illegitimate child had become -in some degree her own! She ended indeed by silencing the nurse-agent. - -"Thank you. The boy is no longer at Rougemont, that is all we wished to -know." - -La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, in -order to give him his money's worth. - -"I also made the other apprentice talk a bit," said she; "you know, that -big carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about. He's another -whom I wouldn't willingly trust. But it's certain that he doesn't know -where his companion has gone. The gendarmes think that Alexandre is in -Paris." - -Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her a -bank-note for fifty francs--a gift which brought a smile to her face -and rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, "as discreetly -silent as the grave." Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, -and Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another's hands in the -kitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her native -dirt, Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to follow -her companion away. Once in the street, instead of entering the cab -which was waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau's final -words. - -"Did you hear?" she exclaimed. "That wretched lad may be in Paris." - -"That is probable enough; they all end by stranding here." - -Constance again hesitated, reflected, and finally made up her mind to -say in a somewhat tremulous voice: "And the mother, my friend; you know -where she lives, don't you? Did you not tell me that you had concerned -yourself about her?" - -"Yes, I did." - -"Then listen--and above all, don't be astonished; pity me, for I am -really suffering. An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems to -me that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother. Perhaps he -is with her, or she may at least know where he lodges. Oh! don't tell me -that it is impossible. On the contrary, everything is possible." - -Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmness -now giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he would -make inquiries. Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, but -continued gazing at the pavement. And when she once more raised her -eyes, she spoke to him entreatingly, in an embarrassed, humble manner: -"Do you know what we ought to do? Excuse me, but it is a service I shall -never forget. If I could only know the truth at once it might calm me a -little. Well, let us drive to that woman's now. Oh! I won't go up; you -can go alone, while I wait in the cab at the street corner. And perhaps -you will obtain some news." - -It was an insane idea, and he was at first minded to prove this to her. -Then, on looking at her, she seemed to him so wretched, so painfully -tortured, that without a word, making indeed but a kindly gesture of -compassion, he consented. And the cab carried them away. - -The large room in which Norine and Cecile lived together was at -Grenelle, near the Champ de Mars, in a street at the end of the Rue de -la Federation. They had been there for nearly six years now, and in the -earlier days had experienced much worry and wretchedness. But the child -whom they had to feed and save had on his side saved them also. The -motherly feelings slumbering in Norine's heart had awakened with -passionate intensity for that poor little one as soon as she had given -him the breast and learnt to watch over him and kiss him. And it was -also wondrous to see how that unfortunate creature Cecile regarded -the child as in some degree her own. He had indeed two mothers, whose -thoughts were for him alone. If Norine, during the first few months, had -often wearied of spending her days in pasting little boxes together, if -even thoughts of flight had at times come to her, she had always been -restrained by the puny arms that were clasped around her neck. And now -she had grown calm, sensible, diligent, and very expert at the light -work which Cecile had taught her. It was a sight to see them both, gay -and closely united in their little home, which was like a convent cell, -spending their days at their little table; while between them was their -child, their one source of life, of hard-working courage and happiness. - -Since they had been living thus they had made but one good friend, -and this was Madame Angelin. As a delegate of the Poor Relief Service, -intrusted with one of the Grenelle districts, Madame Angelin had found -Norine among the pensioners over whom she was appointed to watch. A -feeling of affection for the two mothers, as she called the sisters, had -sprung up within her, and she had succeeded in inducing the authorities -to prolong the child's allowance of thirty francs a month for a period -of three years. Then she had obtained scholastic assistance for him, not -to mention frequent presents which she brought--clothes, linen, and -even money--for apart from official matters, charitable people often -intrusted her with fairly large sums, which she distributed among the -most meritorious of the poor mothers whom she visited. And even nowadays -she occasionally called on the sisters, well pleased to spend an hour -in that nook of quiet toil, which the laughter and the play of the child -enlivened. She there felt herself to be far away from the world, and -suffered less from her own misfortunes. And Norine kissed her hands, -declaring that without her the little household of the two mothers would -never have managed to exist. - -When Mathieu appeared there, cries of delight arose. He also was a -friend, a saviour--the one who, by first taking and furnishing the -large room, had founded the household. It was a very clean room, almost -coquettish with its white curtains, and rendered very cheerful by its -two large windows, which admitted the golden radiance of the afternoon -sun. Norine and Cecile were working at the table, cutting out cardboard -and pasting it together, while the little one, who had come home from -school, sat between them on a high chair, gravely handling a pair of -scissors and fully persuaded that he was helping them. - -"Oh! is it you? How kind of you to come to see us! Nobody has called -for five days past. Oh! we don't complain of it. We are so happy alone -together! Since Irma married a clerk she has treated us with disdain. -Euphrasie can no longer come down her stairs. Victor and his wife live -so far away. And as for that rascal Alfred, he only comes up here to see -if he can find something to steal. Mamma called five days ago to tell us -that papa had narrowly escaped being killed at the works on the previous -day. Poor mamma! she is so worn out that before long she won't be able -to take a step." - -While the sisters thus rattled on both together, one beginning a -sentence and the other finishing it, Mathieu looked at Norine, -who, thanks to that peaceful and regular life, had regained in her -thirty-sixth year a freshness of complexion that suggested a superb, -mature fruit gilded by the sun. And even the slender Cecile had acquired -strength, the strength which love's energy can impart even to a childish -form. - -All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: "Oh! he -has hurt himself, the poor little fellow." And at once she snatched the -scissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood at -the tip of one of his fingers. - -"Oh! good Heavens," murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, "I -feared that he had slit his hand." - -For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose by -fulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to him -that it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the young -woman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of work -which she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, only -revealing the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a moment -when, after reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honore, it became -necessary for him to add that the boy was living. - -The mother looked at Mathieu in evident consternation. "He is living, -living! Why do you tell me that? I was so pleased at knowing nothing." - -"No doubt; but it is best that you should know. I have even been assured -that he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have found -you, and have come to see you." - -At this she lost all self-possession. "What! Have come to see me! Nobody -has been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don't -want him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling on -me like that--a lad I don't know and don't care for! Oh! no, no; prevent -it, I beg of you; I couldn't--I couldn't bear it!" - -With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and had -caught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as if -to shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by his -resurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the younger -lad's place. - -"No, no!" she cried. "I have but one child; there is only one I love; I -don't want any other." - -Cecile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister to -reason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turn -him out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for the -abandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. -It became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that he -regarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exact -truth, he spoke of the elder lad's disappearance, adding, however, that -he must be ignorant even of his mother's name. Thus, when he left the -sisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their little -boxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrusted -the scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men. - -Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, was -looking out of the cab window, watching the house-door. - -"Well?" she asked, quivering, as soon as Mathieu was near her. - -"Well, the mother knows nothing and has seen nobody. It was a foregone -conclusion." - -She sank down as if from some supreme collapse, and her ashen face -became quite distorted. "You are right, it was certain," said she; -"still one always hopes." And with a gesture of despair she added: "It -is all ended now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead." - -Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an address -in order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to have -lost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as she -asked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he replied -that he wished to call on the Seguins. The fear of finding herself alone -again so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave her -the idea of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for some -time past. - -"Get in," she said to Mathieu; "we will go to the Avenue d'Antin -together." - -The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they had -not a word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching their -destination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: "You must give my -husband the good news, and tell him that the boy has disappeared. Ah! -what a relief for him!" - -Mathieu, on calling in the Avenue d'Antin, had hoped to find the Seguins -assembled there. Seguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knew -whence, a week previously, when Andree's hand had been formally asked -of him; and after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evinced -great willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediately -been fixed for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marry -off their daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might take -place at Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. This -being arranged, Ambroise was accepted as fiance, and to his great -delight was able to call at the Seguins' every day, about five o'clock, -to pay his court according to established usage. It was on account of -this that Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home. - -When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her that -Madame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Seguin, the -man replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at home -with her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs. - -"What! are you left all alone?" exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving the -young couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room on -the first floor, which Seguin had once called his "cabinet." - -"Why, yes, we are alone in the house," Andree answered with a charming -laugh. "We are very pleased at it." - -They looked adorable, thus seated side by side--she so gentle, of such -tender beauty--he with all the fascinating charm that was blended with -his strength. - -"Isn't Celeste there at any rate?" again inquired Mathieu. - -"No, she has disappeared we don't know where." And again they laughed -like free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonely -forest. - -"Well, you cannot be very lively all alone like this." - -"Oh! we don't feel at all bored, we have so many things to talk about. -And then we look at one another. And there is never an end to it all." - -Though her heart bled, Constance could not help admiring them. Ah, to -think of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home all -was blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destined -to increase forever! For this again was a conquest--those two children -left free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuous -mansion which to-morrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, -Constance turned towards Mathieu: "Are you not also marrying your eldest -daughter?" she asked. - -"Yes, Rose," Mathieu gayly responded. "We shall have a grand fete at -Chantebled next May! You must all of you come there." - -'Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life proved -victorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Seguins, and now -their very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beauchene -works themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise. - -"We will go," she answered, quivering. "And may your good luck -continue--that is what I wish you." - - - - -XVI - -AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was to -prove, so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, -it had occurred to Mathieu's daughter Rose to gather the whole family -together one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for the -ceremony. She and her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were to -repair to Janville station in the morning to meet the other affianced -pair, Ambroise and Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to the -farm where they would all lunch together. It would be a kind of wedding -rehearsal, she exclaimed with her hearty laugh; they would be able to -arrange the programme for the great day. And her idea enraptured her -to such a point, she seemed to anticipate so much delight from this -preliminary festival, that Mathieu and Marianne consented to it. - -Rose's marriage was like the supreme blossoming of years of prosperity, -and brought a finishing touch to the happiness of the home. She was the -prettiest of Mathieu's daughters, with dark brown hair, round gilded -cheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable of -dispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeed -to be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busy -life. But beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing from -morning till night there was much common sense and energy of affection, -as her choice of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu had -engaged the services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmer -of the neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionate -interest in the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working there -with rare activity and intelligence. He had no means of his own at all. -Rose, who had grown up near him, knew however that he was her father's -preferred assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expiration -of his military service she, divining that he loved her, forced him -to acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished to -remain near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all her -happiness. Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeply -touched, they signified their approval of a choice in which affection -for themselves had so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawn -yet closer, and increase of joy came to the home. - -So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointed -Sunday Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, -Madame Seguin, to Janville by the ten o'clock train. A couple of hours -previously Rose had already begun a battle with the object of prevailing -upon the whole family to repair to the railway station to meet the -affianced pair. - -"But come, my children, it is unreasonable," Marianne gently exclaimed. -"It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolas -here, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouring -the roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take all -the others if you like, and your father shall lead the way." - -Rose, however, still merrily laughing, clung to her plan. "No, no, -mamma, you must come as well; everybody must come; it was promised. -Ambroise and Andree, you see, are like a royal couple from a neighboring -kingdom. My brother Ambroise, having won the hand of a foreign princess, -is going to present her to us. And so, to do them the honors of our own -empire, we, Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the whole -Court. You form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah what -a fine sight it will be when we spread out through the country on our -way home again!" - -Marianne, amused by her daughter's overflowing gayety, ended by laughing -and giving way. - -"This will be the order of the march," resumed Rose. "Oh! I've planned -everything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go on -our bicycles--that is the most modern style. We will also take my maids -of honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, eleven, -nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very well -behind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, and -will do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort. All the -rest of the Court will have to pack itself into the chariot--I mean -the big family wagon, in which there is room for eight. You, as Queen -Mother, may keep your last little prince, Nicolas, on your knees. -Papa will only have to carry himself proudly, as befits the head of a -dynasty. And my brother Gervais, that young Hercules of seventeen, shall -drive, with Claire, who at fifteen is so remarkable for common sense, -beside him on the box-seat. As for the illustrious twins, those high and -mighty lords, Denis and Blaise, we will call for them at Janville, since -they are waiting for us there, at Madame Desvignes'." - -Thus did Rose rattle on, exulting over the scheme she had devised. -She danced, sang, clapped her hands, and finally exclaimed: "Ah! for a -pretty cortege this will be fine indeed." - -She was animated by such joyous haste that she made the party start much -sooner than was necessary, and they reached Janville at half-past nine. -It was true, however, that they had to call for the others there. The -house in which Madame Desvignes had taken refuge after her husband's -death, and which she had now occupied for some twelve years, living -there in a very quiet retired way on the scanty income she had managed -to save, was the first in the village, on the high road. For a week past -her elder daughter Charlotte, Blaise's wife, had come to stay there with -her children, Berthe and Christophe, who needed change of air; and -on the previous evening they had been joined by Blaise, who was well -pleased to spend Sunday with them. - -Madame Desvignes' younger daughter, Marthe, was delighted whenever her -sister thus came to spend a few weeks in the old home, bringing her -little ones with her, and once more occupying the room which had -belonged to her in her girlish days. All the laughter and playfulness of -the past came back again, and the one dream of worthy Madame Desvignes, -amid her pride at being a grandmamma, was of completing her life-work, -hitherto so prudently carried on, by marrying off Marthe in her turn. As -a matter of fact it had seemed likely that there might be three instead -of two weddings at Chantebled that spring. Denis, who, since leaving a -scientific school had embarked in fresh technical studies, often slept -at the farm and nearly every Sunday he saw Marthe, who was of the same -age as Rose and her constant companion. The young girl, a pretty blonde -like her sister Charlotte, but of a less impulsive and more practical -nature, had indeed attracted Denis, and, dowerless though she was, he -had made up his mind to marry her, since he had discovered that she -possessed the sterling qualities that help one on to fortune. But in -their chats together both evinced good sense and serene confidence, -without sign of undue haste. Particularly was this the case with Denis, -who was very methodical in his ways and unwilling to place a woman's -happiness in question until he could offer her an assured position. -Thus, of their own accord, they had postponed their marriage, quietly -and smilingly resisting the passionate assaults of Rose, whom the idea -of three weddings on the same day had greatly excited. At the same time, -Denis continued visiting Madame Desvignes, who, on her side, equally -prudent and confident, received him much as if he were her son. That -morning he had even quitted the farm at seven o'clock, saying that -he meant to surprise Blaise in bed; and thus he also was to be met at -Janville. - -As it happened, the fete of Janville fell on Sunday, the second in -May. Encompassing the square in front of the railway station were -roundabouts, booths, shooting galleries, and refreshment stalls. Stormy -showers during the night had cleansed the sky, which was of a pure blue, -with a flaming sun, whose heat in fact was excessive for the season. A -good many people were already assembled on the square--all the idlers -of the district, bands of children, and peasants of the surrounding -country, eager to see the sights; and into the midst of this crowd fell -the Froments--first the bicyclists, next the wagon, and then the others -who had been met at the entry of the village. - -"We are producing our little effect!" exclaimed Rose as she sprang from -her wheel. - -This was incontestable. During the earlier years the whole of Janville -had looked harshly on those Froments, those bourgeois who had come -nobody knew whence, and who, with overweening conceit, had talked of -making corn grow in land where there had been nothing but crops of -stones for centuries past. Then the miracle, Mathieu's extraordinary -victory, had long hurt people's vanity and thereby increased their -anger. But everything passes away; one cannot regard success with -rancor, and folks who grow rich always end by being in the right. Thus, -nowadays, Janville smiled complacently on that swarming family which had -grown up beside it, forgetting that in former times each fresh birth -at Chantebled had been regarded as quite scandalous by the gossips. -Besides, how could one resist such a happy display of strength and -power, such a merry invasion, when, as on that festive Sunday, the whole -family came up at a gallop, conquering the roads, the streets, and the -squares? What with the father and mother, the eleven children--six boys -and five girls--and two grandchildren already, there were fifteen of -them. The eldest boys, the twins, were now four-and twenty, and still -so much alike that people occasionally mistook one for the other as in -their cradle days, when Marianne had been obliged to open their eyes -to identify them, those of Blaise being gray, and those of Denis black. -Nicolas, the youngest boy, at the other end of the family scale, was as -yet but five years old; a delightful little urchin was he, a precocious -little man whose energy and courage were quite amusing. And between the -twins and that youngster came the eight other children: Ambroise, the -future husband, who was already on the road to every conquest; Rose, so -brimful of life; who likewise was on the eve of marrying; Gervais, with -his square brow and wrestler's limbs, who would soon be fighting the -good fight of agriculture; Claire, who was silent and hardworking, and -lacked beauty, but possessed a strong heart and a housewife's sensible -head. Next Gregoire, the undisciplined, self-willed schoolboy, who was -ever beating the hedges in search of adventures; and then the three last -girls: Louise, plump and good natured; Madeleine, delicate and of dreamy -mind; Marguerite, the least pretty but the most loving of the trio. And -when, behind their father and their mother, the eleven came along one -after the other, followed too by Berthe and Christophe, representing -yet another generation, it was a real procession that one saw, as, for -instance, on that fine Sunday on the Grand Place of Janville, already -crowded with holiday-making folks. And the effect was irresistible; -even those who were scarcely pleased with the prodigious success of -Chantebled felt enlivened and amused at seeing the Froments galloping -about and invading the place. So much health and mirth and strength -accompanied them, as if earth with her overflowing gifts of life had -thus profusely created them for to-morrow's everlasting hopes. - -"Let those who think themselves more numerous come forward!" Rose -resumed gayly. "And then we will count one another." - -"Come, be quiet!" said her mother, who, after alighting from the wagon, -had set Nicolas on the ground. "You will end by making people hoot us." - -"Hoot us! Why, they admire us: just look at them! How funny it is, -mamma, that you are not prouder of yourself and of us!" - -"Why, I am so very proud that I fear to humiliate others." - -They all began to laugh. And Mathieu, standing near Marianne, likewise -felt proud at finding himself, as he put it, among "the sacred -battalion" of his sons and daughters. To that battalion worthy Madame -Desvignes herself belonged, since her daughter Charlotte was adding -soldiers to it and helping it to become an army. Such as it was indeed, -this was only the beginning; later on the battalion would be seen -ever increasing and multiplying, becoming a swarming victorious race, -great-grandchildren following grandchildren, till there were fifty -of them, and a hundred, and two hundred, all tending to increase the -happiness and beauty of the world. And in the mingled amazement and -amusement of Janville gathered around that fruitful family there was -certainly some of the instinctive admiration which is felt for the -strength and the healthfulness which create great nations. - -"Besides, we have only friends now," remarked Mathieu. "Everybody is -cordial with us!" - -"Oh, everybody!" muttered Rose. "Just look at the Lepailleurs yonder, in -front of that booth." - -The Lepailleurs were indeed there--the father, the mother, Antonin, and -Therese. In order to avoid the Froments they were pretending to take -great interest in a booth, where a number of crudely-colored china -ornaments were displayed as prizes for the winners at a "lucky-wheel." -They no longer even exchanged courtesies with the Chantebled folks; for -in their impotent rage at such ceaseless prosperity they had availed -themselves of a petty business dispute to break off all relations. -Lepailleur regarded the creation of Chantebled as a personal insult, -for he had not forgotten his jeers and challenges with respect to those -moorlands, from which, in his opinion, one would never reap anything -but stones. And thus, when he had well examined the china ornaments, it -occurred to him to be insolent, with which object he turned round and -stared at the Froments, who, as the train they were expecting would not -arrive for another quarter of an hour, were gayly promenading through -the fair. - -The miller's bad temper had for the last two months been increased -by the return of his son Antonin to Janville under very deplorable -circumstances. This young fellow, who had set off one morning to conquer -Paris, sent there by his parents, who had a blind confidence in his fine -handwriting, had remained with Maitre Rousselet the attorney for four -years as a petty clerk, dull-witted and extremely idle. He had not made -the slightest progress in his profession, but had gradually sunk into -debauchery, cafe-life, drunkenness, gambling, and facile amours. To him -the conquest of Paris meant greedy indulgence in the coarsest pleasures -such as he had dreamt of in his village. It consumed all his money, all -the supplies which he extracted from his mother by continual promises -of victory, in which she implicitly believed, so great was her faith -in him. But he ended by grievously suffering in health, turned thin and -yellow, and actually began to lose his hair at three-and-twenty, so that -his mother, full of alarm, brought him home one day, declaring that he -worked too hard, and that she would not allow him to kill himself in -that fashion. It leaked out, however, later on, that Maitre Rousselet -had summarily dismissed him. Even before this was known his return home -did not fail to make his father growl. The miller partially guessed -the truth, and if he did not openly vent his anger, it was solely from -pride, in order that he might not have to confess his mistake with -respect to the brilliant career which he had predicted for Antonin. At -home, when the doors were closed, Lepailleur revenged himself on -his wife, picking the most frightful quarrels with her since he had -discovered her frequent remittances of money to their son. But she held -her own against him, for even as she had formerly admired him, so at -present she admired her boy. She sacrificed, as it were, the father to -the son, now that the latter's greater learning brought her increased -surprise. And so the household was all disagreement as a result of -that foolish attempt, born of vanity, to make their heir a Monsieur, a -Parisian. Antonin for his part sneered and shrugged his shoulders at -it all, idling away his time pending the day when he might be able to -resume a life of profligacy. - -When the Froments passed by, it was a fine sight to see the Lepailleurs -standing there stiffly and devouring them with their eyes. The father -puckered his lips in an attempt to sneer, and the mother jerked her head -with an air of bravado. The son, standing there with his hands in his -pockets, presented a sorry sight with his bent back, his bald head, and -pale face. All three were seeking to devise something disagreeable when -an opportunity presented itself. - -"Why, where is Therese?" exclaimed La Lepailleur. "She was here just -now: what has become of her? I won't have her leave me when there are -all these people about!" - -It was quite true, for the last moment Therese had disappeared. She was -now ten years old and very pretty, quite a plump little blonde, with -wild hair and black eyes which shone brightly. But she had a terribly -impulsive and wilful nature, and would run off and disappear for hours -at a time, beating the hedges and scouring the countryside in search of -birds'-nests and flowers and wild fruit. If her mother, however, made -such a display of alarm, darting hither and thither to find her, just -as the Froments passed by, it was because she had become aware of some -scandalous proceedings during the previous week. Therese's ardent dream -was to possess a bicycle, and she desired one the more since her parents -stubbornly refused to content her, declaring in fact that those machines -might do for bourgeois but were certainly not fit for well-behaved -girls. Well, one afternoon, when she had gone as usual into the fields, -her mother, returning from market, had perceived her on a deserted strip -of road, in company with little Gregoire Froment, another young wanderer -whom she often met in this wise, in spots known only to themselves. The -two made a very suitable pair, and were ever larking and rambling along -the paths, under the leaves, beside the ditches. But the abominable -thing was that, on this occasion, Gregoire, having seated Therese on -his own bicycle, was supporting her at the waist and running alongside, -helping her to direct the machine. Briefly it was a real bicycle lesson -which the little rascal was giving, and which the little hussy took with -all the pleasure in the world. When Therese returned home that evening -she had her ears soundly boxed for her pains. - -"Where can that little gadabout have got to?" La Lepailleur continued -shouting. "One can no sooner take one's eyes off her than she runs -away." - -Antonin, however, having peeped behind the booth containing the china -ornaments, lurched back again, still with his hands in his pockets, and -said with his vicious sneer: "Just look there, you'll see something." - -And indeed, behind the booth, his mother again found Therese and -Gregoire together. The lad was holding his bicycle with one hand -and explaining some of the mechanism of it, while the girl, full of -admiration and covetousness, looked on with glowing eyes. Indeed she -could not resist her inclination, but laughingly let Gregoire raise her -in order to seat her for a moment on the saddle, when all at once her -mother's terrible voice burst forth: "You wicked hussy! what are you up -to there again? Just come back at once, or I'll settle your business for -you." - -Then Mathieu also, catching sight of the scene, sternly summoned -Gregoire: "Please to place your wheel with the others. You know what I -have already said to you, so don't begin again." - -It was war. Lepailleur impudently growled ignoble threats, which -fortunately were lost amid the strains of a barrel organ. And the -two families separated, going off in different directions through the -growing holiday-making crowd. - -"Won't that train ever come, then?" resumed Rose, who with joyous -impatience was at every moment turning to glance at the clock of the -little railway station on the other side of the square. "We have still -ten minutes to wait: whatever shall we do?" - -As it happened she had stopped in front of a hawker who stood on the -footway with a basketful of crawfish, crawling, pell-mell, at his feet. -They had certainly come from the sources of the Yeuse, three leagues -away. They were not large, but they were very tasty, for Rose herself -had occasionally caught some in the stream. And thus a greedy but also -playful fancy came to her. - -"Oh, mamma!" she cried, "let us buy the whole basketful. It will be -for the feast of welcome, you see; it will be our present to the royal -couple we are awaiting. People won't say that Our Majesties neglect to -do things properly when they are expecting other Majesties. And I will -cook them when we get back, and you'll see how well I shall succeed." - -At this the others began to poke fun at her, but her parents ended by -doing as she asked, big child as she was, who in the fulness of her -happiness hardly knew what amusement to seek. However, as by way of -pastime she obstinately sought to count the crawfish, quite an affair -ensued: some of them pinched her, and she dropped them with a little -shriek; and, amid it all, the basket fell over and then the crawfish -hurriedly crawled away. The boys and girls darted in pursuit of them, -there was quite a hunt, in which even the serious members of the family -at last took part. And what with the laughter and eagerness of one and -all, the big as well as the little, the whole happy brood, the sight -was so droll and gay that the folks of Janville again drew near and -good-naturedly took their share of the amusement. - -All at once, however, arose a distant rumble of wheels and an engine -whistled. - -"Ah, good Heavens! here they are!" cried Rose, quite scared; "quick, -quick, or the reception will be missed." - -A scramble ensued, the owner of the crawfish was paid, and there was -just time to shut the basket and carry it to the wagon. The whole family -was already running off, invading the little station, and ranging itself -in good order along the arrival platform. - -"No, no, not like that," Rose repeated. "You don't observe the right -order of precedence. The queen mother must be with the king her husband, -and then the princes according to their height. Frederic must place -himself on my right. And it's for me, you know, to make the speech of -welcome." - -The train stopped. When Ambroise and Andree alighted they were at first -much surprised to find that everybody had come to meet them, drawn up -in a row with solemn mien. When Rose, however began to deliver a pompous -little speech, treating her brother's betrothed like some foreign -princess, whom she had orders to welcome in the name of the king, her -father, the young couple began to laugh, and even prolonged the joke by -responding in the same style. The railway men looked on and listened, -gaping. It was a fine farce, and the Froments were delighted at showing -themselves so playful on that warm May morning. - -But Marianne suddenly raised an exclamation of surprise: "What! has -not Madame Seguin come with you? She gave me so many promises that she -would." - -In the rear of Ambroise and Andree Celeste the maid had alone alighted -from the train. And she undertook to explain things: "Madame charged -me," said she, "to say that she was really most grieved. Yesterday she -still hoped that she would be able to keep her promise. Only in the -evening she received a visit from Monsieur de Navarede, who is presiding -to-day, Sunday, at a meeting of his Society, and of course Madame could -not do otherwise than attend it. So she requested me to accompany the -young people, and everything is satisfactory, for here they are, you -see." - -As a matter of fact nobody regretted the absence of Valentine, who -always moped when she came into the country. And Mathieu expressed the -general opinion in a few words of polite regret: "Well, you must tell -her how much we shall miss her. And now let us be off." - -Celeste, however, intervened once more. "Excuse me, monsieur, but I -cannot remain with you. No. Madame particularly told me to go back to -her at once, as she will need me to dress her. And, besides, she is -always bored when she is alone. There is a train for Paris at a quarter -past ten, is there not? I will go back by it. Then I will be here at -eight o'clock this evening to take Mademoiselle home. We settled all -that in looking through a time-table. Till this evening, monsieur." - -"Till this evening, then, it's understood." - -Thereupon, leaving the maid in the deserted little station, all the -others returned to the village square, where the wagon and the bicycles -were waiting. - -"Now we are all assembled," exclaimed Rose, "and the real fete is about -to begin. Let me organize the procession for our triumphal return to the -castle of our ancestors." - -"I am very much afraid that your procession will be soaked," said -Marianne. "Just look at the rain approaching!" - -During the last few moments there had appeared in the hitherto spotless -sky a huge, livid cloud, rising from the west and urged along by a -sudden squall. It presaged a return of the violent stormy showers of the -previous night. - -"Rain! Oh, we don't care about that," the girl responded with an air of -superb defiance. "It will never dare to come down before we get home." - -Then, with a comical semblance of authority, she disposed her people in -the order which she had planned in her mind a week previously. And the -procession set off through the admiring village, amid the smiles of all -the good women hastening to their doorsteps, and then spread out along -the white road between the fertile fields, where bands of startled -larks took wing, carrying their clear song to the heavens. It was really -magnificent. - -At the head of the party were Rose and Frederic, side by side on their -bicycles, opening the nuptial march with majestic amplitude. Behind -them followed the three maids of honor, the younger sisters, Louise, -Madeleine, and Marguerite, the tallest first, the shortest last, and -each on a wheel proportioned to her growth. And with berets* on their -heads, and their hair down their backs, waving in the breeze, they -looked adorable, suggesting a flight of messenger swallows skimming over -the ground and bearing good tidings onward. As for Gregoire the page, -restive and always ready to bolt, he did not behave very well; for he -actually tried to pass the royal couple at the head of the procession, -a proceeding which brought him various severe admonitions until he fell -back, as duty demanded, to his deferential and modest post. On the other -hand, as the three maids of honor began to sing the ballad of -Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming, the royal couple -condescendingly declared that the song was appropriate and of pleasing -effect, whatever might be the requirements of etiquette. Indeed, Rose, -Frederic, and Gregoire also ended by singing the ballad, which rang out -amid the serene, far-spreading countryside like the finest music in the -world. - - * The beret is the Pyreneean tam-o'-shanter. - -Then, at a short distance in the rear, came the chariot, the good -old family wagon, which was now crowded. According to the prearranged -programme it was Gervais who held the ribbons, with Claire beside him. -The two strong horses trotted on in their usual leisurely fashion, in -spite of all the gay whip-cracking of their driver, who also wished -to contribute to the music. Inside there were now seven people for six -places, for if the three children were small, they were at the same time -so restless that they fully took up their share of room. First, face -to face, there were Ambroise and Andree, the betrothed couple who were -being honored by this glorious welcome. Then, also face to face, there -were the high and mighty rulers of the region, Mathieu and Marianne, the -latter of whom kept little Nicolas, the last prince of the line, on her -knees, he braying the while like a little donkey, because he felt so -pleased. Then the last places were occupied by the rulers' granddaughter -and grandson, Mademoiselle Berthe and Monsieur Christophe, who were as -yet unable to walk long distances. And the chariot rolled on with much -majesty, albeit that for fear of the rain the curtains of stout white -linen had already been half-drawn, thus giving the vehicle, at a -distance, somewhat of the aspect of a miller's van. - -Further back yet, as a sort of rear-guard, was a group on foot, composed -of Blaise, Denis, Madame Desvignes, and her daughters Charlotte and -Marthe. They had absolutely refused to take a fly, finding it more -pleasant to walk the mile and a half which separated Chantebled from -Janville. If the rain should fall, they would manage to find shelter -somewhere. Besides, Rose had declared that a suite on foot was -absolutely necessary to give the procession its full significance. Those -five last comers would represent the multitude, the great concourse of -people which follows sovereigns and acclaims them. Or else they might -be the necessary guard, the men-at-arms, who watched for the purpose of -foiling a possible attack from some felon neighbor. At the same time it -unfortunately happened that worthy Madame Desvignes could not walk very -fast, so that the rear-guard was soon distanced, to such a degree indeed -that it became merely a little lost group, far away. - -Still this did not disconcert Rose, but rather made her laugh the more. -At the first bend of the road she turned her head, and when she saw -her rear-guard more than three hundred yards away she raised cries of -admiration. "Oh! just look, Frederic! What an interminable procession! -What a deal of room we take up! The cortege is becoming longer and -longer, and the road won't be long enough for it very soon." - -Then, as the three maids of honor and the page began to jeer -impertinently, "just try to be respectful," she said. "Count a little. -There are six of us forming the vanguard. In the chariot there are nine, -and six and nine make fifteen. Add to them the five of the rear-guard, -and we have twenty. Wherever else is such a family seen? Why, the -rabbits who watch us pass are mute with stupor and humiliation." - -Then came another laugh, and once more they all took up the song of -Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming. - -It was at the bridge over the Yeuse that the first drops of rain, big -drops they were, began to fall. The big livid cloud, urged on by a -terrible wind, was galloping across the sky, filling it with the clamor -of a tempest. And almost immediately afterwards the rain-drops increased -in volume and in number, lashed by so violent a squall that the water -poured down as if by the bucketful, or as if some huge sluice-gate had -suddenly burst asunder overhead. One could no longer see twenty yards -before one. In two minutes the road was running with water like the bed -of a torrent. - -Then there was a _sauve-qui-peut_ among the procession. It was learnt -later on that the people of the rear-guard had luckily been surprised -near a peasant's cottage, in which they had quietly sought refuge. Then -the folks in the wagon simply drew their curtains, and halted beneath -the shelter of a wayside tree for fear lest the horses should take -fright under such a downpour. They called to the bicyclists ahead of -them to stop also, instead of obstinately remaining in such a deluge. -But their words were lost amid the rush of water. However, the little -girls and the page took a proper course in crouching beside a thick -hedge, though the betrothed couple wildly continued on their way. - -Frederic, the more reasonable of the two, certainly had sense enough to -say: "This isn't prudent on our part. Let us stop like the others, I beg -you." - -But from Rose, all excitement, transported by her blissful fever, and -insensible, so it seemed, to the pelting of the rain, he only drew this -answer: "Pooh! what does it matter, now that we are soaking? It is by -stopping that we might do ourselves harm. Let us make haste, all haste. -In three minutes we shall be at home and able to make fine sport of -those laggards when they arrive in another quarter of an hour." - -They had just crossed the Yeuse bridge, and they swept on side by side, -although the road was far from easy, being a continual ascent for a -thousand yards or so between rows of lofty poplars. - -"I assure you that we are doing wrong," the young man repeated. "They -will blame me, and they will be right." - -"Oh! well," cried she, "I'm amusing myself. This bicycle bath is quite -funny. Leave me, then, if you don't love me enough to follow me." - -He followed her, however, pressed close beside her, and sought to -shelter her a little from the slanting rain. And it was a wild, mad race -on the part of that young couple, almost linked together, their elbows -touching as they sped on and on, as if lifted from the ground, carried -off by all that rushing, howling water which poured down so ragefully. -It was as though a thunder-blast bore them along. But at the very moment -when they sprang from their bicycles in the yard of the farm the rain -ceased, and the sky became blue once more. - -Rose was laughing like a lunatic, and looked very flushed, but she was -soaked to such a point that water streamed from her clothes, her hair, -her hands. You might have taken her for some fairy of the springs who -had overturned her urn on herself. - -"Well, the fete is complete," she exclaimed breathlessly. "All the same, -we are the first home." - -She then darted upstairs to comb her hair and change her gown. But to -gain just a few minutes, eager as she was to cook the crawfish, she did -not take the trouble to put on dry linen. She wished the pot to be on -the fire with the water, the white wine, the carrots and spices, before -the family arrived. And she came and went, attending to the fire and -filling the whole kitchen with her gay activity, like a good housewife -who was glad to display her accomplishments, while her betrothed, who -had also come downstairs again after changing his clothes, watched her -with a kind of religious admiration. - -At last, when the whole family had arrived, the folks of the brake and -the pedestrians also, there came a rather sharp explanation. Mathieu -and Marianne were angry, so greatly had they been alarmed by that rush -through the storm. - -"There was no sense in it, my girl," Marianne repeated. "Did you at -least change your linen?" - -"Why yes, why yes!" replied Rose. "Where are the crawfish?" - -Mathieu meantime was lecturing Frederic. "You might have broken your -necks," said he; "and, besides, it is by no means good to get soaked -with cold water when one is hot. You ought to have stopped her." - -"Well, she insisted on going on, and whenever she insists on anything, -you know, I haven't the strength to prevent her." - -At last Rose, in her pretty way, put an end to the reproaches. "Come, -that's enough scolding; I did wrong, no doubt. But won't anybody -compliment me on my _court-bouillon_? Have you ever known crawfish to -smell as nice as that?" - -The lunch was wonderfully gay. As they were twenty, and wished to have -a real rehearsal of the wedding feast, the table had been set in a large -gallery adjoining the ordinary dining-room. This gallery was still -bare, but throughout the meal they talked incessantly of how they would -embellish it with shrubs, garlands of foliage, and clumps of flowers. -During the dessert they even sent for a ladder with the view of -indicating on the walls the main lines of the decorations. - -For a moment or so Rose, previously so talkative, had lapsed into -silence. She had eaten heartily, but all the color had left her face, -which had assumed a waxy pallor under her heavy hair, which was still -damp. And when she wished to ascend the ladder herself to indicate -how some ornament should be placed, her legs suddenly failed her, she -staggered, and then fainted away. - -Everybody was in consternation, but she was promptly placed in a chair, -where for a few minutes longer she remained unconscious. Then, on coming -to her senses, she remained for a moment silent, oppressed as by a -feeling of pain, and apparently failing to understand what had taken -place. Mathieu and Marianne, terribly upset, pressed her with questions, -anxious as they were to know if she felt better. She had evidently -caught cold, and this was the fine result of her foolish ride. - -By degrees the girl recovered her composure, and again smiled. She then -explained that she now felt no pain, but that it had suddenly seemed to -her as if a heavy paving-stone were lying on her chest; then this weight -had melted away, leaving her better able to breathe. And, indeed, she -was soon on her feet once more, and finished giving her views respecting -the decoration of the gallery, in such wise that the others ended by -feeling reassured, and the afternoon passed away joyously in the making -of all sorts of splendid plans. Little was eaten at dinner, for they -had done too much honor to the crawfish at noon. And at nine o'clock, as -soon as Celeste arrived for Andree, the gathering broke up. Ambroise was -returning to Paris that same evening. Blaise and Denis were to take the -seven o'clock train the following morning. And Rose, after accompanying -Madame Desvignes and her daughters to the road, called to them through -the darkness: "Au revoir, come back soon." She was again full of gayety -at the thought of the general rendezvous which the family had arranged -for the approaching weddings. - -Neither Mathieu nor Marianne went to bed at once, however. Though they -did not even speak of it together, they thought that Rose looked very -strange, as if, indeed, she were intoxicated. She had again staggered -on returning to the house, and though she only complained of some slight -oppression, they prevailed on her to go to bed. After she had retired to -her room, which adjoined their own, Marianne went several times to see -if she were well wrapped up and were sleeping peacefully, while Mathieu -remained anxiously thoughtful beside the lamp. At last the girl fell -asleep, and the parents, leaving the door of communication open, then -exchanged a few words in an undertone, in their desire to tranquillize -each other. It would surely be nothing; a good night's rest would -suffice to restore Rose to her wonted health. Then in their turn they -went to bed, the whole farm lapsed into silence, surrendering itself to -slumber until the first cockcrow. But all at once, about four o'clock, -shortly before daybreak, a stifled call, "Mamma! mamma!" awoke both -Mathieu and Marianne, and they sprang out of bed, barefooted, shivering, -and groping for the candle. Rose was again stifling, struggling against -another attack of extreme violence. For the second time, however, she -soon regained consciousness and appeared relieved, and thus the parents, -great as was their distress, preferred to summon nobody but to wait till -daylight. Their alarm was caused particularly by the great change -they noticed in their daughter's appearance; her face was swollen and -distorted, as if some evil power had transformed her in the night. But -she fell asleep again, in a state of great prostration; and they no -longer stirred for fear of disturbing her slumber. They remained there -watching and waiting, listening to the revival of life in the farm -around them as the daylight gradually increased. Time went by; five and -then six o'clock struck. And at about twenty minutes to seven Mathieu, -on looking into the yard, and there catching sight of Denis, who was to -return to Paris by the seven o'clock train, hastened down to tell him -to call upon Boutan and beg the doctor to come at once. Then, as soon as -his son had started, he rejoined Marianne upstairs, still unwilling to -call or warn anybody. But a third attack followed, and this time it was -the thunderbolt. - -Rose had half risen in bed, her arms thrown out, her mouth distended as -she gasped "Mamma! mamma!" - -Then in a sudden fit of revolt, a last flash of life, she sprang from -her bed and stepped towards the window, whose panes were all aglow with -the rising sun. And for a moment she leant there, her legs bare, her -shoulders bare, and her heavy hair falling over her like a royal mantle. -Never had she looked more beautiful, more dazzling, full of strength and -love. - -But she murmured: "Oh! how I suffer! It is all over, I am going to die." - -Her father darted towards her; her mother sustained her, throwing her -arms around her like invincible armor which would shield her from all -harm. - -"Don't talk like that, you unhappy girl! It is nothing; it is only -another attack which will pass away. Get into bed again, for mercy's -sake. Your old friend Boutan is on his way here. You will be up and well -again to-morrow." - -"No, no, I am going to die; it is all over." - -She fell back in their arms; they only had time to lay her on her bed. -And the thunderbolt fell: without a word, without a glance, in a few -minutes she died of congestion of the lungs. - -Ah! the imbecile thunderbolt! Ah! the scythe, which with a single stroke -blindly cuts down a whole springtide! It was all so brutally sudden, -so utterly unexpected, that at first the stupefaction of Marianne and -Mathieu was greater than their despair. In response to their cries the -whole farm hastened up, the fearful news filled the place, and then all -sank into the deep silence of death--all work, all life ceasing. And the -other children were there, scared and overcome: little Nicolas, who -did not yet understand things; Gregoire, the page of the previous day; -Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the three maids of honor, and their -elders, Claire and Gervais, who felt the blow more deeply. And there -were yet the others journeying away, Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise, -travelling to Paris at that very moment, in ignorance of the unforeseen, -frightful hatchet-stroke which had fallen on the family. Where would the -terrible tidings reach them? In what cruel distress would they return! -And the doctor who would soon arrive too! But all at once, amid the -terror and confusion, there rang out the cries of Frederic, the poor -dead girl's affianced lover. He shrieked his despair aloud, he was half -mad, he wished to kill himself, saying that he was the murderer and that -he ought to have prevented Rose from so rashly riding home through -the storm! He had to be led away and watched for fear of some fresh -misfortune. His sudden frenzy had gone to every heart; sobs burst forth -and lamentations arose from the woful parents, from the brothers, the -sisters, from the whole of stricken Chantebled, which death thus visited -for the first time. - -Ah, God! Rose on that bed of mourning, white, cold, and dead! She, the -fairest, the gayest, the most loved! She, before whom all the others -were ever in admiration--she of whom they were so proud, so fond! And -to think that this blow should fall in the midst of hope, bright hope in -long life and sterling happiness, but ten days before her wedding, and -on the morrow of that day of wild gayety, all jests and laughter! -They could again see her, full of life and so adorable with her happy -youthful fancies--that princely reception and that royal procession. -It had seemed as if those two coming weddings, celebrated the same day, -would be like the supreme florescence of the family's long happiness and -prosperity. Doubtless they had often experienced trouble and had even -wept at times, but they had drawn closer together and consoled -one another on such occasions; none had ever been cut off from the -good-night embraces which healed every sore. And now the best was gone, -death had come to say that absolute joy existed for none, that the most -valiant, the happiest; never reaped the fulness of their hopes. There -was no life without death. And they paid their share of the debt of -human wretchedness, paid it the more dearly since they had made for -themselves a larger sum of life. When everything germinates and grows -around one, when one has determined on unreserved fruitfulness; on -continuous creation and increase, how awful is the recall to the -ever-present dim abyss in which the world is fashioned, on the day when -misfortune falls, digs its first pit, and carries off a loved one! It -is like a sudden snapping, a rending of the hopes which seemed to be -endless, and a feeling of stupefaction comes at the discovery that one -cannot live and love forever! - -Ah! how terrible were the two days that followed: the farm itself -lifeless, without sound save that of the breathing of the cattle, the -whole family gathered together, overcome by the cruel spell of waiting, -ever in tears while the poor corpse remained there under a harvest of -flowers. And there was this cruel aggravation, that on the eve of the -funeral, when the body had been laid in the coffin, it was brought down -into that gallery where they had lunched so merrily while discussing how -magnificently they might decorate it for the two weddings. It was there -that the last funeral watch, the last wake, took place, and there were -no evergreen shrubs, no garlands of foliage, merely four tapers which -burnt there amid a wealth of white roses gathered in the morning, but -already fading. Neither the mother nor the father was willing to go -to bed that night. They remained, side by side, near the child whom -mother-earth was taking back from them. They could see her quite little -again, but sixteen months old, at the time of their first sojourn at -Chantebled in the old tumbledown shooting-box, when she had just been -weaned and they were wont to go and cover her up at nighttime. They saw -her also, later on, in Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbing -up and pulling their bed to pieces with triumphant laughter. And they -saw her yet more clearly, growing and becoming more beautiful even as -Chantebled did, as if, indeed, she herself bloomed with all the health -and beauty of that now fruitful land. Yet she was no more, and whenever -the thought returned to them that they would never see her again, their -hands sought one another, met in a woful clasp, while from their crushed -and mingling hearts it seemed as if all life, all future, were flowing -away to nihility. Now that a breach had been made, would not every other -happiness be carried off in turn? And though the ten other children -were there, from the little one five years old to the twins who were -four-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered in tears around their -sleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion rendering funeral -honors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted them: their -hearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, carrying -away with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare gallery -which the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose upon -that death watch, that last leave-taking. - -Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread out -along the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, that -road over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All the -relations of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had come -to pay a tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, this -time, the cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped with -white and blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The whole -family was present; the mother and the sisters had declared that they -would only quit their loved one when she had been lowered into her last -resting-place. And after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, -the Seguins, and others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcome -by suffering, no longer recognized people amid their tears. They only -remembered on the morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed it -were really Morange--that silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman, -who had wept while pressing their hands. And in like fashion Mathieu -fancied that, in some horrible dream, he had seen Constance's spare -figure and bony profile drawing near to him in the cemetery after the -coffin had been lowered into the grave, and addressing vague words of -consolation to him, though he fancied that her eyes flashed the while as -if with abominable exultation. - -What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her words -must have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourning -relative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which she -had spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then in -bitter fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebled -might continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, -were now stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhaps -departed forever! Mathieu shuddered; his faith in the future was shaken; -he was haunted by a fear of seeing prosperity and fruitfulness vanish, -now that there was that open breach. - - - - -XVII - -A YEAR later the first child born to Ambroise and Andree, a boy, little -Leonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietly -six weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be the -first outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recovered -from the terrible shock of their eldest daughter's death. Moreover, it -was arranged that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch at -the parents' home, and that one and all should afterwards be free to -return to his or her avocations. It was impossible for the whole family -to come, and, indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, only -the twins, Denis and Blaise, and the latter's wife Charlotte, were -expected, together with the godparents. Beauchene, the godfather, -had selected Madame Seguin as his _commere_, for, since the death of -Maurice, Constance shuddered at the bare thought of touching a child. -At the same time she had promised to be present at the lunch, and thus -there would be ten of them, sufficient to fill the little dining-room of -the modest flat in the Rue de La Boetie, where the young couple resided -pending fortune's arrival. - -It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had been -unwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, -they ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of that -little grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early in -the winter a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had lost -his little Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attack -of croup. Charlotte, however, was already at that time again _enceinte_, -and thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraught -with emotion. - -The little flat in the Rue de La Boetie seemed very bright and fragrant; -it was perfumed by the fair grace of Andree and illumined by the -victorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm in -arm, had set out so bravely to conquer the world. During the lunch, too, -there was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchene, -who gave the greatest attention to his _commere_ Valentine, jesting -and paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her much -amusement, prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though she -was already forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone -remained grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint -smile, while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face every -time that she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, based -on the invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning. - -At about three o'clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow -Beauchene to take any more Chartreuse. - -"It's true, he is right, my children," Beauchene ended by exclaiming -in a docile way. "We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely -necessary that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you -of Denis, for we need his help over a big building affair. That's how we -are, we others, we don't shirk duty." - -Constance had also risen. "The carriage must be waiting," said she; -"will you take it?" - -"No, no, we will go on foot. A walk will clear our heads." - -The sky was overcast, and as it grew darker and darker Ambroise, going -to the window, exclaimed: "You will get wet." - -"Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shall -have time to get to the works." - -It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with her -in the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilion -adjoining the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and could -quietly return to the Avenue d'Antin, which was close by, as soon as the -sky might clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had just -yielded to Andree's affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spend -the whole day and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train. -Thus the fete would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured at -the prospect. - -The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, a -mistake which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all the -mirth promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and, -looking at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him "Blaise, my -friend, will you give me my boa? I must have left it in the ante-room." - -Everybody began to laugh, but she failed to understand the reason. And -it was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis when -he brought her the boa: "I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are very -amiable." - -Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, so -droll did her quiet assurance seem to them. What was the matter, then? -Why did they all laugh at her in that fashion? She ended by suspecting -that she had made a mistake, and looked more attentively at the twins. - -"Ah, yes, it isn't Blaise, but Denis! But it can't be helped. I am -always mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in the -same fashion." - -Thereupon Marianne, in her obliging way, in order to take any sting -away from the laughter, repeated the well-known family story of how she -herself, when the twins were children and slept together, had been wont -to awake them in order to identify them by the different color of their -eyes. The others, Beauchene and Valentine, then intervened and recalled -circumstances under which they also had mistaken the twins one for the -other, so perfect was their resemblance on certain occasions, in -certain lights. And it was amid all this gay animation that the company -separated after exchanging all sorts of embraces and handshakes. - -Once in the brougham, Constance spoke but seldom to Charlotte, taking -as a pretext a violent headache which the prolonged lunch had increased. -With a weary air and her eyes half closed she began to reflect. After -Rose's death, and when little Christophe likewise had been carried off, -a revival of hope had come to her, for all at once she had felt quite -young again. But when she consulted Boutan on the matter he dealt her -a final blow by informing her that her hopes were quite illusive. Thus, -for two months now, her rage and despair had been increasing. That very -morning at that christening, and now in that carriage beside that young -woman who was again expecting to become a mother, it was this which -poisoned her mind, filled her with jealousy and spite, and rendered -her capable of any evil deed. The loss of her son, the childlessness -to which she was condemned, all threw her into a state of morbid -perversity, fraught with dreams of some monstrous vengeance which she -dared not even confess to herself. She accused the whole world of being -in league to crush her. Her husband was the most cowardly and idiotic -of traitors, for he betrayed her by letting some fresh part of the works -pass day by day into the hands of that fellow Blaise, whose wife no -sooner lost a child than she had another. She, Constance, was enraged -also at seeing her husband so gay and happy, since she had left him -to his own base courses. He still retained his air of victorious -superiority, declaring that he had remained unchanged, and there -was truth in this; for though, instead of being an active master as -formerly, he now too often showed himself a senile prowler, on the high -road to paralysis, he yet continued to be a practical egotist, one who -drew from life the greatest sum of enjoyment possible. He was following -his destined road, and if he took to Blaise it was simply because he -was delighted to have found an intelligent, hard-working young man who -spared him all the cares and worries that were too heavy for his weary -shoulders, while still earning for him the money which he needed for -his pleasures. Constance knew that something in the way of a partnership -arrangement was about to be concluded. Indeed, her husband must have -already received a large sum to enable him to make good certain losses -and expenses which he had hidden from her. And closing her eyes as the -brougham rolled along, she poisoned her mind by ruminating all these -things, scarce able to refrain from venting her fury by throwing herself -upon that young woman Charlotte, well-loved and fruitful spouse, who sat -beside her. - -Then the thought of Denis occurred to her. Why was he being taken to the -works? Did he also mean to rob her? Yet she knew that he had refused to -join his brother, as in his opinion there was not room for two at the -establishment of the Boulevard de Grenelle. Indeed, Denis's ambition -was to direct some huge works by himself; he possessed an extensive -knowledge of mechanics, and this it was that rendered him a valuable -adviser whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine had -to be prepared at the Beauchene factory. Constance promptly dismissed -him from her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason to -fear him; he was a mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, would -establish himself at the other end of France. Then once more the thought -of Blaise came back to her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenly -occurred to her that if she made haste home she would be able to see -Morange alone in his office and ascertain many things from him before -the others arrived. It was evident that the accountant must know -something of the partnership scheme, even if it were as yet only in a -preliminary stage. Thereupon she became impassioned, eager to arrive, -certain as she felt of obtaining confidential information from Morange, -whom she deemed to be devoted to her. - -As the carriage rolled over the Jena bridge she opened her eyes and -looked out. "_Mon Dieu_!" said she, "what a time this brougham takes! If -the rain would only fall it would, perhaps, relieve my head a little." - -She was thinking, however, that a sharp shower would give her more time, -as it would compel the three men, Beauchene, Denis, and Blaise, to seek -shelter in some doorway. And when the carriage reached the works she -hastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion to -the little pavilion. - -"You will excuse me, won't you, my dear?" said she; "you only have to -turn the street corner." - -When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, took -hold of Constance's hand and retained it for a few moments in her own. - -"Of course," she replied, "and many thanks. You are too kind. When -you see my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he grows -anxious at the slightest thing." - -Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many -professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission. -Then they parted. "Au revoir, till to-morrow "--"Yes, yes, till -to-morrow, au revoir." - -Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife -Valerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yet -it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for -he had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired -life, giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. On -the other hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct -painstaking accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it -were to the office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning -for thirty years past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter had -carried off with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, -all that he had momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes--a large -fortune and a luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, -who had relapsed into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothing -beyond his humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner -to which he was accustomed. It was suspected, however, that he led a -mysterious maniacal life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in that -flat of the Boulevard de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refused -to quit. His servant had orders to admit nobody, and she herself -knew nothing. If he gave her free admittance to the dining- and -drawing-rooms, he did not allow her to set foot in his own bedroom, -formerly shared by Valerie, nor in that which Reine had occupied. He -himself alone entered these chambers, which he regarded as sanctuaries, -of which he was the sole priest. Under pretence of sweeping or dusting, -he would shut himself up in one or the other of them for hours at a -time. It was in vain that the servant tried to glance inside, in vain -that she listened at the doors when he spent his holidays at home; she -saw nothing and heard nothing. Nobody could have told what relics those -chapels contained, nor with what religious cult he honored them. Another -cause of surprise was his niggardly, avaricious life, which, as time -went on, had become more and more pronounced, in such wise that his only -expenses were his rental of sixteen hundred francs, the wages he paid -to his servant, and the few pence per day which she with difficulty -extracted from him to defray the cost of food and housekeeping. His -salary had now risen to eight thousand francs a year, and he certainly -did not spend half of it. What became, then, of his big savings, the -money which he refused to devote to enjoyment? In what secret hole, and -for what purpose, what secret passion, did he conceal it? Nobody could -tell. But amid it all he remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, -continued very cleanly in his habits, keeping his beard, which was now -white as snow, very carefully tended. And he came to his office every -morning with a little smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in -this man of regular methodical life revealed the collapse within him, -all the ashes and smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart. - -By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and -Morange. When, after his daughter's death, she had seen him return to -the works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which -some covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destined -to live five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, -and could never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, -for he, as she repeated to herself, had lost his only child. "Ah, God! -so such a catastrophe was possible." Then, on being stricken herself, on -experiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping, -incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother -in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none -other. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and -the pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, face -to face, sharing each other's woe. Later on she had profited by this -intimacy to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at the -factory, of which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularly -since she had suspected the latter of bad management, blunders and -debts, that she endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, even -a spy, who might aid her to secure as much control of the business as -possible. And this was why she was so anxious to return to the factory -that day, and profit by the opportunity to see Morange privately, -persuaded as she was that she would induce him to speak out in the -absence of his superiors. - -She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She found -the accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, and -leaning over the everlasting ledger which was open before him. - -"Why, is the christening finished?" he exclaimed in astonishment. - -Forthwith she explained her presence in such a way as to enable her to -speak of what she had at heart. "Why, yes. That is to say, I came away -because I had such a dreadful headache. The others have remained yonder. -And as we are alone here together it occurred to me that it might do me -good to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I am -not happy, not happy at all." - -She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had been -restraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quite -upset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself, -Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might have -a fainting fit. But she prevented him. - -"I have only you left me, my friend," said she. "Everybody else forsakes -me, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks are -bent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything when -I lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know my -torments, you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven's sake -help me and tell me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able to -defend myself." - -On hearing her speak of his daughter Morange also had begun to weep. -And now, therefore, she might question him, it was certain that he would -answer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the common -grief which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement was -indeed on the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchene, only it was -not precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchene having drawn large sums -from the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could not -confess--a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored--had been -obliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active lieutenant -who managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to find -somebody willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man had -offered it himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, -who advanced the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in his -son's name. And now, with the view of putting everything in order, it -had been resolved that the property should be divided into six parts, -and that one of these parts or shares should be attributed to Blaise -as reimbursement for the loan. Thus the young fellow would possess an -interest of one sixth in the establishment, unless indeed Beauchene -should buy him out again within a stipulated period. The danger was -that, instead of freeing himself in this fashion, Beauchene might yield -to the temptation of selling the other parts one by one, now that he was -gliding down a path of folly and extravagance. - -Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. "Is this -signed?" she asked. - -"No, not yet. But the papers are ready and will be signed shortly. -Moreover, it is a reasonable and necessary solution of the difficulty." - -She was evidently of another opinion. A feeling of revolt possessed her, -and she strove to think of some decisive means of preventing the ruin -and shame which in her opinion threatened her. "My God, what am I to do? -How can I act?" she gasped; and then, in her rage at finding no device, -at being powerless, this cry escaped her: "Ah! that scoundrel Blaise!" - -Worthy Morange was quite moved by it. Still he had not fully understood. -And so, in his quiet way, he endeavored to calm Constance, explaining -that Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances in -question he had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that he -could to stifle scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. -And as Constance had risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, and -anxious that the three men might not find her there on their arrival, -the accountant likewise quitted his chair, and accompanied her along the -gallery which she had to follow in order to return to her house. - -"I give you my word of honor, madame," said Morange, "that the young man -has made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass through -my hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if I -had entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should have -endeavored to requite your kindness by warning you." - -She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to get -rid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun to -fall violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds had -overspread the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, though -four o'clock had scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that in -presence of such a deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. So -she hastened her steps, still followed, however, by the accountant. - -"For instance," he continued, "when it was a question of drawing up the -agreement--" - -But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stopped -her, pulling her back as if in terror. - -"Take care!" he gasped. - -There was a great cavity before them. Here, at the end of the gallery, -before reaching the corridor which communicated with the private house, -there was a steam lift of great power, which was principally used for -lowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a rule -on certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. When -the appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there to -superintend the operations. - -"Take care! take care!" Morange repeated, shuddering with terror. - -The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was no -barrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearful -plunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness had -become so complete in the gallery that they had walked on without -seeing anything before them. Another step would have hurled them to -destruction. It was little short of miraculous that the accountant -should have become anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in that -corner, where he had divined rather than perceived the abyss. - -Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought to -free herself from his wild grasp. - -"But look!" he cried. - -And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. It -descended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a well -of darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vague -outlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern, -a distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth and -horror of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching. - -And now Morange burst into a temper. "It is idiotic!" he exclaimed. "Why -don't they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a man -expressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post so -long as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth can -the rascal be up to?" - -The accountant again approached the hole, and shouted down it in a fury: -"Bonnard!" - -No reply came: the pit remained bottomless, black and void. - -"Bonnard! Bonnard!" - -And still nothing was heard, not a sound; the damp breath of the -darkness alone ascended as from the deep silence of the tomb. - -Thereupon Morange resorted to action. "I must go down; I must find -Bonnard. Can you picture us falling through that hole to the very -bottom? No, no, this cannot be allowed. Either he must close this trap -or return to his post. What can he be doing? Where can he be?" - -Morange had already betaken himself to a little winding staircase, by -which one reached every floor beside the lift, when in a voice which -gradually grew more indistinct, he again called: "I beg you, madame, -pray wait for me; remain there to warn anybody who might pass." - -Constance was alone. The dull rattle of the rain on the glass above -her continued, but a little livid light was appearing as a gust of wind -carried off the clouds. And in that pale light Blaise suddenly appeared -at the end of the gallery. He had just returned to the factory with -Denis and Beauchene, and had left his companions together for a moment, -in order to go to the workshops to procure some information they -required. Preoccupied, absorbed once more in his work, he came along -with an easy step, his head somewhat bent. And when Constance saw him -thus appear, all that she felt in her heart was the smart of rancor, a -renewal of her anger at what she had learnt of that agreement which was -to be signed on the morrow and which would despoil her. That enemy who -was in her home and worked against her, a revolt of her whole being -urged her to exterminate him, and thrust him out like some usurper, all -craft and falsehood. - -He drew nearer. She was in the dense shadow near the wall, so that he -could not see her. But on her side, as he softly approached steeped in -a grayish light, she could see him with singular distinctness. Never -before had she so plainly divined the power of his lofty brow, the -intelligence of his eyes, the firm will of his mouth. And all at once -she was struck with fulgural certainty; he was coming towards the cavity -without seeing it and he would assuredly plunge into the depths unless -she should stop him as he passed. But a little while before, she, like -himself, had come from yonder, and would have fallen unless a friendly -hand had restrained her; and the frightful shudder of that moment yet -palpitated in her veins; she could still and ever see the damp black pit -with the little lantern far below. The whole horror of it flashed before -her eyes--the ground failing one, the sudden drop with a great shriek, -and the smash a moment afterwards. - -Blaise drew yet nearer. But certainly such a thing was impossible; she -would prevent it, since a little motion of her hand would suffice. -Would she not always have time to stretch out her arms when he was there -before her? And yet from the recesses of her being a very clear and -frigid voice seemed to ascend, articulating brief words which rang in -her ears as if repeated by a trumpet blast. If he should die it would -be all over, the factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterly -lamented that she could devise no obstacle had merely to let this -helpful chance take its own course. And this, indeed, was what the -voice said, what it repeated with keen insistence, never adding another -syllable. After that there would be nothing. After that there would -merely remain the shattered remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit of -darkness splashed with blood, in which she discerned, foresaw nothing -more. What would happen on the morrow? She did not wish to know; indeed -there would be no morrow. It was solely the brutal immediate fact which -the imperious voice demanded. He dead, it would be all over, he would -never possess the works. - -He drew nearer still. And within her now there raged a frightful battle. -How long did it last--days? years? Doubtless but a few seconds. She was -still resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she felt -that she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment came -for the decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, became -materialized within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger. -She hungered for that finish, hungered to the point of suffering, seized -by one of those sudden desperate longings which beget crime; such as -when a passer-by is despoiled and throttled at the corner of a street. -It seemed to her that if she could not satisfy her craving she herself -must lose her life. A consuming passion, a mad desire for that man's -annihilation filled her as she saw him approach. She could now see him -still more plainly and the sight of him exasperated her. His forehead, -his eyes, his lips tortured her like some hateful spectacle. Another -step, yet one more, then another, and he would be before her. Yes, yet -another step, and she was already stretching out her hand in readiness -to stop him as soon as he should brush past. - -He came along. What was it that happened? O God! When he was there, so -absorbed in his thoughts that he brushed against her without feeling -her, she turned to stone. Her hand became icy cold, she could not lift -it, it hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever a -great cold shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, while -she was deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of her -being. All demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained -intense, invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner -voice which robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead -and he would never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and -breathless against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his -light breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his -neck. He had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had -raised a call she might still have changed the course of destiny even at -that last moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she -was clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, -took yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over -that friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he -was in thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a -loud, terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash -down below in the depths of the black darkness. - -Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still -listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss. -She could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewed -rage. And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-entered -her drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had she -desired that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do with -it. Most certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If it -had been possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apart -from her, for assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassured -her. Yes, indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her past -life spread out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Never -had she sinned, never until that day had any consciousness of guilt -weighed upon her conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she had -remained upright amidst all the excesses of her husband. An impassioned -mother, she had been ascending her calvary ever since her son's death. -And this recollection of Maurice alone drew her for a moment from her -callousness, choked her with a rising sob, as if in that direction lay -her madness, the vainly sought explanation of the crime. Vertigo again -fell upon her, the thought of her dead son and of the other being master -in his place, all her perverted passion for that only son of hers, the -despoiled prince, all her poisoned, fermenting rage which had unhinged -and maddened her, even to the point of murder. Had that monstrous -vegetation growing within her reached her brain then? A rush of blood -suffices at times to bedim a conscience. But she obstinately clung -to the view that she had been absent; she forced back her tears and -remained frigid. No remorse came to her. It was done, and 'twas good -that it should be done. It was necessary. She had not pushed him, he -himself had fallen. Had she not been there he would have fallen just the -same. And so since she had not been there, since both her brain and -her heart had been absent, it did not concern her. And ever and ever -resounded the words which absolved her and chanted her victory; he was -dead, and would never possess the works. - -Erect in the middle of the drawing-room, Constance listened, straining -her ears. Why was it that she heard nothing? How long they were in -going down to pick him up! Anxiously waiting for the tumult which she -expected, the clamor of horror which would assuredly rise from the -works, the heavy footsteps, the loud calls, she held her breath, -quivering at the slightest, faintest sound. Several minutes still -elapsed, and the cosey quietude of her drawing-room pleased her. That -room was like an asylum of bourgeois rectitude, luxurious dignity, in -which she felt protected, saved. Some little objects on which her eyes -lighted, a pocket scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife of -burnished silver left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, -almost surprised at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some new -and particular meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived that -her hands were icy cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing to -warm them a little. Why was it, too, that she now felt so tired? It -seemed to her as if she had just returned from some long walk, from -some accident, from some affray in which she had been bruised. She felt -within her also a tendency to somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, as -if she had feasted too copiously off some spicy dish, after too great -a hunger. Amid the fatigue which benumbed her limbs she desired -nothing more; apart from her sleepiness all that she felt was a kind of -astonishment that things should be as they were. However, she had again -begun to listen, repeating that if that frightful silence continued, -she would certainly sink upon a chair, close her eyes, and sleep. And -at last it seemed to her that she detected a faint sound, scarcely a -breath, far away. - -What was it? No, there was nothing yet. Perhaps she had dreamt that -horrible scene, perhaps it had all been a nightmare; that man marching -on, that black pit, that loud cry of terror! Since she heard nothing, -perhaps nothing had really happened. Were it true a clamor would have -ascended from below in a growing wave of sound, and a distracted rush -up the staircase and along the passages would have brought her the news. -Then again she detected the faint distant sound, which seemed to draw -a little nearer. It was not the tramping of a crowd; it seemed to be a -mere footfall, perhaps that of some pedestrian on the quay. Yet no; it -came from the works, and now it was quite distinct; it ascended steps -and then sped along a passage. And the steps became quicker, and a -panting could be heard, so tragical that she at last divined that the -horror was at hand. All at once the door was violently flung open. -Morange entered. He was alone, beside himself, with livid face and -scarce able to stammer. - -"He still breathes, but his head is smashed; it is all over." - -"What ails you?" she asked. "What is the matter?" - -He looked at her, agape. He had hastened upstairs at a run to ask -her for an explanation, for he had quite lost his poor head over that -unaccountable catastrophe. And the apparent ignorance and tranquillity -in which he found Constance completed his dismay. - -"But I left you near the trap," said he. - -"Near the trap, yes. You went down, and I immediately came up here." - -"But before I went down," he resumed with despairing violence, "I begged -you to wait for me and keep a watch on the hole, so that nobody might -fall through it." - -"Oh! dear no. You said nothing to me, or, at all events, I heard -nothing, understood nothing of that kind." - -In his terror he peered into her eyes. Assuredly she was lying. Calm as -she might appear, he could detect her voice trembling. Besides, it was -evident she must still have been there, since he had not even had time -to get below before it happened. And all at once he recalled their -conversation, the questions she had asked him and her cry of hatred -against the unfortunate young fellow who had now been picked up, covered -with blood, in the depths of that abyss. Beneath the gust of horror -which chilled him, Morange could only find these words: "Well, madame, -poor Blaise came just behind you and broke his skull." - -Her demeanor was perfect; her hands quivered as she raised them, and it -was in a halting voice that she exclaimed: "Good Lord! good Lord, what a -frightful misfortune." - -But at that moment an uproar arose through the house. The drawing-room -door had remained open, and the voices and footsteps of a number of -people drew nearer, became each moment more distinct. Orders were being -given on the stairs, men were straining and drawing breath, there were -all the signs of the approach of some cumbrous burden, carried as gently -as possible. - -"What! is he being brought up here to me?" exclaimed Constance turning -pale, and her involuntary cry would have sufficed to enlighten the -accountant had he needed it. "He is being brought to me here!" - -It was not Morange who answered; he was stupefied by the blow. But -Beauchene abruptly appeared preceding the body, and he likewise was -livid and beside himself, to such a degree did this sudden visit of -death thrill him with fear, in his need of happy life. - -"Morange will have told you of the frightful catastrophe, my dear," said -he. "Fortunately Denis was there, for the question of responsibility -towards his family. And it was Denis, too, who, just as we were about -to carry the poor fellow home to the pavilion, opposed it, saying that, -given his wife's condition, we should kill her if we carried him to her -in this dying state. And so the only course was to bring him here, was -it not?" - -Then he quitted his wife with a gesture of bewilderment, and returned -to the landing, where one could hear him repeating in a quivering voice: -"Gently, gently, take care of the balusters." - -The lugubrious train entered the drawing-room. Blaise had been laid on -a stretcher provided with a mattress. Denis, as pale as linen, followed, -supporting the pillow on which rested his brother's head. A little -streamlet of blood coursed over the dying man's brow, his eyes were -closed. And four factory hands held the shafts of the stretcher. Their -heavy shoes crushed down the carpet, and fragile articles of furniture -were thrust aside anyhow to open a passage for this invasion of horror -and of fright. - -Amid his bewilderment, an idea occurred to Beauchene, who continued to -direct the operation. - -"No, no, don't leave him there. There is a bed in the next room. We will -take him up very gently with the mattress, and lay him with it on the -bed." - -It was Maurice's room; it was the bed in which Maurice had died, and -which Constance with maternal piety had kept unchanged, consecrating the -room to her son's memory. But what could she say? How could she prevent -Blaise from dying there in his turn, killed by her? - -The abomination of it all, the vengeance of destiny which exacted this -sacrilege, filled her with such a feeling of revolt that at the moment -when vertigo was about to seize her and the flooring began to flee from -beneath her feet, she was lashed by it and kept erect. And then she -displayed extraordinary strength, will, and insolent courage. When the -stricken man passed before her, her puny little frame stiffened and -grew. She looked at him, and her yellow face remained motionless, save -for a flutter of her eyelids and an involuntary nervous twinge on the -left side of her mouth, which forced a slight grimace. But that was all, -and again she became perfect both in words and gesture, doing and saying -what was necessary without lavishness, but like one simply thunderstruck -by the suddenness of the catastrophe. - -However, the orders had been carried out in the bedroom, and the bearers -withdrew greatly upset. Down below, directly the accident had been -discovered, old Moineaud had been told to take a cab and hasten to Dr. -Boutan's to bring him back with a surgeon, if one could be found on the -way. - -"All the same, I prefer to have him here rather than in the basement," -Beauchene repeated mechanically as he stood before the bed. "He still -breathes. There! see, it is quite apparent. Who knows? Perhaps Boutan -may be able to pull him through, after all." - -Denis, however, entertained no illusions. He had taken one of his -brother's cold yielding hands in his own and he could feel that it was -again becoming a mere thing, as if broken, wrenched away from life -in that great fall. For a moment he remained motionless beside the -death-bed, with the mad hope they he might, perhaps, by his clasp infuse -a little of the blood in his own heart into the veins of the dying man. -Was not that blood common to them both? Had not their twin brotherhood -drunk life from the same source? It was the other half of himself that -was about to die. Down below, after raising a loud cry of heartrending -distress, he had said nothing. Now all at once he spoke. - -"One must go to Ambroise's to warn my mother and father. Since he still -breathes, perhaps they will arrive soon enough to embrace him." - -"Shall I go to fetch them?" Beauchene good-naturedly inquired. - -"No, no! thanks. I did at first think of asking that service of you, -but I have reflected. Nobody but myself can break this horrible news to -mamma. And nothing must be done as yet with regard to Charlotte. We will -see about that by and by, when I come back. I only hope that death will -have a little patience, so that I may find my poor brother still alive." - -He leant forward and kissed Blaise, who with his eyes closed remained -motionless, still breathing faintly. Then distractedly Denis printed -another kiss upon his hand and hurried off. - -Constance meantime was busying herself, calling the maid, and requesting -her to bring some warm water in order that they might wash the -sufferer's blood-stained brow. It was impossible to think of taking off -his jacket; they had to content themselves with doing the little they -could to improve his appearance pending the arrival of the doctor. And -during these preparations, Beauchene, haunted, worried by the accident, -again began to speak of it. - -"It is incomprehensible. One can hardly believe such a stupid mischance -to be possible. Down below the transmission gearing gets out of order, -and this prevents the mechanician from sending the trap up again. Then, -up above, Bonnard gets angry, calls, and at last decides to go down in a -fury when he finds that nobody answers him. Then Morange arrives, flies -into a temper, and goes down in his turn, exasperated at receiving no -answer to his calls for Bonnard. Poor Bonnard! he's sobbing; he wanted -to kill himself when he saw the fine result of his absence." - -At this point Beauchene abruptly broke off and turned to Constance. -"But what about you?" he asked. "Morange told me that he had left you up -above near the trap." - -She was standing in front of her husband, in the full light which -came through the window. And again did her eyelids beat while a little -nervous twinge slightly twisted her mouth on the left side. That was -all. - -"I? Why I had gone down the passage. I came back here at once, as -Morange knows very well." - -A moment previously, Morange, annihilated, his legs failing him, had -sunk upon a chair. Incapable of rendering any help, he sat there silent, -awaiting the end. When he heard Constance lie in that quiet fashion, he -looked at her. The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it. And at -that moment he felt a craving to proclaim it, to cry it aloud. - -"Why, he thought that he had begged you to remain there on the watch," -Beauchene resumed, addressing his wife. - -"At all events his words never reached me," Constance duly answered. -"Should I have moved if he had asked me to do that?" And turning towards -the accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyes -upon him. "Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, you -said nothing to me, and I went on my way." - -Beneath those pale eyes, keen as steel, which dived into his own, -Morange was seized with abject fear. All his weakness, his cowardice -of heart returned. Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime? He -pictured the consequences. And then, too, he no longer knew if he were -right or not; his poor maniacal mind was lost. - -"It is possible," he stammered, "I may simply have thought I spoke. And -it must be so since it can't be otherwise." - -Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude. The -complicity demanded was accepted. For a moment he thought of rising to -see if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare. Deep peacefulness -fell upon the room. - -Ah! how great was the anguish, the torture in the cab, when Blaise -brought Mathieu and Marianne back with him. He had at first spoken to -them simply of an accident, a rather serious fall. But as the vehicle -rolled along he had lost his self-possession, weeping and confessing the -truth in response to their despairing questions. Thus, when they at last -reached the factory, they doubted no longer, their child was dead. Work -had just been stopped, and they recalled their visit to the place on the -morrow of Maurice's death. They were returning to the same stillness, -the same grave-like silence. All the rumbling life had suddenly ceased, -the machines were cold and mute, the workshops darkened and deserted. -Not a sound remained, not a soul, not a puff of that steam which was -like the very breath of the place. He who had watched over its work was -dead, and it was dead like him. Then their affright increased when they -passed from the factory to the house amid that absolute solitude, the -gallery steeped in slumber, the staircase quivering, all the doors -upstairs open, as in some uninhabited place long since deserted. In the -ante-room they found no servant. And it was indeed in the same tragedy -of sudden death that they again participated, only this time it was -their own son whom they were to find in the same room, on the same bed, -frigid, pale, and lifeless. - -Blaise had just expired. Boutan was there at the head of the bed, -holding the inanimate hand in which the final pulsation of blood was -dying away. And when he saw Mathieu and Marianne, who had instinctively -crossed the disorderly drawing-room, rushing into that bedchamber whose -odor of nihility they recognized, he could but murmur in a voice full of -sobs: - -"My poor friends, embrace him; you will yet have a little of his last -breath." - -That breath had scarce ceased, and the unhappy mother, the unhappy -father, had already sprung forward, kissing those lips that exhaled the -final quiver of life, and sobbing and crying their distress aloud. Their -Blaise was dead. Like Rose, he had died suddenly, a year later, on a -day of festivity. Their heart wound, scarce closed as yet, opened afresh -with a tragic rending. Amid their long felicity this was the second time -that they were thus terribly recalled to human wretchedness; this was -the second hatchet stroke which fell on the flourishing, healthy, happy -family. And their fright increased. Had they not yet finished paying -their accumulated debt to misfortune? Was slow destruction now arriving -with blow following blow? Already since Rose had quitted them, her -bier strewn with flowers, they had feared to see their prosperity and -fruitfulness checked and interrupted now that there was an open breach. -And to-day, through that bloody breach, their Blaise departed in the -most frightful of fashions, crushed as it were by the jealous anger of -destiny. And now what other of their children would be torn away from -them on the morrow to pay in turn the ransom of their happiness? - -Mathieu and Marianne long remained sobbing on their knees beside the -bed. Constance stood a few paces away, silent, with an air of quivering -desolation. Beauchene, as if to combat that fear of death which made -him shiver, had a moment previously seated himself at the little -writing-table formerly used by Maurice, which had been left in the -drawing-room like a souvenir. And he then strove to draw up a notice -to his workpeople, to inform them that the factory would remain closed -until the day after the funeral. He was vainly seeking words when he -perceived Denis coming out of the bedroom, where he had wept all his -tears and set his whole heart in the last kiss which he had bestowed on -his departed brother. Beauchene called him, as if desirous of diverting -him from his gloomy thoughts. "There, sit down here and continue this," -said he. - -Constance, in her turn entering the drawing-room, heard those words. -They were virtually the same as the words which her husband had -pronounced when making Blaise seat himself at that same table of -Maurice's, on the day when he had given him the place of that poor boy, -whose body almost seemed to be still lying on the bed in the adjoining -room. And she recoiled with fright on seeing Denis seated there and -writing. Had not Blaise resuscitated? Even as she had mistaken the twins -one for the other that very afternoon on rising from the gay baptismal -lunch, so now again she saw Blaise in Denis, the pair of them so similar -physically that in former times their parents had only been able to -distinguish them by the different color of their eyes. And thus it was -as if Blaise returned and resumed his place; Blaise, who would possess -the works although she had killed him. She had made a mistake; dead -as he was, he would nevertheless have the works. She had killed one of -those Froments, but behold another was born. When one died his brother -filled up the breach. And her crime then appeared to her such a useless -one, such a stupid one, that she was aghast at it, the hair on the nape -of her neck standing up, while she burst into a cold sweat of fear, and -recoiled as from a spectre. - -"It is a notice for the workpeople," Beauchene repeated. "We will have -it posted at the entrance." - -She wished to be brave, and, approaching her husband, she said to him: -"Draw it up yourself. Why give Blaise the trouble at such a moment as -this?" - -She had said "Blaise"; and once more an icy sensation of horror came -over her. Unconsciously she had heard herself saying yonder, in the -ante-room: "Blaise, where did I put my boa?" And it was Denis who had -brought it to her. Of what use had it been for her to kill Blaise, since -Denis was there? When death mows down a soldier of life, another is -always ready to take the vacant post of combat. - -But a last defeat awaited her. Mathieu and Marianne reappeared, while -Morange, seized with a need of motion, came and went with an air of -stupefaction, quite losing his wits amid his dreadful sufferings, those -awful things which could but unhinge his narrow mind. - -"I am going down," stammered Marianne, trying to wipe away her tears and -to remain erect. "I wish to see Charlotte, and prepare and tell her of -the misfortune. I alone can find the words to say, so that she may not -die of the shock, circumstanced as she is." - -But Mathieu, full of anxiety, sought to detain his wife, and spare her -this fresh trial. "No, I beg you," he said; "Denis will go, or I will go -myself." - -With gentle obstinacy, however, she still went towards the stairs. "I -am the only one who can tell her of it, I assure you--I shall have -strength--" - -But all at once she staggered and fainted. It became necessary to lay -her on a sofa in the drawing-room. And when she recovered consciousness, -her face remained quite white and distorted, and an attack of nausea -came upon her. Then, as Constance, with an air of anxious solicitude, -rang for her maid and sent for her little medicine-chest, Mathieu -confessed the truth, which hitherto had been kept secret; Marianne, like -Charlotte, was _enceinte_. It confused her a little, he said, since she -was now three-and-forty years old; and so they had not mentioned -it. "Ah! poor brave wife!" he added. "She wished to spare our -daughter-in-law too great a shock; I trust that she herself will not be -struck down by it." - -_Enceinte_, good heavens! As Constance heard this, it seemed as if a -bludgeon were falling on her to make her defeat complete. And so, even -if she should now let Denis, in his turn, kill himself, another Froment -was coming who would replace him. There was ever another and another of -that race--a swarming of strength, an endless fountain of life, against -which it became impossible to battle. Amid her stupefaction at -finding the breach repaired when scarce opened, Constance realized her -powerlessness and nothingness, childless as she was fated to remain. And -she felt vanquished, overcome with awe, swept away as it were herself; -thrust aside by the victorious flow of everlasting Fruitfulness. - - - - -XVIII - -FOURTEEN months later there was a festival at Chantebled. Denis, who had -taken Blaise's place at the factory, was married to Marthe Desvignes. -And after all the grievous mourning this was the first smile, the bright -warm sun of springtime, so to say, following severe winter. Mathieu and -Marianne, hitherto grief-stricken and clad in black, displayed a gayety -tinged with soft emotion in presence of the sempiternal renewal of life. -The mother had been willing to don less gloomy a gown, and the father -had agreed to defer no longer a marriage that had long since been -resolved upon, and was necessitated by all sorts of considerations. For -more than two years now Rose had been sleeping in the little cemetery of -Janville, and for more than a year Blaise had joined her there, beneath -flowers which were ever fresh. And the souvenir of the dear dead ones, -whom they all visited, and who had remained alive in all their hearts, -was to participate in the coming festival. It was as if they themselves -had decided with their parents that the hour for the espousals had -struck, and that regret for their loss ought no longer to bar the joy of -growth and increase. - -Denis's installation at the Beauchene works in his brother's place had -come about quite naturally. If he had not gone thither on leaving the -science school where he had spent three years, it was simply because -the position was at that time already held by Blaise. All his technical -studies marked him out for the post. In a single day he had fitted -himself for it, and he simply had to take up his quarters in the little -pavilion, Charlotte having fled to Chantebled with her little Berthe -directly after the horrible catastrophe. It should be added that Denis' -entry into the establishment offered a convenient solution with -regard to the large sum of money lent to Beauchene, which, it had been -arranged, should be reimbursed by a sixth share in the factory. That -money came from the family, and one brother simply took the place of the -other, signing the agreement which the deceased would have signed. With -a delicate rectitude, however, Denis insisted that out of his share of -the profits an annuity should be assigned to Charlotte, his brother's -widow. - -Thus matters were settled in a week, in the manner that circumstances -logically demanded, and without possibility of discussion. Constance, -bewildered and overwhelmed, was not even able to struggle. Her husband -reduced her to silence by repeating: "What would you have me do? I must -have somebody to help me, and it is just as well to take Denis as a -stranger. Besides, if he worries me I will buy him out within a year and -give him his dismissal!" - -At this Constance remained silent to avoid casting his ignominy in his -face, amid her despair at feeling the walls of the house crumble and -fall, bit by bit, upon her. - -Once installed at the works, Denis considered that the time had come to -carry out the matrimonial plans which he had long since arranged with -Marthe Desvignes. The latter, Charlotte's younger sister and at one -time the inseparable friend of Rose, had been waiting for him for nearly -three years now, with her bright smile and air of affectionate good -sense. They had known one another since childhood, and had exchanged -many a vow along the lonely paths of Janville. But they had said to one -another that they would do nothing prematurely, that for the happiness -of a whole lifetime one might well wait until one was old enough and -strong enough to undertake family duties. Some people were greatly -astonished that a young man whose future was so promising, and whose -position at twenty-six years of age was already a superb one, should -thus obstinately espouse a penniless girl. Mathieu and Marianne smiled, -however, and consented, knowing their son's good reasons. He had no -desire to marry a rich girl who would cost him more than she brought, -and he was delighted at having discovered a pretty, healthy, and -very sensible and skilful young woman, who would be at all times his -companion, helpmate, and consoler. He feared no surprises with her, for -he had studied her; she united charm and good sense with kindliness, all -that was requisite for the happiness of a household. And he himself was -very good-natured, prudent, and sensible, and she knew it and willingly -took his arm to tread life's path with him, certain as she felt that -they would thus walk on together until life's end should be reached, -ever advancing with the same tranquil step under the divine and limpid -sun of reason merged in love. - -Great preparations were made at Chantebled on the day before the -wedding. Nevertheless, the ceremony was to remain of an intimate -character, on account of the recent mourning. The only guests, apart -from members of the family, were the Seguins and the Beauchenes, and -even the latter were cousins. So there would scarcely be more than a -score of them altogether, and only a lunch was to be given. One matter -which gave them some brief concern was to decide where to set the table, -and how to decorate it. Those early days of July were so bright and warm -that they resolved to place it out of doors under the trees. There was -a fitting and delightful spot in front of the old shooting-box, the -primitive pavilion, which had been their first residence on their -arrival in the Janville district. That pavilion was indeed like the -family nest, the hearth whence it had radiated over the surrounding -region. As the pavilion had threatened ruin, Mathieu had repaired -and enlarged it with the idea of retiring thither with Marianne, and -Charlotte and her children, as soon as he should cede the farm to his -son Gervais, that being his intention. He was, indeed, pleased with -the idea of living in retirement like a patriarch, like a king who -had willingly abdicated, but whose wise counsel was still sought and -accepted. In place of the former wild garden a large lawn now stretched -before the pavilion, surrounded by some beautiful trees, elms and -hornbeams. These Mathieu had planted, and he had watched them grow; thus -they seemed to him to be almost part of his flesh. But his real favorite -was an oak tree, nearly twenty years of age and already sturdy, which -stood in the centre of the lawn, where he had planted it with Marianne, -who had held the slender sapling in position while he plied his spade on -the day when they had founded their domain of Chantebled. And near this -oak, which thus belonged to their robust family, there was a basin of -living water, fed by the captured springs of the plateau--water whose -crystalline song made the spot one of continual joy. - -It was here then that a council was held on the day before the wedding. -Mathieu and Marianne repaired thither to see what preparations would -be necessary, and they found Charlotte with a sketch-book on her knees, -rapidly finishing an impression of the oak tree. - -"What is that--a surprise?" they asked. - -She smiled with some confusion. "Yes, yes, a surprise; you will see." - -Then she confessed that for a fortnight past she had been designing in -water colors a series of menu cards for the wedding feast. And, prettily -and lovingly enough, her idea had been to depict children's games -and children's heads; indeed, all the members of the family in their -childish days. She had taken their likenesses from old photographs, -and her sketch of the oak tree was to serve as a background for the -portraits of the two youngest scions of the house--little Benjamin and -little Guillaume. - -Mathieu and Marianne were delighted with that fleet procession of little -faces all white and pink which they perfectly recognized as they saw -them pass before their eyes. There were the twins nestling in their -cradle, locked in one another's arms; there was Rose, the dear lost -one, in her little shift; there were Ambroise and Gervais, bare, -and wrestling on a patch of grass; there were Gregoire and Nicolas -birdnesting; there were Claire and the three other girls, Louise, -Madeleine, and Marguerite, romping about the farm, quarrelling with the -fowls, springing upon the horses' backs. But what particularly touched -Marianne was the sketch of her last-born, little Benjamin, now nine -months old, whom Charlotte had depicted reclining under the oak tree in -the same little carriage as her own son Guillaume, who was virtually of -the same age, having been born but eight days later. - -"The uncle and the nephew," said Mathieu jestingly. "All the same, the -uncle is the elder by a week." - -As Marianne stood there smiling, soft tears came into her eyes, and the -sketch shook in her happy hands. - -"The dears!" said she; "my son and grandson. With those dear little ones -I am once again a mother and a grandmother. Ah, yes! those two are the -supreme consolation; they have helped to heal the wound; it is they who -have brought us back hope and courage." - -This was true. How overwhelming had been the mourning and sadness of the -early days when Charlotte, fleeing the factory, had sought refuge at the -farm! The tragedy by which Blaise had been carried off had nearly killed -her. Her first solace was to see that her daughter Berthe, who had been -rather sickly in Paris, regained bright rosy cheeks amid the open air -of Chantebled. Moreover, she had settled her life: she would spend her -remaining years, in that hospitable house, devoting herself to her -two children, and happy in having so affectionate a grandmother and -grandfather to help and sustain her. She had always shown herself to be -somewhat apart from life, possessed of a dreamy nature, only asking to -love and to be loved in return. - -So by degrees she settled down once more, installed beside her -grandparents in the old pavilion, which Mathieu fitted up for the three -of them. And wishing to occupy herself, irrespective of her income from -the factory, she even set to work again and painted miniatures, which -a dealer in Paris readily purchased. But her grief was mostly healed by -her little Guillaume, that child bequeathed to her by her dead husband, -in whom he resuscitated. And it was much the same with Marianne since -the birth of Benjamin. A new son had replaced the one she had lost, and -helped to fill the void in her heart. The two women, the two mothers, -found infinite solace in nursing those babes. For them they forgot -themselves; they reared them together, watching them grow side by side; -they gave them the breast at the same hours, and it was their desire to -see them both become very strong, very handsome, and very good. Although -one mother was almost twice as old as the other, they became, as it -were, sisters. The same nourishing milk flowed from both their fruitful -bosoms. And gleams of light penetrated their mourning: they began to -laugh when they saw those little cherubs laugh, and nothing could have -been gayer than the sight of that mother-in-law and that daughter-in-law -side by side, almost mingling, having but one cradle between them, amid -an unceasing florescence of maternity. - -"Be careful," Mathieu suddenly said to Charlotte; "hide your drawings, -here are Gervais and Claire coming about the table." - -Gervais at nineteen years of age was quite a colossus, the tallest and -the strongest of the family, with short, curly black hair, large bright -eyes, and a full broad-featured face. He had remained his father's -favorite son, the son of the fertile earth, the one in whom Mathieu -fostered a love for the estate, a passion for skilful agriculture, in -order that later on the young man might continue the good work which had -been begun. Mathieu already disburdened himself on Gervais of a part -of his duties, and was only waiting to see him married to give him the -control of the whole farm. And he often thought of adjoining to him -Claire when she found a husband in some worthy, sturdy fellow who would -assume part of the labor. Two men agreeing well would be none too many -for an enterprise which was increasing in importance every day. Since -Marianne had again been nursing, Claire had been attending to her work. -Though she had no beauty, she was of vigorous health and quite strong -for her seventeen years. She busied herself more particularly with -cookery and household affairs, but she also kept the accounts, being -shrewd-witted and very economically inclined, on which account the -prodigals of the family often made fun of her. - -"And so it's here that the table is to be set," said Gervais; "I shall -have to see that the lawn is mowed then." - -On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be at -table and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having called -to Frederic to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing the -arrangements. After Rose's death, Frederic, her betrothed, had continued -working beside Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comrade -and helper. For some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed that -he was revolving around Claire, as though, since he had lost the elder -girl, he were willing to content himself with the younger one, who was -far less beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. -This had at first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget their -dear daughter? Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought came -to them that the family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the young -fellow's heart would not roam in search of love elsewhere, but would -remain with them. So closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, -for in Frederic, when Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervais -would find the brother-in-law and partner that he needed. - -The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasion -burst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, and -loose hair waved in the sunshine. - -"Oh!" cried Louise, "there are no roses." - -"No," repeated Madeleine, "not a single white rose." - -"And," added Marguerite, "we have inspected all the bushes. There are no -white roses, only red ones." - -Thirteen, eleven, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise, -plump and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim and -pretty, spent hours at her piano, her eyes full of dreaminess; -Marguerite, whose nose was rather too large and whose lips were thick, -had beautiful golden hair. She would pick up little birds at winter time -and warm them with her hands. And the three of, them, after scouring the -back garden, where flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up in -despair at their vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was the -end of everything! What could they offer to the bride? And what could -they set upon the table? - -Behind the three girls, however, appeared Gregoire, with jeering mien, -and his hands in his pockets. At fifteen he was very malicious, the most -turbulent, worrying member of the family, a lad inclined to the most -diabolical devices. His pointed nose and his thin lips denoted also -his adventurous spirit, his will power, and his skill in effecting his -object. And, apparently much amused by his sisters' disappointment, he -forgot himself and exclaimed, by way of teasing them: "Why, I know where -there are some white roses, and fine ones, too." - -"Where is that?" asked Mathieu. - -"Why, at the mill, near the wheel, in the little enclosure. There are -three big bushes which are quite white, with roses as big as cabbages." - -Then he flushed and became confused, for his father was eyeing him -severely. - -"What! do you still prowl round the mill?" said Mathieu. "I had -forbidden you to do so. As you know that there are white roses in the -enclosure you must have gone in, eh?" - -"No; I looked over the wall." - -"You climbed up the wall, that's the finishing touch! So you want -to land me in trouble with those Lepailleurs, who are decidedly very -foolish and very malicious people. There is really a devil in you, my -boy." - -That which Gregoire left unsaid was that he repaired to the enclosure -in order that he might there join Therese, the miller's fair-haired -daughter with the droll, laughing face, who was also a terribly -adventurous damsel for her thirteen years. True, their meetings were but -childish play, but at the end of the enclosure, under the apple trees, -there was a delightful nook where one could laugh and chat and amuse -oneself at one's ease. - -"Well, just listen to me," Mathieu resumed. "I won't have you going to -play with Therese again. She is a pretty little girl, no doubt. But -that house is not a place for you to go to. It seems that they fight one -another there now." - -This was a fact. When that young scamp Antonin had recovered his health, -he had been tormented by a longing to return to Paris, and had done all -he could with that object, in view of resuming a life of idleness and -dissipation. Lepailleur, greatly irritated at having been duped by his -son, had at first violently opposed his plans. But what could he do in -the country with that idle fellow, whom he himself had taught to hate -the earth and to sneer at the old rotting mill. Besides, he now had -his wife against him. She was ever admiring her son's learning, and so -stubborn was her faith in him that she was convinced that he would this -time secure a good position in the capital. Thus the father had been -obliged to give way, and Antonin was now finally wrecking his life while -filling some petty employment at a merchant's in the Rue du Mail. But, -on the other hand, the quarrelling increased in the home, particularly -whenever Lepailleur suspected his wife of robbing him in order to send -money to that big lazybones, their son. From the bridge over the Yeuse -on certain days one could hear oaths and blows flying about. And here -again was family life destroyed, strength wasted, and happiness spoilt. - -Carried off by perfect anger, Mathieu continued: "To think of it; people -who had everything needful to be happy! How can one be so stupid? How -can one seek wretchedness for oneself with such obstinacy? As for that -idea of theirs of an only son, and their vanity in wanting to make a -gentleman of him, ah! well, they have succeeded finely! They must be -extremely pleased to-day! It is just like Lepailleur's hatred of the -earth, his old-fashioned system of cultivation, his obstinacy in leaving -his bit of moorland barren and refusing to sell it to me, no doubt -by way of protesting against our success! Can you imagine anything so -stupid? And it's just like his mill; all folly and idleness he stands -still, looking at it fall into ruins. He at least had a reason for that -in former times; he used to say that as the region had almost renounced -corn-growing, the peasants did not bring him enough grain to set his -mill-stones working. But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows on -all sides, surely he ought to have pulled down his old wheel and have -replaced it by a good engine. Ah! if I were in his place I would already -have a new and bigger mill there, making all use of the water of the -Yeuse, and connecting it with Janville railway station by a line of -rails, which would not cost so much to lay down." - -Gregoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall on -another than himself. And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters were -still greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying: -"Well, for the table to-morrow morning you must gather those which are -the lightest in color--the pale pink ones; they will do very well." - -Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by adding -gayly: "Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find. They will -symbolize the blood of life!" - -Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all the -preparations, when other little feet came tripping through the grass. -Nicolas, quite proud of his seven years, was leading his niece Berthe, -a big girl of six. They agreed very well together. That day they had -remained indoors playing at "fathers and mothers" near the cradle -occupied by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies. -But all at once the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment. And -Nicolas and Berthe, quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch the -two mothers. - -"Mamma!" called Nicolas, "Benjamin's asking for you. He's thirsty." - -"Mamma, mamma!" repeated Berthe, "Guillaume's thirsty. Come quick, he's -in a hurry." - -Marianne and Charlotte laughed. True enough, the morrow's wedding had -made them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house. - -On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated in -affectionate intimacy. There were but one-and-twenty at table under the -oak tree in the middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, -seemed like a hall of verdure. The whole family was present: first -those of the farm, then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wife -Andree, who had brought their little Leonce with them. And apart from -the family proper, there were only the few invited relatives, Beauchene -and Constance, Seguin and Valentine, with, of course, Madame Desvignes, -the bride's mother. There were twenty-one at table, as has been said; -but besides those one-and-twenty there were three very little ones -present: Leonce, who at fifteen months had just been weaned, and -Benjamin and Guillaume, who still took the breast. Their little -carriages had been drawn up near, so that they also belonged to the -party, which was thus a round two dozen. And the table, flowery with -roses, sent forth a delightful perfume under the rain of summer sunbeams -which flecked it with gold athwart the cool shady foliage. From one -horizon to the other stretched the wondrous tent of azure of the -triumphant July sky. And Marthe's white bridal gown, and the bright -dresses of the girls, big and little; all those gay frocks, and all that -fine youthful health, seemed like the very florescence of that green -nook of happiness. They lunched joyously, and ended by clinking glasses -in country fashion, while wishing all sorts of prosperity to the bridal -pair and to everybody present. - -Then, while the servants were removing the cloth, Seguin, who affected -an interest in horse-breeding and cattle-raising, wished Mathieu to show -him his stables. He had talked nothing but horseflesh during the meal, -and was particularly desirous of seeing some big farm-horses, whose -great strength had been praised by his host. He persuaded Beauchene -to join him in the inspection, and the three men were starting, when -Constance and Valentine, somewhat inquisitive with respect to that farm, -the great growth of which still filled them with stupefaction, decided -to follow, leaving the rest of the family installed under the trees, -amid the smiling peacefulness of that fine afternoon. - -The cow-houses and stables were on the right hand. But in order to reach -them one had to cross the great yard, whence the entire estate could -be seen. And here there was a halt, a sudden stopping inspired by -admiration, so grandly did the work accomplished show forth under the -sun. They had known that land dry and sterile, covered with mere -scrub; they beheld it now one sea of waving corn, of crops whose growth -increased at each successive season. Up yonder, on the old marshy -plateau, the fertility was such, thanks to the humus amassed during long -centuries, that Mathieu did not even manure the ground as yet. Then, -to right and to left, the former sandy slopes spread out all greenery, -fertilized by the springs which ever brought them increase of -fruitfulness. And the very woods afar off, skilfully arranged, aired by -broad clearings, seemed to possess more sap, as if all the surrounding -growth of life had instilled additional vigor into them. With this -vigor, this power, indeed, the whole domain was instinct; it was -creation, man's labor fertilizing sterile soil, and drawing from it -a wealth of nourishment for expanding humanity, the conqueror of the -world. - -There was a long spell of silence. At last Seguin, in his dry shrill -voice, with a tinge of bitterness born of his own ruin, remarked: "You -have done a good stroke of business. I should never have believed it -possible." - -Then they walked on again. But in the sheds, the cow-houses, the -sheep-cotes, and all round, the sensation of strength and power yet -increased. Creation was there continuing; the cattle, the sheep, the -fowls, the rabbits, all that dwelt and swarmed there were incessantly -increasing and multiplying. Each year the ark became too small, and -fresh pens and fresh buildings were required. Life increased life; on -all sides there were fresh broods, fresh flocks, fresh herds; all the -conquering wealth of inexhaustible fruitfulness. - -When they reached the stables Seguin greatly admired the big draught -horses, and praised them with the expressions of a connoisseur. Then -he returned to the subject of breeding, and cited some extraordinary -results that one of his friends obtained by certain crosses. So far as -the animal kingdom was concerned his ideas were sound enough, but when -he came to the consideration of human kind he was as erratic as ever. As -they walked back from the stables he began to descant on the population -question, denouncing the century, and repeating all his old theories. -Perhaps it was jealous rancor that impelled him to protest against the -victory of life which the whole farm around him proclaimed so loudly. -Depopulation! why, it did not extend fast enough. Paris, which wished to -die, so people said, was really taking its time about it. All the same, -he noticed some good symptoms, for bankruptcy was increasing on all -sides--in science, politics, literature, and even art. Liberty was -already dead. Democracy, by exasperating ambitious instincts and setting -classes in conflict for power, was rapidly leading to a social collapse. -Only the poor still had large families; the elite, the people of wealth -and intelligence, had fewer and fewer children, so that, before final -annihilation came, there might still be a last period of acceptable -civilization, in which there would remain only a few men and women of -supreme refinement, content with perfumes for sustenance and mere breath -for enjoyment. He, however, was disgusted, for he now felt certain that -he would not see that period since it was so slow in coming. - -"If only Christianity would return to the primitive faith," he -continued, "and condemn woman as an impure, diabolical, and harmful -creature, we might go and lead holy lives in the desert, and in that way -bring the world to an end much sooner. But the political Catholicism of -nowadays, anxious to keep alive itself, allows and regulates marriage, -with the view of maintaining things as they are. Oh! you will say, of -course, that I myself married and that I have children, which is true; -but I am pleased to think that they will redeem my fault. Gaston says -that a soldier's only wife ought to be his sword, and so he intends -to remain single; and as Lucie, on her side, has taken the veil at the -Ursulines, I feel quite at ease. My race is, so to say, already extinct, -and that delights me." - -Mathieu listened with a smile. He was acquainted with that more or -less literary form of pessimism. In former days all such views, as, for -instance, the struggle of civilization against the birth-rate, and the -relative childlessness of the most intelligent and able members of the -community, had disturbed him. But since he had fought the cause of love -he had found another faith. Thus he contented himself with saying rather -maliciously: "But you forget your daughter Andree and her little boy -Leonce." - -"Oh! Andree!" replied Seguin, waving his hand as if she did not belong -to him. - -Valentine, however, had stopped short, gazing at him fixedly. Since -their household had been wrecked and they had been leading lives apart, -she no longer tolerated his sudden attacks of insane brutality and -jealousy. By reason also of the squandering of their fortune she had a -hold on him, for he feared that she might ask for certain accounts to be -rendered her. - -"Yes," he granted, "there is Andree; but then girls don't count." - -They were walking on again when Beauchene, who had hitherto contented -himself with puffing and chewing his cigar, for reserve was imposed upon -him by the frightful drama of his own family life, was unable to -remain silent any longer. Forgetful, relapsing into the extraordinary -unconsciousness which always set him erect, like a victorious superior -man, he spoke out loudly and boldly: - -"I don't belong to Seguin's school, but, all the same, he says some true -things. That population question greatly interests me even now, and -I can flatter myself that I know it fully. Well, it is evident that -Malthus was right. It is not allowable for people to have families -without knowing how they will be able to nourish them. If the poor die -of starvation it is their fault, and not ours." - -Then he reverted to his usual lecture on the subject. The governing -classes alone were reasonable in keeping to small families. A country -could only produce a certain supply of food, and was therefore -restricted to a certain population. People talked of the faulty division -of wealth; but it was madness to dream of an Utopia, where there would -be no more masters but only so many brothers, equal workers and sharers, -who would apportion happiness among themselves like a birthday-cake. -All the evil then came from the lack of foresight among the poor, -though with brutal frankness he admitted that employers readily availed -themselves of the circumstance that there was a surplus of children to -hire labor at reduced rates. - -Then, losing all recollection of the past, infatuated, intoxicated with -his own ideas, he went on talking of himself. "People pretend that we -are not patriots because we don't leave troops of children behind us. -But that is simply ridiculous; each serves the country in his own way. -If the poor folks give it soldiers, we give it our capital--all the -proceeds of our commerce and industry. A fine lot of good would it do -the country if we were to ruin ourselves with big families, which would -hamper us, prevent us from getting rich, and afterwards destroy whatever -we create by subdividing it. With our laws and customs there can be no -substantial fortune unless a family is limited to one son. And yes, that -is necessary; but one son--an only son--that is the only wise course; -therein lies the only possible happiness." - -It became so painful to hear him, in his position, speaking in that -fashion, that the others remained silent, full of embarrassment. And -he, thinking that he was convincing them, went on triumphantly: "Thus, I -myself--" - -But at this moment Constance interrupted him. She had hitherto walked -on with bowed head amid that flow of chatter which brought her so much -torture and shame, an aggravation, as it were, of her defeat. But now -she raised her face, down which two big tears were trickling. - -"Alexandre!" she said. - -"What is it, my dear?" - -He did not yet understand. But on seeing her tears, he ended by feeling -disturbed, in spite of all his fine assurance. He looked at the others, -and wishing to have the last word, he added: "Ah, yes! our poor child. -But particular cases have nothing to do with general theories; ideas are -still ideas." - -Silence fell between them. They were now near the lawn where the family -had remained. And for the last moment Mathieu had been thinking of -Morange, whom he had also invited to the wedding, but who had excused -himself from attending, as if he were terrified at the idea of gazing -on the joy of others, and dreaded, too, lest some sacrilegious attempt -should be made in his absence on the mysterious sanctuary where he -worshipped. Would he, Morange--so Mathieu wondered--have clung like -Beauchene to his former ideas? Would he still have defended the theory -of the only child; that hateful, calculating theory which had cost him -both his wife and his daughter? Mathieu could picture him flitting -past, pale and distracted, with the step of a maniac hastening to some -mysterious end, in which insanity would doubtless have its place. But -the lugubrious vision vanished, and then again before Mathieu's eyes -the lawn spread out under the joyous sun, offering between its belt of -foliage such a picture of happy health and triumphant beauty, that he -felt impelled to break the mournful silence and exclaim: - -"Look there! look there! Isn't that gay; isn't that a delightful -scene--all those dear women and dear children in that setting of -verdure? It ought to be painted to show people how healthy and beautiful -life is!" - -Time had not been lost on the lawn since the Beauchenes and Seguins -had gone off to visit the stables. First of all there had been a -distribution of the menu cards, which Charlotte had adorned with such -delicate water-color sketches. This surprise of hers had enraptured -them all at lunch, and they still laughed at the sight of those pretty -children's heads. Then, while the servants cleared the table, Gregoire -achieved a great success by offering the bride a bouquet of splendid -white roses, which he drew out of a bush where he had hitherto kept it -hidden. He had doubtless been waiting for some absence of his father's. -They were the roses of the mill; with Therese's assistance he must have -pillaged the bushes in the enclosure. Marianne, recognizing how serious -was the transgression, wished to scold him. But what superb white -roses they were, as big as cabbages, as he himself had said! And he was -entitled to triumph over them, for they were the only white roses there, -and had been secured by himself, like the wandering urchin he was with -a spice of knight-errantry in his composition, quite ready to jump over -walls and cajole damsels in order to deck a bride with snowy blooms. - -"Oh! papa won't say anything," he declared, with no little -self-assurance; "they are far too beautiful." - -This made the others laugh; but fresh emotion ensued, for Benjamin and -Guillaume awoke and screamed their hunger aloud. It was gayly remarked, -however, that they were quite entitled to their turn of feasting. And as -it was simply a family gathering there was no embarrassment on the part -of the mothers. Marianne took Benjamin on her knees in the shade of the -oak tree, and Charlotte placed herself with Guillaume on her right hand; -while, on her left, Andree seated herself with little Leonce, who had -been weaned a week previously, but was still very fond of caresses. - -It was at this moment that the Beauchenes and the Seguins reappeared -with Mathieu, and stopped short, struck by the charm of the spectacle -before them. Between a framework of tall trees, under the patriarchal -oak, on the thick grass of the lawn the whole vigorous family was -gathered in a group, instinct with gayety, beauty, and strength. Gervais -and Claire, ever active, were, with Frederic, hurrying on the servants, -who made no end of serving the coffee on the table which had just been -cleared. For this table the three younger girls, half buried in a heap -of flowers, tea and blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help of -knight Gregoire, devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, the -bridal pair, Denis and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while the -bride's mother, Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreet -and infinitely gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midst -of all this that Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, ever -beautiful, with serene strength, was giving the breast to her twelfth -child, her Benjamin, and smiling at him as he sucked away; while -surrendering her other knee to little Nicolas, who was jealous of his -younger brother. And her two daughters-in-law seemed like a continuation -of herself. There was Andree on the left with Ambroise, who had stepped -up to tease his little Leonce; and Charlotte on the right with her two -children, Guillaume, who hung on her breast, and Berthe, who had -sought a place among her skirts. And here, faith in life had yielded -prosperity, ever-increasing, overflowing wealth, all the sovereign -florescence of happy fruitfulness. - -Seguin, addressing himself to Marianne, asked her jestingly: "And so -that little gentleman is the fourteenth you have nursed?" - -She likewise laughed. "No; I mustn't tell fibs! I have nursed twelve, -including this one; that is the exact number." - -Beauchene, who had recovered his self-possession, could not refrain from -intervening once more: "A full dozen, eh! It is madness!" - -"I share your opinion," said Mathieu, laughing in his turn. "At all -events, if it is not madness it is extravagance, as we admit, my wife -and I, when we are alone. And we certainly don't think that all people -ought to have such large families as ours. But, given the situation in -France nowadays, with our population dwindling and that of nearly every -other country increasing, it is hardly possible to complain of even the -largest family. Thus, even if our example be exaggerated, it remains an -example, I think, for others to think over." - -Marianne listened, still smiling, but with tears standing in her eyes. -A feeling of gentle sadness was penetrating her; her heart-wound had -reopened even amid all her joy at seeing her children assembled around -her. "Yes," said she in a trembling voice, "there have been twelve, but -I have only ten left. Two are already sleeping yonder, waiting for us -underground." - -There was no sign of dread, however, in that evocation of the peaceful -little cemetery of Janville and the family grave in which all the -children hoped some day to be laid, one after the other, side by side. -Rather did that evocation, coming amid that gay wedding assembly, seem -like a promise of future blessed peace. The memory of the dear departed -ones remained alive, and lent to one and all a kind of loving gravity -even amid their mirth. Was it not impossible to accept life without -accepting death. Each came here to perform his task, and then, his work -ended, went to join his elders in that slumber of eternity where the -great fraternity of humankind was fulfilled. - -But in presence of those jesters, Beauchene and Seguin, quite a flood -of words rose to Mathieu's lips. He would have liked to answer them; -he would have liked to triumph over the mendacious theories which they -still dared to assert even in their hour of defeat. To fear that the -earth might become over-populated, that excess of life might produce -famine, was this not idiotic? Others only had to do as he had done: -create the necessary subsistence each time that a child was born to -them. And he would have pointed to Chantebled, his work, and to all the -corn growing up under the sun, even as his children grew. They could not -be charged with having come to consume the share of others, since each -was born with his bread before him. And millions of new beings might -follow, for the earth was vast: more than two-thirds of it still -remained to be placed under cultivation, and therein lay endless -fertility for unlimited humanity. Besides, had not every civilization, -every progress, been due to the impulse of numbers? The improvidence -of the poor had alone urged revolutionary multitudes to the conquest of -truth, justice, and happiness. And with each succeeding day the human -torrent would require more kindliness, more equity, the logical division -of wealth by just laws regulating universal labor. If it were true, too, -that civilization was a check to excessive natality, this phenomenon -itself might make one hope in final equilibrium in the far-off ages, -when the earth should be entirely populated and wise enough to live in a -sort of divine immobility. But all this was pure speculation beside -the needs of the hour, the nations which must be built up afresh and -incessantly enlarged, pending the eventual definitive federation of -mankind. And it was really an example, a brave and a necessary one, that -Marianne and he were giving, in order that manners and customs, and the -idea of morality and the idea of beauty might be changed. - -Full of these thoughts Mathieu was already opening his mouth to speak. -But all at once he felt how futile discussion would be in presence of -that admirable scene; that mother surrounded by such a florescence of -vigorous children; that mother nursing yet another child, under the big -oak which she had planted. She was bravely accomplishing her task--that -of perpetuating the world. And hers was the sovereign beauty. - -Mathieu could think of only one thing that would express everything, and -that was to kiss her with all his heart before the whole assembly. - -"There, dear wife! You are the most beautiful and the best! May all the -others do as you have done." - -Then, when Marianne had gloriously returned his kiss, there arose an -acclamation, a tempest of merry laughter. They were both of heroic -mould; it was with a great dash of heroism that they had steered their -bark onward, thanks to their full faith in life, their will of action, -and the force of their love. And Constance was at last conscious of -it: she could realize the conquering power of fruitfulness; she could -already see the Froments masters of the factory through their son Denis; -masters of Seguin's mansion through their son Ambroise; masters, too, of -all the countryside through their other children. Numbers spelt victory. -And shrinking, consumed with a love which she could never more satisfy, -full of the bitterness of her defeat, though she yet hoped for some -abominable revenge of destiny, she--who never wept!--turned aside to -hide the big hot tears which now burnt her withered cheeks. - -Meantime Benjamin and Guillaume were enjoying themselves like greedy -little men whom nothing could disturb. Had there been less laughter -one might have heard the trickling of their mothers' milk: that little -stream flowing forth amid the torrent of sap which upraised the earth -and made the big trees quiver in the powerful July blaze. On every side -fruitful life was conveying germs, creating and nourishing. And for its -eternal work an eternal river of milk flowed through the world. - - - - -XIX - -ONE Sunday morning Norine and Cecile--who, though it was rightly a day -of rest, were, nevertheless, working on either side of their little -table, pressed as they were to deliver boxes for the approaching New -Year season--received a visit which left them pale with stupor and -fright. - -Their unknown hidden life had hitherto followed a peaceful course, the -only battle being to make both ends meet every week, and to put by the -rent money for payment every quarter. During the eight years that the -sisters had been living together in the Rue de la Federation near the -Champ de Mars, occupying the same big room with cheerful windows, a room -whose coquettish cleanliness made them feel quite proud, Norine's child -had grown up steadily between his two affectionate mothers. For he had -ended by confounding them together: there was Mamma Norine and there -was Mamma Cecile; and he did not exactly know whether one of the two -was more his mother than the other. It was for him alone that they both -lived and toiled, the one still a fine, good-looking woman at forty -years of age, the other yet girlish at thirty. - -Now, at about ten o'clock that Sunday, there came in succession two -loud knocks at the door. When the latter was opened a short, thick-set -fellow, about eighteen, stepped in. He was dark-haired, with a square -face, a hard prominent jaw, and eyes of a pale gray. And he wore a -ragged old jacket and a gray cloth cap, discolored by long usage. - -"Excuse me," said he; "but isn't it here that live Mesdames Moineaud, -who make cardboard boxes?" - -Norine stood there looking at him with sudden uneasiness. Her heart -had contracted as if she were menaced. She had certainly seen that face -somewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, which -suddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threatening -to spoil her quiet life. - -"Yes, it is here," she answered. - -Without any haste the young man glanced around the room. He must have -expected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted slightly. Then -his eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, -had been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his face -to examine the newcomer. And the latter concluded his examination by -directing a brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, -sickly creature who likewise felt anxious in presence of that sudden -apparition of the unknown. - -"I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor," the young man -resumed. "But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, for -the things I have to say can't be said to everybody. It isn't an easy -matter, and, of course, I thought it well over before I came here." - -He spoke slowly in a drawling way, and after again making sure that the -other woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his pale -eyes steadily fixed on Norine. The growing anguish with which he saw -her quivering, the appeal that she was evidently making to her memory, -induced him to prolong things for another moment. Then he spoke out: -"I am the child who was put to nurse at Rougemont; my name is -Alexandre-Honore." - -There was no need for him to say anything more. The unhappy Norine began -to tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung her hands, while an -ashen hue came over her distorted features. Good heavens--Beauchene! -Yes, it was Beauchene whom he resembled, and in so striking a manner, -with his eyes of prey, his big jaw which proclaimed an enjoyer consumed -by base voracity, that she was now astonished that she had not been able -to name him at her first glance. Her legs failed her, and she had to sit -down. - -"So it's you," said Alexandre. - -As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, but -unable to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and fright -clutch her at the throat, he felt the need of reassuring her a little, -particularly if he was to keep that door open to him. - -"You must not upset yourself like that," said he; "you have nothing to -fear from me; it isn't my intention to give you any trouble. Only when -I learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that was -natural, wasn't it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased to -see me.. .. Then, too, the truth is that I'm precious badly off. Three -years ago I was silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do little -more than starve. And on the days when one hasn't breakfasted, one feels -inclined to look up one's parents, even though they may have turned one -into the street, for, all the same, they can hardly be so hard-hearted -as to refuse one a plateful of soup." - -Tears rose to Norine's eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the return -of that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow who -accused her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable to -elicit from her any response but shivers and sobs, Alexandre turned -to Cecile: "You are her sister, I know," said he; "tell her that it's -stupid of her to go on like that. I haven't come to murder her. It's -funny how pleased she is to see me! Yet I don't make any noise, and I -said nothing whatever to the door-porter downstairs, I assure you." - -Then as Cecile, without answering him, rose to go and comfort Norine, he -again became interested in the child, who likewise felt frightened and -turned pale on seeing the grief of his two mammas. - -"So that lad is my brother?" - -Thereupon Norine suddenly sprang to her feet and set herself between -the child and him. A mad fear had come to her of some catastrophe, some -great collapse which would crush them all. Yet she did not wish to be -harsh, she even sought kind words, but amid it all she lost her head, -carried away by feelings of revolt, rancor, instinctive hostility. - -"You came, I can understand it. But it is so cruel. What can I do? After -so many years one doesn't know one another, one has nothing to say. And, -besides, as you can see for yourself, I'm not rich." - -Alexandre glanced round the room for the second time. "Yes, I see," he -answered; "and my father, can't you tell me his name?" - -She remained thunderstruck by this question and turned yet paler, while -he continued: "Because if my father should have any money I should know -very well how to make him give me some. People have no right to fling -children into the gutter like that." - -All at once Norine had seen the past rise up before her: Beauchene, -the works, and her father, who now had just quitted them owing to his -infirmities, leaving his son Victor behind him. - -And a sort of instinctive prudence came to her at the thought that if -she were to give up Beauchene's name she might compromise all her happy -life, since terrible complications might ensue. The dread she felt of -that suspicious-looking lad, who reeked of idleness and vice, inspired -her with an idea: "Your father? He has long been dead," said she. - -He could have known nothing, have learnt nothing on that point, for, in -presence of the energy of her answer, he expressed no doubt whatever of -her veracity, but contented himself with making a rough gesture which -indicated how angry he felt at seeing his hungry hopes thus destroyed. - -"So I've got to starve!" he growled. - -Norine, utterly distracted, was possessed by one painful desire--a -desire that he might take himself away, and cease torturing her by his -presence, to such a degree did remorse, and pity, and fright, and horror -now wring her bleeding heart. She opened a drawer and took from it a -ten-franc piece, her savings for the last three months, with which she -had intended to buy a New Year's present for her little boy. And giving -those ten francs to Alexandre, she said: "Listen, I can do nothing for -you. We live all three in this one room, and we scarcely earn our -bread. It grieves me very much to know that you are so unfortunately -circumstanced. But you mustn't rely on me. Do as we do--work." - -He pocketed the ten francs, and remained there for another moment -swaying about, and saying that he had not come for money, and that -he could very well understand things. For his part he always behaved -properly with people when people behaved properly with him. And he -repeated that since she showed herself good-natured he had no idea of -creating any scandal. A mother who did what she could performed her -duty, even though she might only give a ten-sous piece. Then, as he was -at last going off, he inquired: "Won't you kiss me?" - -She kissed him, but with cold lips and lifeless heart, and the two -smacking kisses which, with noisy affectation, he gave her in return, -left her cheeks quivering. - -"And au revoir, eh?" said he. "Although one may be poor and unable -to keep together, each knows now that the other's in the land of the -living. And there is no reason why I shouldn't come up just now and -again to wish you good day when I'm passing." - -When he had at last disappeared long silence fell amid the infinite -distress which his short stay had brought there. Norine had again sunk -upon a chair, as if overwhelmed by this catastrophe. Cecile had been -obliged to sit down in front of her, for she also was overcome. And -it was she who, amid the mournfulness of that room, which but a little -while ago had held all their happiness, spoke out the first to complain -and express her astonishment. - -"But you did not ask him anything; we know nothing about him," said she. -"Where has he come from? What is he doing? What does he want? And, -in particular, how did he manage to discover you? These were the -interesting things to learn." - -"Oh! what would you have!" replied Norine. "When he told me his name he -knocked all the strength out of me; I felt as cold as ice! Oh! it's -he, there's no doubt of it. You recognized his likeness to his father, -didn't you? But you are right; we know nothing, and now we shall always -be living with that threat over our heads, in fear that everything will -crumble down upon us." - -All her strength, all her courage was gone, and she began to sob, -stammering indistinctly: "To think of it! a big fellow of eighteen -falling on one like that without a word of warning! And it's quite true -that I don't love him, since I don't even know him. When he kissed me I -felt nothing. I was icy cold, as if my heart were frozen. O God! O God! -what trouble to be sure, and how horrid and cruel it all is!" - -Then, as her little boy, on seeing her weep, ran up and flung himself; -frightened and tearful, against her bosom, she wildly caught him in her -arms. "My poor little one! my poor little one! if only you don't suffer -by it; if only my sin doesn't fall on you! Ah! that would be a terrible -punishment. Really the best course is for folks to behave properly in -life if they don't want to have a lot of trouble afterwards!" - -In the evening the sisters, having grown somewhat calmer, decided that -their best course would be to write to Mathieu. Norine remembered that -he had called on her a few years previously to ask if Alexandre had not -been to see her. He alone knew all the particulars of the business, and -where to obtain information. And, indeed, as soon as the sisters' -letter reached him Mathieu made haste to call on them in the Rue de -la Federation, for he was anxious with respect to the effect which any -scandal might have at the works, where Beauchene's position was becoming -worse every day. After questioning Norine at length, he guessed that -Alexandre must have learnt her address through La Couteau, though he -could not say precisely how this had come about. At last, after a long -month of discreet researches, conversations with Madame Menoux, Celeste, -and La Couteau herself, he was able in some measure to explain -things. The alert had certainly come from the inquiry intrusted to the -nurse-agent at Rougemont, that visit which she had made to the hamlet of -Saint-Pierre in quest of information respecting the lad who was supposed -to be in apprenticeship with Montoir the wheelwright. She had talked too -much, said too much, particularly to the other apprentice, that Richard, -another foundling, and one of such bad instincts, too, that seven months -later he had taken flight, like Alexandre, after purloining some money -from his master. Then years elapsed, and all trace of them was lost. But -later on, most assuredly they had met one another on the Paris pavement, -in such wise that the big carroty lad had told the little dark fellow -the whole story how his relatives had caused a search to be made for -him, and perhaps, too, who his mother was, the whole interspersed with -tittle-tattle and ridiculous inventions. Still this did not explain -everything, and to understand how Alexandre had procured his mother's -actual address, Mathieu had to presume that he had secured it from La -Couteau, whom Celeste had acquainted with so many things. Indeed, he -learnt at Broquette's nurse-agency that a short, thickset young man -with pronounced jaw-bones had come there twice to speak to La Couteau. -Nevertheless, many points remained unexplained; the whole affair had -taken place amid the tragic, murky gloom of Parisian low life, whose -mire it is not healthy to stir. Mathieu ended by resting content with -a general notion of the business, for he himself felt frightened at -the charges already hanging over those two young bandits, who lived so -precariously, dragging their idleness and their vices over the pavement -of the great city. And thus all his researches had resulted in but one -consoling certainty, which was that even if Norine the mother was known, -the father's name and position were certainly not suspected by anybody. - -When Mathieu saw Norine again on the subject he terrified her by the few -particulars which he was obliged to give her. - -"Oh! I beg you, I beg you, do not let him come again," she pleaded. -"Find some means; prevent him from coming here. It upsets me too -dreadfully to see him." - -Mathieu, of course, could do nothing in this respect. After mature -reflection he realized that the great object of his efforts must be to -prevent Alexandre from discovering Beauchene. What he had learnt of the -young man was so bad, so dreadful, that he wished to spare Constance the -pain and scandal of being blackmailed. He could see her blanching at the -thought of the ignominy of that lad whom she had so passionately -desired to find, and he felt ashamed for her sake, and deemed it more -compassionate and even necessary to bury the secret in the silence of -the grave. Still, it was only after a long fight with himself that he -came to this decision, for he felt that it was hard to have to abandon -the unhappy youth in the streets. Was it still possible to save him? He -doubted it. And besides, who would undertake the task, who would know -how to instil honest principles into that waif by teaching him to work? -It all meant yet another man cast overboard, forsaken amid the tempest, -and Mathieu's heart bled at the thought of condemning him, though he -could think of no reasonable means of salvation. - -"My opinion," he said to Norine, "is that you should keep his father's -name from him for the present. Later on we will see. But just now I -should fear worry for everybody." - -She eagerly acquiesced. "Oh! you need not be anxious," she responded. -"I have already told him that his father is dead. If I were to speak out -everything would fall on my shoulders, and my great desire is to be left -in peace in my corner with my little one." - -With sorrowful mien Mathieu continued reflecting, unable to make up his -mind to utterly abandon the young man. "If he would only work, I would -find him some employment. And I would even take him on at the farm -later, when I should no longer have cause to fear that he might -contaminate my people. However, I will see what can be done; I know a -wheelwright who would doubtless employ him, and I will write to you in -order that you may tell him where to apply, when he comes back to see -you." - -"What? When he comes back!" she cried in despair. "So you think that he -will come back. O God! O God! I shall never be happy again." - -He did, indeed, come back. But when she gave him the wheelwright's -address he sneered and shrugged his shoulders. He knew all about the -Paris wheelwrights! A set of sweaters, a parcel of lazy rogues, who made -poor people toil and moil for them. Besides, he had never finished his -apprenticeship; he was only fit for running errands, in which capacity -he was willing to accept a post in a large shop. When Mathieu had -procured him such a situation, he did not remain in it a fortnight. One -fine evening he disappeared with the parcels of goods which he had been -told to deliver. In turn he tried to learn a baker's calling, became -a mason's hodman, secured work at the markets, but without ever fixing -himself anywhere. He simply discouraged his protector, and left all -sorts of roguery behind him for others to liquidate. It became necessary -to renounce the hope of saving him. When he turned up, as he did -periodically, emaciated, hungry, and in rags, they had to limit -themselves to providing him with the means to buy a jacket and some -bread. - -Thus Norine lived on in a state of mortal disquietude. For long weeks -Alexandre seemed to be dead, but she, nevertheless, started at the -slightest sound that she heard on the landing. She always felt him to -be there, and whenever he suddenly rapped on the door she recognized his -heavy knock and began to tremble as if he had come to beat her. He had -noticed how his presence reduced the unhappy woman to a state of abject -terror, and he profited by this to extract from her whatever little -sums she hid away. When she had handed him the five-franc piece which -Mathieu, as a rule, left with her for this purpose, the young rascal -was not content, but began searching for more. At times he made his -appearance in a wild, haggard state, declaring that he should certainly -be sent to prison that evening if he did not secure ten francs, and -talking the while of smashing everything in the room or else of carrying -off the little clock in order to sell it. And it was then necessary for -Cecile to intervene and turn him out of the place; for, however puny -she might be, she had a brave heart. But if he went off it was only to -return a few days later with fresh demands, threatening that he would -shout his story to everybody on the stairs if the ten francs were not -given to him. One day, when his mother had no money in the place and -began to weep, he talked of ripping up the mattress, where, said he, she -probably kept her hoard. Briefly, the sisters' little home was becoming -a perfect hell. - -The greatest misfortune of all, however, was that in the Rue de la -Federation Alexandre made the acquaintance of Alfred, Norine's youngest -brother, the last born of the Moineaud family. He was then twenty, -and thus two years the senior of his nephew. No worse prowler than he -existed. He was the genuine rough, with pale, beardless face, blinking -eyes, and twisted mouth, the real gutter-weed that sprouts up amid the -Parisian manure-heaps. At seven years of age he robbed his sisters, -beating Cecile every Saturday in order to tear her earnings from her. -Mother Moineaud, worn out with hard work and unable to exercise a -constant watch over him, had never managed to make him attend school -regularly, or to keep him in apprenticeship. He exasperated her to such -a degree that she herself ended by turning him into the streets in order -to secure a little peace and quietness at home. His big brothers kicked -him about, his father was at work from morning till evening, and the -child, thus morally a waif, grew up out of doors for a career of vice -and crime among the swarms of lads and girls of his age, who all rotted -there together like apples fallen on the ground. And as Alfred grew he -became yet more corrupt; he was like the sacrificed surplus of a poor -man's family, the surplus poured into the gutter, the spoilt fruit which -spoils all that comes into contact with it. - -Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was not -even known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died at -a hospital exhausted by her long life of wretchedness and family cares -which had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at the -time of her death, but was as bent and as worn out as a centenarian. -Moineaud, two years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted by -paralysis, a lamentable wreck after fifty years of unjust toil, had been -obliged to quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its few -poor sticks had been cast to the four winds of heaven. - -Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he was -indebted to Denis's compassionate initiative. But he was sinking into -second childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and not -only did he squander his few coppers in drink, but he could not be left -alone, for his feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degree -that he ran the risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he tried -to light his pipe. At last he found himself stranded in the home of his -daughters, Norine and Cecile, the only two who had heart enough to take -him in. They rented a little closet for him, on the fifth floor of the -house, over their own room, and they nursed him and bought him food and -clothes with his pension-money, to which they added a good deal of their -own. As they remarked in their gay, courageous way, they now had two -children, a little one and a very old one, which was a heavy burden -for two women who earned but five francs a day, although they were ever -making boxes from morn till night, There was a touch of soft irony in -the circumstance that old Moineaud should have been unable to find any -other refuge than the home of his daughter Norine--that daughter whom he -had formerly turned away and cursed for her misconduct, that hussy who -had dishonored him, but whose very hands he now kissed when, for fear -lest he should set the tip of his nose ablaze, she helped him to light -his pipe. - -All the same, the shaky old nest of the Moineauds was destroyed, and the -whole family had flown off, dispersed chancewise. Irma alone, thanks -to her fine marriage with a clerk, lived happily, playing the part of a -lady, and so full of vanity that she no longer condescended to see her -brothers and sisters. Victor, meantime, was leading at the factory much -the same life as his father had led, working at the same mill as the -other, and in the same blind, stubborn way. He had married, and though -he was under six-and-thirty, he already had six children, three boys and -three girls, so that his wife seemed fated to much the same existence -as his mother La Moineaude. Both of them would finish broken down, and -their children in their turn would unconsciously perpetuate the swarming -and accursed starveling race. - -At Euphrasie's, destiny the inevitable showed itself more tragic still. -The wretched woman had not been lucky enough to die. She had gradually -become bedridden, quite unable to move, though she lived on and could -hear and see and understand things. From that open grave, her bed, she -had beheld the final break-up of what remained of her sorry home. She -was nothing more than a thing, insulted by her husband and tortured by -Madame Joseph, who would leave her for days together without water, and -fling her occasional crusts much as they might be flung to a sick animal -whose litter is not even changed. Terror-stricken, and full of humility -amid her downfall, Euphrasie resigned herself to everything; but the -worst was that her three children, her twin daughters and her son, being -abandoned to themselves, sank into vice, the all-corrupting life of the -streets. Benard, tired out, distracted by the wreck of his home, had -taken to drinking with Madame Joseph; and afterwards they would fight -together, break the furniture, and drive off the children, who came home -muddy, in rags, and with their pockets full of stolen things. On two -occasions Benard disappeared for a week at a time. On the third he did -not come back at all. When the rent fell due, Madame Joseph in her turn -took herself off. And then came the end. Euphrasie had to be removed -to the hospital of La Salpetriere, the last refuge of the aged and the -infirm; while the children, henceforth without a home in name, were -driven into the gutter. The boy never turned up again; it was as if he -had been swallowed by some sewer. One of the twin girls, found in the -streets, died in a hospital during the ensuing year; and the other, -Toinette, a fair-haired scraggy hussy, who, however puny she might look, -was a terrible little creature with the eyes and the teeth of a wolf, -lived under the bridges, in the depths of the stone quarries, in the -dingy garrets of haunts of vice, so that at sixteen she was already an -expert thief. Her fate was similar to Alfred's; here was a girl morally -abandoned, then contaminated by the life of the streets, and carried off -to a criminal career. And, indeed, the uncle and the niece having met -by chance, ended by consorting together, their favorite refuge, it was -thought, being the limekilns in the direction of Les Moulineaux. - -One day then it happened that Alexandre upon calling at Norine's there -encountered Alfred, who came at times to try to extract a half-franc -from old Moineaud, his father. The two young bandits went off together, -chatted, and met again. And from that chance encounter there sprang a -band. Alexandre was living with Richard, and Alfred brought Toinette -to them. Thus they were four in number, and the customary developments -followed: begging at first, the girl putting out her hand at the -instigation of the three prowlers, who remained on the watch and drew -alms by force at nighttime from belated bourgeois encountered in dark -corners; next came vulgar vice and its wonted attendant, blackmail; -and then theft, petty larceny to begin with, the pilfering of things -displayed for sale by shopkeepers, and afterwards more serious affairs, -premeditated expeditions, mapped out like real war plans. - -The band slept wherever it could; now in suspicious dingy doss-houses, -now on waste ground. In summer time there were endless saunters through -the woods of the environs, pending the arrival of night, which handed -Paris over to their predatory designs. They found themselves at the -Central Markets, among the crowds on the boulevards, in the low -taverns, along the deserted avenues--indeed, wherever they sniffed the -possibility of a stroke of luck, the chance of snatching the bread of -idleness, or the pleasures of vice. They were like a little clan of -savages on the war-path athwart civilization, living outside the pale of -the laws. They suggested young wild beasts beating the ancestral forest; -they typified the human animal relapsing into barbarism, forsaken since -birth, and evincing the ancient instincts of pillage and carnage. And -like noxious weeds they grew up sturdily, becoming bolder and bolder -each day, exacting a bigger and bigger ransom from the fools who toiled -and moiled, ever extending their thefts and marching along the road to -murder. - -Never should it be forgotten that the child, born chancewise, and then -cast upon the pavement, without supervision, without prop or help, rots -there and becomes a terrible ferment of social decomposition. All those -little ones thrown to the gutter, like superfluous kittens are flung -into some sewer, all those forsaken ones, those wanderers of the -pavement who beg, and thieve, and indulge in vice, form the dung-heap in -which the worst crimes germinate. Childhood left to wretchedness breeds -a fearful nucleus of infection in the tragic gloom of the depths of -Paris. Those who are thus imprudently cast into the streets yield a -harvest of brigandage--that frightful harvest of evil which makes all -society totter. - -When Norine, through the boasting of Alexandre and Alfred, who took -pleasure in astonishing her, began to suspect the exploits of the band, -she felt so frightened that she had a strong bolt placed upon her door. -And when night had fallen she no longer admitted any visitor until she -knew his name. Her torture had been lasting for nearly two years; she -was ever quivering with alarm at the thought of Alexandre rushing in -upon her some dark night. He was twenty now; he spoke authoritatively, -and threatened her with atrocious revenge whenever he had to retire -with empty hands. One day, in spite of Cecile, he threw himself upon -the wardrobe and carried off a bundle of linen, handkerchiefs, towels, -napkins, and sheets, intending to sell them. And the sisters did not -dare to pursue him down the stairs. Despairing, weeping, overwhelmed by -it all, they had sunk down upon their chairs. - -That winter proved a very severe one; and the two poor workwomen, -pillaged in this fashion, would have perished in their sorry home of -cold and starvation, together with the dear child for whom they still -did their best, had it not been for the help which their old friend, -Madame Angelin, regularly brought them. She was still a lady-delegate -of the Poor Relief Service, and continued to watch over the children of -unhappy mothers in that terrible district of Grenelle, whose poverty is -so great. But for a long time past she had been unable to do anything -officially for Norine. If she still brought her a twenty-franc piece -every month, it was because charitable people intrusted her with fairly -large amounts, knowing that she could distribute them to advantage in -the dreadful inferno which her functions compelled her to frequent. -She set her last joy and found the great consolation of her desolate, -childless life in thus remitting alms to poor mothers whose little ones -laughed at her joyously as soon as they saw her arrive with her hands -full of good things. - -One day when the weather was frightful, all rain and wind, Madame -Angelin lingered for a little while in Norine's room. It was barely two -o'clock in the afternoon, and she was just beginning her round. On her -lap lay her little bag, bulging out with the gold and the silver which -she had to distribute. Old Moineaud was there, installed on a chair -and smoking his pipe, in front of her. And she felt concerned about -his needs, and explained that she would have greatly liked to obtain a -monthly relief allowance for him. - -"But if you only knew," she added, "what suffering there is among the -poor during these winter months. We are quite swamped, we cannot give to -everybody, there are too many. And after all you are among the fortunate -ones. I find some lying like dogs on the tiled floors of their rooms, -without a scrap of coal to make a fire or even a potato to eat. And -the poor children, too, good Heavens! Children in heaps among vermin, -without shoes, without clothes, all growing up as if destined for prison -or the scaffold, unless consumption should carry them off." - -Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escape -the spectacle of all the terrifying things that she evoked, the -wretchedness, the shame, the crimes that she elbowed during her -continual perambulations through that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger. -She often returned home pale and silent, having reached the uttermost -depths of human abomination, and never daring to say all. At times -she trembled and raised her eyes to Heaven, wondering what vengeful -cataclysm would swallow up that accursed city of Paris. - -"Ah!" she murmured once more; "their sufferings are so great, may their -sins be forgiven them." - -Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable to -understand. At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipe -from his mouth. It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do such -a thing, and yet for fifty years he had wrestled with iron--iron in the -vice or on the anvil. - -"There is nothing like good conduct," he stammered huskily. "When a man -works he's rewarded." - -Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but was -unable to do so. His hand, deformed by the constant use of tools, -trembled too violently. So it became necessary for Norine to rise from -her chair and help him. - -"Poor father!" exclaimed Cecile, who had not ceased working, cutting out -the cardboard for the little boxes she made: "What would have become -of him if we had not given him shelter? It isn't Irma, with her stylish -hats and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at her -place." - -Meantime Norine's little boy had taken his stand in front of Madame -Angelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good lady -called, there was some dessert at supper in the evening. He smiled at -her with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned with -tumbled sunshiny hair. And when she noticed with what a merry glance he -was waiting for her to open her little bag, she felt quite moved. - -"Come and kiss me, my little friend," said she. - -She knew no sweeter reward for all that she did than the kisses of the -children in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy. When the -youngster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filled -with tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated: "No, -no, you must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy than -you. I know one who if this pretty little fellow could only be her -own would willingly accept your poverty, and paste boxes together from -morning till night and lead a recluse's life in this one room, which -he suffices to fill with sunshine. Ah! good Heavens, if you were only -willing, if we could only change." - -For a moment she became silent, afraid that she might burst into sobs. -The wound dealt her by her childlessness had always remained open. She -and her husband were now growing old in bitter solitude in three little -rooms overlooking a courtyard in the Rue de Lille. In this retirement -they subsisted on the salary which she, the wife, received as a -lady-delegate, joined to what they had been able to save of their -original fortune. The former fan-painter of triumphant mien was now -completely blind, a mere thing, a poor suffering thing, whom his wife -seated every morning in an armchair where she still found him in the -evening when she returned home from her incessant peregrinations through -the frightful misery of guilty mothers and martyred children. He could -no longer eat, he could no longer go to bed without her help, he had -only her left him, he was her child as he would say at times with a -despairing irony which made them both weep. - -A child? Ah, yes! she had ended by having one, and it was he! An old -child, born of disaster; one who appeared to be eighty though he was -less than fifty years old, and who amid his black and ceaseless night -ever dreamt of sunshine during the long hours which he was compelled to -spend alone. And Madame Angelin did not only envy that poor workwoman -her little boy, she also envied her that old man smoking his pipe -yonder, that infirm relic of labor who at all events saw clearly and -still lived. - -"Don't worry the lady," said Norine to her son; for she felt anxious, -quite moved indeed, at seeing the other so disturbed, with her heart so -full. "Run away and play." - -She had learnt a little of Madame Angelin's sad story from Mathieu. -And with the deep gratitude which she felt towards her benefactress -was blended a sort of impassioned respect, which rendered her timid and -deferent each time that she saw her arrive, tall and distinguished, -ever clad in black, and showing the remnants of her former beauty which -sorrow had wrecked already, though she was barely six-and-forty years -of age. For Norine, the lady-delegate was like some queen who had fallen -from her throne amid frightful and undeserved sufferings. - -"Run away, go and play, my darling," Norine repeated to her boy: "you -are tiring madame." - -"Tiring me, oh no!" exclaimed Madame Angelin, conquering her emotion. -"On the contrary, he does me good. Kiss me, kiss me again, my pretty -fellow." - -Then she began to bestir and collect herself. - -"Well, it is getting late, and I have so many places to go to between -now and this evening! This is what I can do for you." - -She was at last taking a gold coin from her little bag, but at that very -moment a heavy blow, as if dealt by a fist, resounded on the door. And -Norine turned ghastly pale, for she had recognized Alexandre's brutal -knock. What could she do? If she did not open the door, the bandit would -go on knocking, and raise a scandal. She was obliged to open it, but -things did not take the violent tragical turn which she had feared. -Surprised at seeing a lady there, Alexandre did not even open his mouth. -He simply slipped inside, and stationed himself bolt upright against -the wall. The lady-delegate had raised her eyes and then carried them -elsewhere, understanding that this young fellow must be some friend, -probably some relative. And without thought of concealment, she went on: - -"Here are twenty francs, I can't do more. Only I promise you that I will -try to double the amount next month. It will be the rent month, and I've -already applied for help on all sides, and people have promised to -give me the utmost they can. But shall I ever have enough? So many -applications are made to me." - -Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with his -glittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure of -the poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the copper -money that distended its sides. Still in silence, he watched Madame -Angelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, and -then finally rose from her chair. - -"Well, au revoir, till next month then," she resumed. "I shall certainly -call on the 5th; and in all probability I shall begin my round with you. -But it's possible that it may be rather late in the afternoon, for -it happens to be my poor husband's name-day. And so be brave and work -well." - -Norine and Cecile had likewise risen, in order to escort her to the -door. Here again there was an outpouring of gratitude, and the child -once more kissed the good lady on both cheeks with all his little heart. -The sisters, so terrified by Alexandre's arrival, at last began to -breathe again. - -In point of fact the incident terminated fairly well, for the young man -showed himself accommodating. When Cecile returned from obtaining -change for the gold, he contented himself with taking one of the four -five-franc pieces which she brought up with her. And he did not tarry to -torture them as was his wont, but immediately went off with the money he -had levied, whistling the while the air of a hunting-song. - -The 5th of the ensuing month, a Saturday, was one of the gloomiest, -most rainy days of that wretched, mournful winter. Darkness fell rapidly -already at three o'clock in the afternoon, and it became almost night. -At the deserted end of Rue de la Federation there was an expanse of -waste ground, a building site, for long years enclosed by a fence, which -dampness had ended by rotting. Some of the boards were missing, and at -one part there was quite a breach. All through that afternoon, in spite -of the constantly recurring downpours, a scraggy girl remained stationed -near that breach, wrapped to her eyes in the ragged remnants of an -old shawl, doubtless for protection against the cold. She seemed to -be waiting for some chance meeting, the advent it might be of some -charitably disposed wayfarer. And her impatience was manifest, for -while keeping close to the fence like some animal lying in wait, she -continually peered through the breach, thrusting out her tapering -weasel's head and watching yonder, in the direction of the Champ de -Mars. - -Hours went by, three o'clock struck, and then such dark clouds rolled -over the livid sky, that the girl herself became blurred, obscured, as -if she were some mere piece of wreckage cast into the darkness. At times -she raised her head and watched the sky darken, with eyes that glittered -as if to thank it for throwing so dense a gloom over that deserted -corner, that spot so fit for an ambuscade. And just as the rain had once -more begun to fall, a lady could be seen approaching, a lady clad in -black, quite black, under an open umbrella. While seeking to avoid the -puddles in her path, she walked on quickly, like one in a hurry, who -goes about her business on foot in order to save herself the expense of -a cab. - -From some precise description which she had obtained, Toinette, the -girl, appeared to recognize this lady from afar off. She was indeed none -other than Madame Angelin, coming quickly from the Rue de Lille, on her -way to the homes of her poor, with the little chain of her little bag -encircling her wrist. And when the girl espied the gleaming steel of -that little chain, she no longer had any doubts, but whistled softly. -And forthwith cries and moans arose from a dim corner of the vacant -ground, while she herself began to wail and call distressfully. - -Astonished, disturbed by it all, Madame Angelin stopped short. - -"What is the matter, my girl?" she asked. - -"Oh! madame, my brother has fallen yonder and broken his leg." - -"What, fallen? What has he fallen from?" - -"Oh! madame, there's a shed yonder where we sleep, because we haven't -any home, and he was using an old ladder to try to prevent the rain from -pouring in on us, and he fell and broke his leg." - -Thereupon the girl burst into sobs, asking what was to become of them, -stammering that she had been standing there in despair for the last ten -minutes, but could see nobody to help them, which was not surprising -with that terrible rain falling and the cold so bitter. And while she -stammered all this, the calls for help and the cries of pain became -louder in the depths of the waste ground. - -Though Madame Angelin was terribly upset, she nevertheless hesitated, as -if distrustful. - -"You must run to get a doctor, my poor child," said she, "I can do -nothing." - -"Oh! but you can, madame; come with me, I pray you. I don't know where -there's a doctor to be found. Come with me, and we will pick him up, -for I can't manage it by myself; and at all events we can lay him in the -shed, so that the rain sha'n't pour down on him." - -This time the good woman consented, so truthful did the girl's accents -seem to be. Constant visits to the vilest dens, where crime sprouted -from the dunghill of poverty, had made Madame Angelin brave. She was -obliged to close her umbrella when she glided through the breach in the -fence in the wake of the girl, who, slim and supple like a cat, glided -on in front, bareheaded, in her ragged shawl. - -"Give me your hand, madame," said she. "Take care, for there are some -trenches.... It's over yonder at the end. Can you hear how he's moaning, -poor brother?... Ah! here we are!" - -Then came swift and overwhelming savagery. The three bandits, Alexandre, -Richard, and Alfred, who had been crouching low, sprang forward and -threw themselves upon Madame Angelin with such hungry, wolfish violence -that she was thrown to the ground. Alfred, however, being a coward, then -left her to the two others, and hastened with Toinette to the breach in -order to keep watch. Alexandre, who had a handkerchief rolled up, all -ready, thrust it into the poor lady's mouth to stifle her cries. Their -intention was to stun her only and then make off with her little bag. - -But the handkerchief must have slipped out, for she suddenly raised a -shriek, a loud and terrible shriek. And at that moment the others near -the breach gave the alarm whistle: some people were, doubtless, drawing -near. It was necessary to finish. Alexandre knotted the handkerchief -round the unhappy woman's neck, while Richard with his fist forced her -shriek back into her throat. Red madness fell upon them, they both began -to twist and tighten the handkerchief, and dragged the poor creature -over the muddy ground until she stirred no more. Then, as the whistle -sounded again, they took the bag, left the body there with the -handkerchief around the neck, and galloped, all four of them, as far -as the Grenelle bridge, whence they flung the bag into the Seine, after -greedily thrusting the coppers, and the white silver, and the yellow -gold into their pockets. - -When Mathieu read the particulars of the crime in the newspapers, he -was seized with fright and hastened to the Rue de la Federation. The -murdered woman had been promptly identified, and the circumstance that -the crime had been committed on that plot of vacant ground but a hundred -yards or so from the house where Norine and Cecile lived upset him, -filled him with a terrible presentiment. And he immediately realized -that his fears were justified when he had to knock three times at -Norine's door before Cecile, having recognized his voice, removed the -articles with which it had been barricaded, and admitted him inside. -Norine was in bed, quite ill, and as white as her sheets. She began to -sob and shuddered repeatedly as she told him the story: Madame Angelin's -visit the previous month, and the sudden arrival of Alexandre, who had -seen the bag and had heard the promise of further help, at a certain -hour on a certain date. Besides, Norine could have no doubts, for -the handkerchief found round the victim's neck was one of hers which -Alexandre had stolen: a handkerchief embroidered with the initial -letters of her Christian name, one of those cheap fancy things which -are sold by thousands at the big linendrapery establishments. That -handkerchief, too, was the only clew to the murderers, and it was such -a very vague one that the police were still vainly seeking the culprits, -quite lost amid a variety of scents and despairing of success. - -Mathieu sat near the bed listening to Norine and feeling icy cold. Good -God! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in her -younger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming the -woods there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losing -themselves among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shade -of the pollard willows beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses sounded -beneath the branches like the twittering of song birds. And he could -picture her at a later date, already too severely punished for her lack -of foresight, in despair at remaining childless, and bowed down with -grief as by slow degrees her husband became blind, and night fell upon -the little happiness yet left to them. And all at once Mathieu also -pictured that wretched blind man, on the evening when he vainly awaited -the return of his wife, in order that she might feed him and put him to -bed, old child that he was, now motherless, forsaken, forever alone in -his dark night, in which he could only see the bloody spectre of his -murdered helpmate. Ah! to think of it, so bright a promise of radiant -life, followed by such destiny, such death! - -"We did right," muttered Mathieu, as his thoughts turned to Constance, -"we did right to keep that ruffian in ignorance of his father's name. -What a terrible thing! We must bury the secret as deeply as possible -within us." - -Norine shuddered once more. - -"Oh! have no fear," she answered, "I would die rather than speak." - -Months, years, flowed by; and never did the police discover the -murderers of the lady with the little bag. For years, too, Norine -shuddered every time that anybody knocked too roughly at her door. But -Alexandre did not reappear there. He doubtless feared that corner of -the Rue de la Federation, and remained as it were submerged in the dim -unsoundable depths of the ocean of Paris. - - - - -XX - -DURING the ten years which followed, the vigorous sprouting of the -Froments, suggestive of some healthy vegetation of joy and strength, -continued in and around the ever and ever richer domain of Chantebled. -As the sons and the daughters grew up there came fresh marriages, and -more and more children, all the promised crop, all the promised swarming -of a race of conquerors. - -First it was Gervais who married Caroline Boucher, daughter of a big -farmer of the region, a fair, fine-featured, gay, strong girl, one of -those superior women born to rule over a little army of servants. On -leaving a Parisian boarding-school she had been sensible enough to feel -no shame of her family's connection with the soil. Indeed she loved the -earth and had set herself to win from it all the sterling happiness of -her life. By way of dowry she brought an expanse of meadow-land in -the direction of Lillebonne, which enlarged the estate by some seventy -acres. But she more particularly brought her good humor, her health, her -courage in rising early, in watching over the farmyard, the dairy, the -whole home, like an energetic active housewife, who was ever bustling -about, and always the last to bed. - -Then came the turn of Claire, whose marriage with Frederic Berthaud, -long since foreseen, ended by taking place. There were tears of soft -emotion, for the memory of her whom Berthaud had loved and whom he was -to have married disturbed several hearts on the wedding day when the -family skirted the little cemetery of Janville as it returned to the -farm from the municipal offices. But, after all, did not that love of -former days, that faithful fellow's long affection, which in time had -become transferred to the younger sister, constitute as it were another -link in the ties which bound him to the Froments? He had no fortune, -he brought with him only his constant faithfulness, and the fraternity -which had sprung up between himself and Gervais during the many seasons -when they had ploughed the estate like a span of tireless oxen drawing -the same plough. His heart was one that could never be doubted, he was -the helper who had become indispensable, the husband whose advent would -mean the best of all understandings and absolute certainty of happiness. - -From the day of that wedding the government of the farm was finally -settled. Though Mathieu was barely five-and-fifty he abdicated, and -transferred his authority to Gervais, that son of the earth as with a -laugh he often called him, the first of his children born at Chantebled, -the one who had never left the farm, and who had at all times given him -the support of his arm and his brain and his heart. And now Frederic -in turn would think and strive as Gervais's devoted lieutenant, in -the great common task. Between them henceforth they would continue the -father's work, and perfect the system of culture, procuring appliances -of new design from the Beauchene works, now ruled by Denis, and ever -drawing from the soil the largest crops that it could be induced to -yield. Their wives had likewise divided their share of authority; Claire -surrendered the duties of supervision to Caroline, who was stronger and -more active than herself, and was content to attend to the accounts, the -turnover of considerable sums of money, all that was paid away and all -that was received. The two couples seemed to have been expressly and -cleverly selected to complete one another and to accomplish the greatest -sum of work without ever the slightest fear of conflict. And, indeed, -they lived in perfect union, with only one will among them, one purpose -which was ever more and more skilfully effected--the continual increase -of the happiness and wealth of Chantebled under the beneficent sun. - -At the same time, if Mathieu had renounced the actual exercise of -authority, he none the less remained the creator, the oracle who was -consulted, listened to, and obeyed. He dwelt with Marianne in the -old shooting-box which had been transformed and enlarged into a very -comfortable house. Here they lived like the founders of a dynasty who -had retired in full glory, setting their only delight in beholding -around them the development and expansion of their race, the birth and -growth of their children's children. Leaving Claire and Gervais on one -side, there were as yet only Denis and Ambroise--the first to wing their -flight abroad--engaged in building up their fortunes in Paris. The three -girls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, who would soon be old enough -to marry, still dwelt in the happy home beside their parents, as well -as the three youngest boys, Gregoire, the free lance, Nicolas, the most -stubborn and determined of the brood, and Benjamin, who was of a dreamy -nature. All these finished growing up at the edge of the nest, so to -say, with the window of life open before them, ready for the day when -they likewise would take wing. - -With them dwelt Charlotte, Blaise's widow, and her two children, Berthe -and Guillaume, the three of them occupying an upper floor of the house -where the mother had installed her studio. She was becoming rich since -her little share in the factory profits, stipulated by Denis, had been -increasing year by year; but nevertheless, she continued working for -her dealer in miniatures. This work brought her pocket-money, she gayly -said, and would enable her to make her children a present whenever they -might marry. There was, indeed, already some thought of Berthe -marrying; and assuredly she would be the first of Mathieu and Marianne's -grandchildren to enter into the state of matrimony. They smiled softly -at the idea of becoming great-grandparents before very long perhaps. - -After the lapse of four years, Gregoire, first of the younger children, -flew away. There was a great deal of trouble, quite a little drama in -connection with the affair, which Mathieu and Marianne had for some -time been anticipating. Gregoire was anything but reasonable. Short, but -robust, with a pert face in which glittered the brightest of eyes, he -had always been the turbulent member of the family, the one who caused -the most anxiety. His childhood had been spent in playing truant in -the woods of Janville, and he had afterwards made a mere pretence of -studying in Paris, returning home full of health and spirits, but unable -or unwilling to make up his mind with respect to any particular trade -or profession. Already four-and-twenty, he knew little more than how -to shoot and fish, and trot about the country on horseback. He was -certainly not more stupid or less active than another, but he seemed -bent on living and amusing himself according to his fancy. The worst was -that for some months past all the gossips of Janville had been -relating that he had renewed his former boyish friendship with Therese -Lepailleur, the miller's daughter, and that they were to be met of an -evening in shady nooks under the pollard-willows by the Yeuse. - -One morning Mathieu, wishing to ascertain if the young coveys of -partridges were plentiful in the direction of Mareuil, took Gregoire -with him; and when they found themselves alone among the plantations of -the plateau, he began to talk to him seriously. - -"You know I'm not pleased with you, my lad," said he. "I really cannot -understand the idle life which you lead here, while all the rest of us -are hard at work. I shall wait till October since you have positively -promised me that you will then come to a decision and choose the calling -which you most fancy. But what is all this tittle-tattle which I hear -about appointments which you keep with the daughter of the Lepailleurs? -Do you wish to cause us serious worry?" - -Gregoire quietly began to laugh. - -"Oh, father! You are surely not going to scold a son of yours because -he happens to be on friendly terms with a pretty girl! Why, as you may -remember, it was I who gave her her first bicycle lesson nearly ten -years ago. And you will recollect the fine white roses which she helped -me to secure in the enclosure by the mill for Denis' wedding." - -Gregoire still laughed at the memory of that incident, and lived afresh -through all his old time sweethearting--the escapades with Therese along -the river banks, and the banquets of blackberries in undiscoverable -hiding-places, deep in the woods. And it seemed, too, that the love -of childhood had revived, and was now bursting into consuming fire, so -vividly did his cheeks glow, and so hotly did his eyes blaze as he thus -recalled those distant times. - -"Poor Therese! We had been at daggers drawn for years, and all because -one evening, on coming back from the fair at Vieux-Bourg, I pushed her -into a pool of water where she dirtied her frock. It's true that last -spring we made it up again on finding ourselves face to face in the -little wood at Monval over yonder. But come, father, do you mean to -say that it's a crime if we take a little pleasure in speaking to one -another when we meet?" - -Rendered the more anxious by the fire with which Gregoire sought to -defend the girl, Mathieu spoke out plainly. - -"A crime? No, if you just wish one another good day and good evening. -Only folks relate that you are to be seen at dusk with your arms -round each other's waist, and that you go stargazing through the grass -alongside the Yeuse." - -Then, as Gregoire this time without replying laughed yet more loudly, -with the merry laugh of youth, his father gravely resumed: - -"Listen, my lad, it is not at all to my taste to play the gendarme -behind my sons. But I won't have you drawing some unpleasant business -with the Lepailleurs on us all. You know the position, they would -be delighted to give us trouble. So don't give them occasion for -complaining, leave their daughter alone." - -"Oh! I take plenty of care," cried the young man, thus suddenly -confessing the truth. "Poor girl! She has already had her ears boxed -because somebody told her father that I had been met with her. He -answered that rather than give her to me he would throw her into the -river." - -"Ah! you see," concluded Mathieu. "It is understood, is it not? I shall -rely on your good behavior." - -Thereupon they went their way, scouring the fields as far as the road to -Mareuil. Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started up -both to the right and to the left. The shooting would be good. Then as -the father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a long -spell of silence fell between them. They were both reflecting. - -"I don't wish that there should be any misunderstanding between us," -Mathieu suddenly resumed; "you must not imagine that I shall prevent you -from marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you to -take an heiress. Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl. And it -was the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, in -marriage to Frederic, who was simply one of our farm hands. So I don't -look down on Therese. On the contrary, I think her charming. She's one -of the prettiest girls of the district--not tall, certainly, but so -alert and determined, with her little pink face shining under such a -wild crop of fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all the -flour in the mill." - -"Yes, isn't that so, father?" interrupted Gregoire enthusiastically. -"And if you only knew how affectionate and courageous she is! She's -worth a man any day. It's wrong of them to smack her, for she will never -put up with it. Whenever she sets her mind on anything she's bound to do -it, and it isn't I who can prevent her." - -Absorbed in some reflections of his own, Mathieu scarcely heard his son. - -"No, no," he resumed; "I certainly don't look down on their mill. If it -were not for Lepailleur's stupid obstinacy he would be drawing a fortune -from that mill nowadays. Since corn-growing has again been taken up all -over the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pile -of crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism of his -wheel which he leaves rotting under the moss. And better still, I should -like to see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway line -connecting the mill with Janville station." - -In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Gregoire -listened, again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way. - -"Well, father," the young man ended by saying, "as you wish that I -should have a calling, it's settled. If I marry Therese, I'll be a -miller." - -Mathieu protested in surprise: "No, no, I was merely talking. And -besides, you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable. So -once again, for the sake of the peace and quietness of all of us, -leave Therese alone, for we can only expect to reap worry with the -Lepailleurs." - -The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm. That evening, -however, the father told the mother of the young man's confession, and -she, who already entertained various misgivings, felt more anxious than -ever. Still a month went by without anything serious happening. - -Then, one morning Marianne was astounded at finding Gregoire's bedroom -empty. As a rule he came to kiss her. Perhaps he had risen early, and -had gone on some excursion in the environs. But she trembled slightly -when she remembered how lovingly he had twice caught her in his arms on -the previous night when they were all retiring to bed. And as she looked -inquisitively round the room she noticed on the mantelshelf a letter -addressed to her--a prettily worded letter in which the young fellow -begged her to forgive him for causing her grief, and asked her to excuse -him with his father, for it was necessary that he should leave them -for a time. Of his reasons for doing so and his purpose, however, no -particulars were given. - -This family rending, this bad conduct on the part of the son who had -been the most spoilt of all, and who, in a fit of sudden folly was the -first to break the ties which united the household together, was a very -painful blow for Marianne and Mathieu. They were the more terrified -since they divined that Gregoire had not gone off alone. They pieced -together the incidents of the deplorable affair. Charlotte remembered -that she had heard Gregoire go downstairs again, almost immediately -after entering his bedroom, and before the servants had even bolted the -house-doors for the night. He had certainly rushed off to join Therese -in some coppice, whence they must have hurried away to Vieux-Bourg -station which the last train to Paris quitted at five-and-twenty minutes -past midnight. And it was indeed this which had taken place. At noon the -Froments already learnt that Lepailleur was creating a terrible scandal -about the flight of Therese. He had immediately gone to the gendarmes -to shout the story to them, and demand that they should bring the guilty -hussy back, chained to her accomplice, and both of them with gyves about -their wrists. - -He on his side had found a letter in his daughter's bedroom, a plucky -letter in which she plainly said that as she had been struck again the -previous day, she had had enough of it, and was going off of her own -free will. Indeed, she added that she was taking Gregoire with her, and -was quite big and old enough, now that she was two-and-twenty, to know -what she was about. Lepailleur's fury was largely due to this letter -which he did not dare to show abroad; besides which, his wife, ever -at war with him respecting their son Antonin, not only roundly abused -Therese, but sneeringly declared that it might all have been expected, -and that he, the father, was the cause of the gad-about's misconduct. -After that, they engaged in fisticuffs; and for a whole week the -district did nothing but talk about the flight of one of the Chantebled -lads with the girl of the mill, to the despair of Mathieu and Marianne, -the latter of whom in particular grieved over the sorry business. - -Five days later, a Sunday, matters became even worse. As the search for -the runaways remained fruitless Lepailleur, boiling over with rancor, -went up to the farm, and from the middle of the road--for he did not -venture inside--poured forth a flood of ignoble insults. It so happened -that Mathieu was absent; and Marianne had great trouble to restrain -Gervais as well as Frederic, both of whom wished to thrust the miller's -scurrilous language back into his throat. When Mathieu came home in the -evening he was extremely vexed to hear of what had happened. - -"It is impossible for this state of things to continue," he said to his -wife, as they were retiring to rest. "It looks as if we were hiding, -as if we were guilty in the matter. I will go to see that man in the -morning. There is only one thing, and a very simple one, to be done, -those unhappy children must be married. For our part we consent, is it -not so? And it is to that man's advantage to consent also. To-morrow the -matter must be settled." - -On the following day, Monday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Mathieu -set out for the mill. But certain complications, a tragic drama, which -he could not possibly foresee, awaited him there. For years now a -stubborn struggle had been going on between Lepailleur and his wife with -respect to Antonin. While the farmer had grown more and more exasperated -with his son's idleness and life of low debauchery in Paris, the latter -had supported her boy with all the obstinacy of an illiterate woman, -who was possessed of a blind faith in his fine handwriting, and felt -convinced that if he did not succeed in life it was simply because he -was refused the money necessary for that purpose. In spite of her sordid -avarice in some matters, the old woman continued bleeding herself for -her son, and even robbed the house, promptly thrusting out her claws and -setting her teeth ready to bite whenever she was caught in the act, and -had to defend some twenty-franc piece or other, which she had been on -the point of sending away. And each time the battle began afresh, to -such a point indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would some -day end by falling on their heads. - -Then, all at once, Antonin, a perfect wreck at thirty-six years of age, -fell seriously ill. Lepailleur forthwith declared that if the scamp had -the audacity to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into the -water. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held the -country in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him up -like a dog. So his mother placed him with some people of Batignolles, -paying for his board and for the attendance of a doctor of the district. -This had been going on for three months or so, and every fortnight La -Lepailleur went to see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday, -and on the Sunday evening she received a telegram summoning her to -Batignolles again. Thus, on the morning of the day when Mathieu repaired -to the mill, she had once more gone to Paris after a frightful quarrel -with her husband, who asked if their good-for-nothing son ever meant to -cease fooling them and spending their money, when he had not the courage -even to turn a spit of earth. - -Alone in the mill that morning Lepailleur did not cease storming. At the -slightest provocation he would have hammered his plough to pieces, or -have rushed, axe in hand, and mad with hatred, on the old wheel by way -of avenging his misfortunes. When he saw Mathieu come in he believed in -some act of bravado, and almost choked. - -"Come, neighbor," said the master of Chantebled cordially, "let us both -try to be reasonable. I've come to return your visit, since you called -upon me yesterday. Only, bad words never did good work, and the best -course, since this misfortune has happened, is to repair it as speedily -as possible. When would you have us marry off those bad children?" - -Thunderstruck by the quiet good nature of this frontal attack, -Lepailleur did not immediately reply. He had shouted over the house -roofs that he would have no marriage at all, but rather a good lawsuit -by way of sending all the Froments to prison. Nevertheless, when it -came to reflection, a son of the big farmer of Chantebled was not to be -disdained as a son-in-law. - -"Marry them, marry them," he stammered at the first moment. "Yes, by -fastening a big stone to both their necks and throwing them together -into the river. Ah! the wretches! I'll skin them, I will, her as well as -him." - -At last, however, the miller grew calmer and was even showing a -disposition to discuss matters, when all at once an urchin of Janville -came running across the yard. - -"What do you want, eh?" called the master of the premises. - -"Please, Monsieur Lepailleur, it's a telegram." - -"All right, give it here." - -The lad, well pleased with the copper he received as a gratuity, had -already gone off, and still the miller, instead of opening the telegram, -stood examining the address on it with the distrustful air of a man who -does not often receive such communications. However, he at last had to -tear it open. It contained but three words: "Your son dead"; and in that -brutal brevity, that prompt, hasty bludgeon-blow, one could detect the -mother's cold rage and eager craving to crush without delay the man, the -father yonder, whom she accused of having caused her son's death, even -as she had accused him of being responsible for her daughter's flight. -He felt this full well, and staggered beneath the shock, stunned by the -words that appeared on that strip of blue paper, reading them again -and again till he ended by understanding them. Then his hands began to -tremble and he burst into oaths. - -"Thunder and blazes! What again is this? Here's the boy dying now! -Everything's going to the devil!" - -But his heart dilated and tears appeared in his eyes. Unable to remain -standing, he sank upon a chair and again obstinately read the telegram; -"Your son dead--Your son dead," as if seeking something else, the -particulars, indeed, which the message did not contain. Perhaps the boy -had died before his mother's arrival. Or perhaps she had arrived just -before he died. Such were his stammered comments. And he repeated a -score of times that she had taken the train at ten minutes past eleven -and must have reached Batignolles about half-past twelve. As she had -handed in the telegram at twenty minutes past one it seemed more likely -that she had found the lad already dead. - -"Curse it! curse it!" he shouted; "a cursed telegram, it tells you -nothing, and it murders you! She might, at all events, have sent -somebody. I shall have to go there. Ah the whole thing's complete, it's -more than a man can bear!" - -Lepailleur shouted those words in such accents of rageful despair that -Mathieu, full of compassion, made bold to intervene. The sudden shock -of the tragedy had staggered him, and he had hitherto waited in silence. -But now he offered his services and spoke of accompanying the other -to Paris. He had to retreat, however, for the miller rose to his feet, -seized with wild exasperation at perceiving him still there in his -house. - -"Ah! yes, you came; and what was it you were saying to me? That we ought -to marry off those wretched children? Well, you can see that I'm in -proper trim for a wedding! My boy's dead! You've chosen your day well. -Be off with you, be off with you, I say, if you don't want me to do -something dreadful!" - -He raised his fists, quite maddened as he was by the presence of Mathieu -at that moment when his whole life was wrecked. It was terrible indeed -that this bourgeois who had made a fortune by turning himself into a -peasant should be there at the moment when he so suddenly learnt the -death of Antonin, that son whom he had dreamt of turning into a Monsieur -by filling his mind with disgust of the soil and sending him to rot of -idleness and vice in Paris! It enraged him to find that he had erred, -that the earth whom he had slandered, whom he had taxed with decrepitude -and barrenness was really a living, youthful, and fruitful spouse to the -man who knew how to love her! And nought but ruin remained around him, -thanks to his imbecile resolve to limit his family: a foul life had -killed his only son, and his only daughter had gone off with a scion of -the triumphant farm, while he was now utterly alone, weeping and howling -in his deserted mill, that mill which he had likewise disdained and -which was crumbling around him with old age. - -"You hear me!" he shouted. "Therese may drag herself at my feet; but -I will never, never give her to your thief of a son! You'd like it, -wouldn't you? so that folks might mock me all over the district, and so -that you might eat me up as you have eaten up all the others!" - -This finish to it all had doubtless appeared to him, confusedly, in a -sudden threatening vision: Antonin being dead, it was Gregoire who would -possess the mill, if he should marry Therese. And he would possess the -moorland also, that enclosure, hitherto left barren with such savage -delight, and so passionately coveted by the farm. And doubtless he would -cede it to the farm as soon as he should be the master. The thought that -Chantebled might yet be increased by the fields which he, Lepailleur, -had withheld from it brought the miller's delirious rage to a climax. - -"Your son, I'll send him to the galleys! And you, if you don't go, I'll -throw you out! Be off with you, be off!" - -Mathieu, who was very pale, slowly retired before this furious madman. -But as he went off he calmly said: "You are an unhappy man. I forgive -you, for you are in great grief. Besides, I am quite easy, sensible -things always end by taking place." - -Again, a month went by. Then, one rainy morning in October, Madame -Lepailleur was found hanging in the mill stable. There were folks at -Janville who related that Lepailleur had hung her there. The truth was -that she had given signs of melancholia ever since the death of Antonin. -Moreover, the life led at the mill was no longer bearable; day by day -the husband and wife reproached one another for their son's death and -their daughter's flight, battling ragefully together like two abandoned -beasts shut up in the same cage. Folks were merely astonished that such -a harsh, avaricious woman should have been willing to quit this life -without taking her goods and chattels with her. - -As soon as Therese heard of her mother's death she hastened home, -repentant, and took her place beside her father again, unwilling as she -was that he should remain alone in his two-fold bereavement. At first it -proved a terrible time for her in the company of that brutal old man who -was exasperated by what he termed his bad luck. But she was a girl of -sterling courage and prompt decision; and thus, after a few weeks, she -had made her father consent to her marriage with Gregoire, which, as -Mathieu had said, was the only sensible course. The news gave great -relief at the farm whither the prodigal son had not yet dared to return. -It was believed that the young couple, after eloping together, had lived -in some out of the way district of Paris, and it was even suspected that -Ambroise, who was liberally minded, had, in a brotherly way, helped them -with his purse. And if, on the one hand, Lepailleur consented to the -marriage in a churlish, distrustful manner--like one who deemed himself -robbed, and was simply influenced by the egotistical dread of some -day finding himself quite alone again in his gloomy house--Mathieu and -Marianne, on the other side, were delighted with an arrangement which -put an end to an equivocal situation that had caused them the greatest -suffering, grieved as they were by the rebellion of one of their -children. - -Curiously enough, it came to pass that Gregoire, once married and -installed at the mill in accordance with his wife's desire, agreed with -his father-in-law far better than had been anticipated. This resulted in -particular from a certain discussion during which Lepailleur had wished -to make Gregoire swear, that, after his death, he would never dispose -of the moorland enclosure, hitherto kept uncultivated with peasant -stubbornness, to any of his brothers or sisters of the farm. Gregoire -took no oath on the subject, but gayly declared that he was not such -a fool as to despoil his wife of the best part of her inheritance, -particularly as he proposed to cultivate those moors and, within two or -three years' time, make them the most fertile land in the district. That -which belonged to him did not belong to others, and people would soon -see that he was well able to defend the property which had fallen to -his lot. Things took a similar course with respect to the mill, where -Gregoire at first contented himself with repairing the old mechanism, -for he was unwilling to upset the miller's habits all at once, and -therefore postponed until some future time the installation of an -engine, and the laying down of a line of rails to Janville station--all -those ideas formerly propounded by Mathieu which henceforth fermented in -his audacious young mind. - -In this wise, then, people found themselves in presence of a new -Gregoire. The madcap had become wise, only retaining of his youthful -follies the audacity which is needful for successful enterprise. And it -must be said that he was admirably seconded by the fair and energetic -Therese. They were both enraptured at now being free to love each other -in the romantic old mill, garlanded with ivy, pending the time when -they would resolutely fling it to the ground to install in its place -the great white meal stores and huge new mill-stones, which, with their -conquering ambition, they often dreamt of. - -During the years that followed, Mathieu and Marianne witnessed other -departures. The three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, in -turn took their flight from the family nest. All three found husbands -in the district. Louise, a plump brunette, all gayety and health, -with abundant hair and large laughing eyes, married notary Mazaud of -Janville, a quiet, pensive little man, whose occasional silent smiles -alone denoted the perfect satisfaction which he felt at having found a -wife of such joyous disposition. Then Madeleine, whose chestnut tresses -were tinged with gleaming gold, and who was slimmer than her sister, and -of a more dreamy style of beauty, her character and disposition refined -by her musical tastes, made a love match which was quite a romance. -Herbette, the architect, who became her husband, was a handsome, elegant -man, already celebrated; he owned near Monvel a park-like estate, where -he came to rest at times from the fatigue of his labors in Paris. - -At last, Marguerite, the least pretty of the girls--indeed, she -was quite plain, but derived a charm from her infinite goodness of -heart--was chosen in marriage by Dr. Chambouvet, a big, genial, kindly -fellow, who had inherited his father's practice at Vieux-Bourg, where he -lived in a large white house, which had become the resort of the poor. -And thus the three girls being married, the only ones who remained with -Mathieu and Marianne in the slowly emptying nest were their two last -boys, Nicolas and Benjamin. - -At the same time, however, as the youngsters flew away and installed -themselves elsewhere, there came other little ones, a constant swarming -due to the many family marriages. In eight years, Denis, who reigned -at the factory in Paris, had been presented by his wife with three -children, two boys, Lucien and Paul, and a girl, Hortense. Then Leonce, -the son of Ambroise, who was conquering such a high position in the -commercial world, now had a brother, Charles, and two little sisters, -Pauline and Sophie. At the farm, moreover, Gervais was already the -father of two boys, Leon and Henri, while Claire, his sister, could -count three children, a boy, Joseph, and two daughters, Lucile and -Angele. There was also Gregoire, at the mill, with a big boy who had -received the name of Robert; and there were also the three last married -daughters--Louise, with a girl two years old; Madeleine, with a boy six -months of age; and Marguerite, who in anticipation of a happy event, had -decided to call her child Stanislas, if it were a boy, and Christine, if -it should be a girl. - -Thus upon every side the family oak spread out its branches, its trunk -forking and multiplying, and boughs sprouting from boughs at each -successive season. And withal Mathieu was not yet sixty, and Marianne -not yet fifty-seven. Both still possessed flourishing health, and -strength, and gayety, and were ever in delight at seeing the family, -which had sprung from them, thus growing and spreading, invading all the -country around, even like a forest born from a single tree. - -But the great and glorious festival of Chantebled at that period was the -birth of Mathieu and Marianne's first great-grandchild--a girl, called -Angeline, daughter of their granddaughter, Berthe. In this little girl, -all pink and white, the ever-regretted Blaise seemed to live again. -So closely did she resemble him that Charlotte, his widow, already a -grandmother in her forty-second year, wept with emotion at the sight of -her. Madame Desvignes had died six months previously, passing away, even -as she had lived, gently and discreetly, at the termination of her task, -which had chiefly consisted in rearing her two daughters on the scanty -means at her disposal. Still it was she, who, before quitting the scene, -had found a husband for her granddaughter, Berthe, in the person of -Philippe Havard, a young engineer who had recently been appointed -assistant-manager at a State factory near Mareuil. It was at Chantebled, -however, that Berthe's little Angeline was born; and on the day of -the churching, the whole family assembled together there once more to -glorify the great-grandfather and great-grandmother. - -"Ah! well," said Marianne gayly, as she stood beside the babe's cradle, -"if the young ones fly away there are others born, and so the nest will -never be empty." - -"Never, never!" repeated Mathieu with emotion, proud as he felt of -that continual victory over solitude and death. "We shall never be left -alone!" - -Yet there came another departure which brought them many tears. Nicolas, -the youngest but one of their boys, who was approaching his twentieth -birthday, and thus nigh the cross-roads of life, had not yet decided -which one he would follow. He was a dark, sturdy young man, with an -open, laughing face. As a child, he had adored tales of travel and -far-away adventure, and had always evinced great courage and endurance, -returning home enraptured from interminable rambles, and never uttering -complaints, however badly his feet might be blistered. And withal he -possessed a most orderly mind, ever carefully arranging and classifying -his little belongings in his drawers, and looking down with contempt on -the haphazard way in which his sisters kept their things. - -Later on, as he grew up, he became thoughtful, as if he were vainly -seeking around him some means of realizing his two-fold craving, that -of discovering some new land and organizing it properly. One of the -last-born of a numerous family, he no longer found space enough for the -amplitude and force of his desires. His brothers and sisters had already -taken all the surrounding lands, and he stifled, threatened also, as it -were, with famine, and ever sought the broad expanse that he dreamt of, -where he might grow and reap his bread. No more room, no more food! At -first he knew not in which direction to turn, but groped and hesitated -for some months. Nevertheless, his hearty laughter continued to gladden -the house; he wearied neither his father nor his mother with the care -of his destiny, for he knew that he was already strong enough to fix it -himself. - -There was no corner left for him at the farm where Gervais and Claire -took up all the room. At the Beauchene works Denis was all sufficient, -reigning there like a conscientious toiler, and nothing justified -a younger brother in claiming a share beside him. At the mill, too, -Gregoire was as yet barely established, and his kingdom was so small -that he could not possibly cede half of it. Thus an opening was only -possible with Ambroise, and Nicolas ended by accepting an obliging offer -which the latter made to take him on trial for a few months, by way of -initiating him into the higher branches of commerce. Ambroise's fortune -was becoming prodigious since old uncle Du Hordel had died, leaving him -his commission business. Year by year the new master increased his trade -with all the countries of the world. Thanks to his lucky audacity and -broad international views, he was enriching himself with the spoils of -the earth. And though Nicolas again began to stifle in Ambroise's huge -store-houses, where the riches of distant countries, the most varied -climes, were collected together, it was there that his real vocation -came to him; for a voice suddenly arose, calling him away yonder to dim, -unknown regions, vast stretches of country yet sterile, which needed to -be populated, and cleared and sowed with the crops of the future. - -For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he was -now maturing. He was extremely discreet, as are all men of great energy, -who reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neither -space nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of his -birth; but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfect -state, deficient in the means needed for the heroic task of populating -and clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau, -who was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, and -activity had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, like -Nicolas, she stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confined -her; for she craved for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. An -orphan, and long dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little village -haberdasher, she had hitherto, from feelings of affection, remained -cloistered in a small and gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died, -leaving her some ten thousand francs, and her dream was to sell the -little business, and go away and really live at last. One October -evening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told one another things that they -had never previously told anybody, they came to an understanding. They -resolutely took each other's hand and plighted their troth for life, for -the hard battle of creating a new world, a new family, somewhere on the -earth's broad surface, in those mysterious, far away climes of which -they knew so little. 'Twas a delightful betrothal, full of courage and -faith. - -Only then, everything having been settled, did Nicolas speak out, -announcing his departure to his father and mother. It was an autumn -evening, still mild, but fraught with winter's first shiver, and the -twilight was falling. Intense grief wrung the parents' hearts as soon -as they understood their son. This time it was not simply a young one -flying from the family nest to build his own on some neighboring tree -of the common forest; it was flight across the seas forever, severance -without hope of return. They would see their other children again, but -this one was breathing an eternal farewell. Their consent would be the -share of cruel sacrifice, that life demands, their supreme gift to life, -the tithe levied by life on their affection and their blood. To pursue -its victory, life, the perpetual conqueror, demanded this portion -of their flesh, this overplus of the numerous family, which was -overflowing, spreading, peopling the world. And what could they answer, -how could they refuse? The son who was unprovided for took himself -off; nothing could be more logical or more sensible. Far beyond the -fatherland there were vast continents yet uninhabited, and the seed -which is scattered by the breezes of heaven knows no frontiers. Beyond -the race there is mankind with that endless spreading of humanity that -is leading us to the one fraternal people of the accomplished times, -when the whole earth shall be but one sole city of truth and justice. - -Moreover, quite apart from the great dream of those seers, the poets, -Nicolas, like a practical man, whatever his enthusiasm, gayly gave his -reasons for departing. He did not wish to be a parasite; he was setting -off to the conquest of another land, where he would grow the bread he -needed, since his own country had no field left for him. Besides, he -took his country with him in his blood; she it was that he wished to -enlarge afar off with unlimited increase of wealth and strength. It was -ancient Africa, the mysterious, now explored, traversed from end to -end, that attracted him. In the first instance he intended to repair to -Senegal, whence he would doubtless push on to the Soudan, to the very -heart of the virgin lands where he dreamt of a new France, an immense -colonial empire, which would rejuvenate the old Gallic race by endowing -it with its due share of the earth. And it was there that he had the -ambition of carving out a kingdom for himself, and of founding with -Lisbeth another dynasty of Froments, and a new Chantebled, covering -under the hot sun a tract ten times as extensive as the old one, and -peopled with the people of his own children. And he spoke of all this -with such joyous courage that Mathieu and Marianne ended by smiling amid -their tears, despite the rending of their poor hearts. - -"Go, my lad, we cannot keep you back. Go wherever life calls you, -wherever you may live with more health and joy and strength. All that -may spring from you yonder will still be health and joy and strength -derived from us, of which we shall be proud. You are right, one must not -weep, your departure must be a fete, for the family does not separate, -it simply extends, invades, and conquers the world." - -Nevertheless, on the day of farewell, after the marriage of Nicolas and -Lisbeth there was an hour of painful emotion at Chantebled. The family -had met to share a last meal all together, and when the time came for -the young and adventurous couple to tear themselves from the maternal -soil there were those who sobbed although they had vowed to be very -brave. Nicolas and Lisbeth were going off with little means, but rich in -hopes. Apart from the ten thousand francs of the wife's dowry they had -only been willing to take another ten thousand, just enough to provide -for the first difficulties. Might courage and labor therefore prove -sturdy artisans of conquest. - -Young Benjamin, the last born of the brothers Froment, was particularly -upset by this departure. He was a delicate, good-looking child not yet -twelve years old, whom his parents greatly spoiled, thinking that he was -weak. And they were quite determined that they would at all events keep -him with them, so handsome did they find him with his soft limpid eyes -and beautiful curly hair. He was growing up in a languid way, dreamy, -petted, idle among his mother's skirts, like the one charming weakling -of that strong, hardworking family. - -"Let me kiss you again, my good Nicolas," said he to his departing -brother. "When will you come back?" - -"Never, my little Benjamin." - -The boy shuddered. - -"Never, never!" he repeated. "Oh! that's too long. Come back, come back -some day, so that I may kiss you again." - -"Never," repeated Nicolas, turning pale himself. "Never, never." - -He had lifted up the lad, whose tears were raining fast; and then for -all came the supreme grief, the frightful moment of the hatchet-stroke, -of the separation which was to be eternal. - -"Good-by, little brother! Good-by, good-by, all of you!" - -While Mathieu accompanied the future conqueror to the door for the last -time wishing him victory, Benjamin in wild grief sought a refuge beside -his mother who was blinded by her tears. And she caught him up with a -passionate clasp, as if seized with fear that he also might leave her. -He was the only one now left to them in the family nest. - - - - -XXI - -AT the factory, in her luxurious house on the quay, where she had long -reigned as sovereign mistress, Constance for twelve years already -had been waiting for destiny, remaining rigid and stubborn amid the -continual crumbling of her life and hopes. - -During those twelve years Beauchene had pursued a downward course, the -descent of which was fatal. He was right at the bottom now, in the -last state of degradation. After beginning simply as a roving husband, -festively inclined, he had ended by living entirely away from his home, -principally in the company of two women, aunt and niece. He was now but -a pitiful human rag, fast approaching some shameful death. And large as -his fortune had been, it had not sufficed him; as he grew older he -had squandered money yet more and more lavishly, immense sums being -swallowed up in disreputable adventures, the scandal of which it had -been necessary to stifle. Thus he at last found himself poor, receiving -but a small portion of the ever-increasing profits of the works, which -were in full prosperity. - -This was the disaster which brought so much suffering to Constance in -her incurable pride. Beauchene, since the death of his son, had quite -abandoned himself to a dissolute life, thinking of nothing but his -pleasures, and taking no further interest in his establishment. What was -the use of defending it, since there was no longer an heir to whom it -might be transmitted, enlarged and enriched? And thus he had surrendered -it, bit by bit, to Denis, his partner, whom, by degrees, he allowed to -become the sole master. On arriving at the works, Denis had possessed -but one of the six shares which represented the totality of the property -according to the agreement. And Beauchene had even reserved to himself -the right of repurchasing that share within a certain period. But far -from being in a position to do so before the appointed date was passed, -he had been obliged to cede yet another share to the young man, in order -to free himself of debts which he could not confess. - -From that time forward it became a habit with Beauchene to cede Denis a -fresh share every two years. A third followed the second, then came the -turn of the fourth and the fifth, in such wise, indeed, that after a -final arrangement, he had not even kept a whole share for himself; but -simply some portion of the sixth. And even that was really fictitious, -for Denis had only acknowledged it in order to have a pretext for -providing him with a certain income, which, by the way, he subdivided, -handing half of it to Constance every month. - -She, therefore, was ignorant of nothing. She knew that, as a matter of -fact, the works would belong to that son of the hated Froments, whenever -he might choose to close the doors on their old master, who, as it -happened, was never seen now in the workshops. True, there was a clause -in the covenant which admitted, so long as that covenant should not be -broken, the possibility of repurchasing all the shares at one and the -same time. Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent belief -in a miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven, -that kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Those -twelve years of vain waiting--and increasing decline did not seem to -have diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she would -some day triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled in -presence of the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recovered -her self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpected -occurrence would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in the -right. - -She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she was -simply bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon the -over-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her own -home, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of her -husband who was in the gutter--all the abomination, indeed, which had -been so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony. -However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as an -honest bourgeoise filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could not -admit that she had been in the wrong. And thus she awaited the revenge -of destiny in that luxurious house, which was far too large now that -she alone inhabited it. She only occupied the rooms on the first floor, -where she shut herself up for days together with an old serving woman, -the sole domestic that she had retained. Gowned in black, as if bent on -wearing eternal mourning for Maurice, always erect, stiff, and haughtily -silent, she never complained, although her covert exasperation had -greatly affected her heart, in such wise that she experienced at times -most terrible attacks of stifling. These she kept as secret as possible, -and one day when the old servant ventured to go for Doctor Boutan she -threatened her with dismissal. She would not even answer the doctor, -and she refused to take any remedies, certain as she felt that she would -last as long as the hope which buoyed her up. - -Yet what anguish it was when she suddenly began to stifle, all alone -in the empty house, without son or husband near her! She called nobody -since she knew that nobody would come. And the attack over, with what -unconquerable obstinacy did she rise erect again, repeating that her -presence sufficed to prevent Denis from being the master, from reigning -alone in full sovereignty, and that in any case he would not have the -house and install himself in it like a conqueror, so long as she had not -sunk to death under the final collapse of the ceilings. - -Amid this retired life, Constance, haunted as she was by her fixed -idea, had no other occupation than that of watching the factory, and -ascertaining what went on there day by day. Morange, whom she had made -her confidant, gave her information in all simplicity almost every -evening, when he came to speak to her for a moment after leaving his -office. She learnt everything from his lips--the successive sales of -the shares into which the property had been divided, their gradual -acquisition by Denis, and the fact that Beauchene and herself were -henceforth living on the new master's liberality. Moreover, she so -organized her system of espionage as to make the old accountant tell her -unwittingly all that he knew of the private life led by Denis, his wife -Marthe, and their children, Lucien, Paul, and Hortense all, indeed, that -was done and said in the modest little pavilion where the young people, -in spite of their increasing fortune, were still residing, evincing no -ambitious haste to occupy the large house on the quay. They did not -even seem to notice what scanty accommodation they had in that pavilion, -while she alone dwelt in the gloomy mansion, which was so spacious -that she seemed quite lost in it. And she was enraged, too, by their -deference, by the tranquil way in which they waited for her to be no -more; for she had been unable to make them quarrel with her, and was -obliged to show herself grateful for the means they gave her, and to -kiss their children, whom she hated, when they brought her flowers. - -Thus, months and years went by, and almost every evening when Morange -for a moment called on Constance, he found her in the same little silent -salon, gowned in the same black dress, and stiffened into a posture of -obstinate expectancy. Though no sign was given of destiny's revenge, of -the patiently hoped-for fall of misfortune upon others, she never seemed -to doubt of her ultimate victory. On the contrary, when things fell -more and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defying -fate, buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced to -prove that she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior to -fatigue, and ever relying on a prodigy. - -Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, the -conversation invariably began in the same way. - -"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?" - -"No, my friend, nothing." - -"Well, the chief thing is to enjoy good health. One can wait for better -days." - -"Oh! nobody enjoys good health; still one waits all the same." - -And now one evening, at the end of the twelve years, as Morange went in -to see her, he detected that the atmosphere of the little drawing-room -was changed, quivering as it were with restrained delight amid the -eternal silence. - -"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?" - -"Yes, my friend, there's something fresh." - -"Something favorable I hope, then; something pleasant that you have been -waiting for?" - -"Something that I have been waiting for--yes! What one knows how to wait -for always comes." - -He looked at her in surprise, feeling almost anxious when he saw -how altered she was, with glittering eyes and quick gestures. What -fulfilment of her desires, after so many years of immutable mourning, -could have resuscitated her like that? She smiled, she breathed -vigorously, as if she were relieved of the enormous weight which had so -long crushed and immured her. But when he asked the cause of her great -happiness she said: - -"I will not tell you yet, my friend. Perhaps I do wrong to rejoice; for -everything is still very vague and doubtful. Only somebody told me this -morning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. When -I have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tell -you everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So have -a little patience, some evening you shall come to dinner with me here, -and we shall have the whole evening before us to chat at our ease. But -ah! _mon Dieu_! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle at -last!" - -More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. He -saw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did not -even question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, not -to say automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had lately -completed his sixty-ninth year; thirty years had gone by since the -death of his wife Valerie, more than twenty since his daughter Reine -had joined her, and he still ever lived on in his methodical, punctual -manner, amid the downfall of his existence. Never had man suffered more -than he, passed through greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse, -and withal he came and went in a careful, correct way, ever and ever -prolonging his career of mediocrity, like one whom many may have -forgotten, but whom keenness of grief has preserved. - -Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of a -nature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias. -While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which he -had formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived there -absolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his own -marketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself had -been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there. -But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even -to cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who was -now white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously -clean of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he -must have spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal, -sordid avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from -the money which he paid for his bread--bread of the commonest kind, -which he purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order -that he might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the people -who were acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the -house-porter propounding the question: "When a gentleman of such quiet -habits earns eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends -a cent, what can he do with his money?" Some folks even tried to reckon -up the amount which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought -that it might perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs. - -But more serious trouble declared itself. He was twice snatched away -from certain death. One day, when Denis was returning homewards across -the Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet, -watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if he -had not been grasped by his coat-tails. The poor man, on recovering his -self-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked of having -felt giddy. Then, on another occasion, at the works, Victor Moineaud -pushed him away from some machinery in motion at the very moment when, -as if hypnotized, he was about to surrender himself to its devouring -clutches. Then he again smiled, and acknowledged that he had done wrong -in passing so near to the wheels. After this he was watched, for people -came to the conclusion that he occasionally lost his head. If Denis -retained him as chief accountant, this was, firstly, from a feeling -of gratitude for his long services; but, apart from that matter, the -extraordinary thing was that Morange had never discharged his duties -more ably, obstinately tracing every doubtful centime in his books, -and displaying the greatest accuracy over the longest additions. Always -showing a calm and restful face, as though no tempest had ever assailed -his heart, he clung tightly to his mechanical life, like a discreet -maniac, who, though people might not know it, ought, perhaps, to have -been placed under restraint. - -At the same time, it should be mentioned that for some few years already -there had been quite a big affair in Morange's life. Although he was -Constance's confidant, although she had made him her creature by the -force of her despotic will, he had gradually conceived the greatest -affection for Denis's daughter, Hortense. As this child grew up, he -fancied that he found in her his own long-mourned daughter, Reine. She -had recently completed her ninth year, and each time that Morange -met her he was thrown into a state of emotion and adoration, the more -touching since it was all a divine illusion on his part, for the two -girls in no wise resembled each other, the one having been extremely -dark, and the other being nearly fair. In spite of his terrible avarice, -the accountant loaded Hortense with dolls and sweetmeats on every -possible occasion; and at last his affection for the child absorbed him -to such a degree that Constance felt offended by it. She thereupon gave -him to understand that whosoever was not entirely on her side was, in -reality, against her. - -To all appearance, he made his submission; in reality, he only loved the -child the more for the thwarting of his passion, and he watched for her -in order to kiss her in secret. In his daily intercourse with Constance, -in showing apparent fidelity to the former mistress of the works, he -now simply yielded to fear, like the poor weak being he was, one whom -Constance had ever bent beneath her stern hand. The pact between them -was an old one, it dated from that monstrous thing which they alone -knew, that complicity of which they never spoke, but which bound them so -closely together. - -He, with his weak, good nature, seemed from that day to have remained -annihilated, tamed, cowed like a frightened animal. Since that day, too, -he had learnt many other things, and now no secret of the house remained -unknown to him. This was not surprising. He had been living there so -many years. He had so often walked to and fro with his short, discreet, -maniacal step, hearing, seeing, and surprising everything! However, this -madman, who knew the truth and who remained silent--this madman, left -free amid the mysterious drama enacted in the Beauchenes' home, was -gradually coming to a rebellious mood, particularly since he was -compelled to hide himself to kiss his little friend Hortense. His heart -growled at the thought of it, and he felt ready to explode should his -passion be interfered with. - -All at once, one evening, Constance kept him to dinner. And he suspected -that the hour of her revelations had come, on seeing how she quivered -and how erectly she carried her little figure, like a fighter henceforth -certain of victory. Nevertheless, although the servant left them alone -after bringing in at one journey the whole of the frugal repast, she did -not broach the great affair at table. She spoke of the factory and then -of Denis and his wife Marthe, whom she criticised, and she was even -so foolish as to declare that Hortense was badly behaved, ugly, and -destitute of grace. The accountant, like the coward he was, listened to -her, never daring to protest in spite of the irritation and rebellion of -his whole being. - -"Well, we shall see," she said at last, "when one and all are put back -into their proper places." - -Then she waited until they returned to the little drawing-room, and the -doors were shut behind them; and it was only then, near the fire, -amid the deep silence of the winter evening, that she spoke out on the -subject which she had at heart: - -"As I think I have already told you, my friend, I have need of you. -You must obtain employment at the works for a young man in whom I am -interested. And if you desire to please me, you will even take him into -your own office." - -Morange, who was seated in front of her on the other side of the -chimney-piece, gave her a look of surprise. - -"But I am not the master," he replied; "apply to the master, he will -certainly do whatever you ask." - -"No, I do not wish to be indebted to Denis in any way. Besides, that -would not suit my plans. You yourself must recommend the young man, and -take him as an assistant, coaching him and giving him a post under you. -Come, you surely have the power to choose a clerk. Besides, I insist on -it." - -She spoke like a sovereign, and he bowed his back, for he had obeyed -people all his life; first his wife, then his daughter, and now that -dethroned old queen who terrified him in spite of the dim feeling of -rebellion which had been growing within him for some time past. - -"No doubt, I might take the young man on," he said, "but who is he?" - -Constance did not immediately reply. She had turned towards the fire, -apparently for the purpose of raising a log of wood with the tongs, but -in reality to give herself time for further reflection. What good would -it do to tell him everything at once? She would some day be forced to -tell it him, if she wished to have him entirely on her side; but there -was no hurry, and she fancied that it would be skilful policy if at -present she merely prepared the ground. - -"He is a young man whose position has touched me, on account of certain -recollections," she replied. "Perhaps you remember a girl who worked -here--oh! a very long time ago, some thirty years at the least--a -certain Norine Moineaud, one of old Moineaud's daughters." - -Morange had hastily raised his head, and as sudden light flashed on his -memory he looked at Constance with dilated eyes. Before he could even -weigh his words he let everything escape him in a cry of surprise: -"Alexandre-Honore, Norine's son, the child of Rougemont!" - -Quite thunderstruck by those words, Constance dropped the tongs she was -holding, and gazed into the old man's eyes, diving to the very depths of -his soul. - -"Ah! you know, then!" she said. "What is it you know? You must tell me; -hide nothing. Speak! I insist on it!" - -What he knew? Why, he knew everything. He spoke slowly and at length, -as from the depths of a dream. He had witnessed everything, learnt -everything--Norine's trouble, the money given by Beauchene to provide -for her at Madame Bourdieu's, the child carried to the Foundling -Hospital and then put out to nurse at Rougemont, whence he had fled -after stealing three hundred francs. And the old accountant was even -aware that the young scamp, after stranding on the pavement of Paris, -had led the vilest of lives there. - -"But who told you all that? How do you know all that?" cried Constance, -who felt full of anxiety. - -He waved his arm with a vague, sweeping gesture, as if to take in -all the surrounding atmosphere, the whole house. He knew those things -because they were things pertaining to the place, which people had told -him of, or which he had guessed. He could no longer remember exactly how -they had reached him. But he knew them well. - -"You understand," said he, "when one has been in a place for more than -thirty years, things end by coming to one naturally. I know everything, -everything." - -Constance started and deep silence fell. He, with his eyes fixed on the -embers, had sunk back into the dolorous past. She reflected that it was, -after all, preferable that the position should be perfectly plain. Since -he was acquainted with everything, it was only needful that she, -with all determination and bravery, should utilize him as her docile -instrument. - -"Alexandre-Honore, the child of Rougemont," she said. "Yes! that is the -young man whom I have at last found again. But are you also aware of the -steps which I took twelve years ago, when I despaired of finding him, -and actually thought him dead?" - -Morange nodded affirmatively, and she again went on speaking, relating -that she had long since renounced her old plans, when all at once -destiny had revealed itself to her. - -"Imagine a flash of lightning!" she exclaimed. "It was on the morning -of the day when you found me so moved! My sister-in-law, Seraphine, who -does not call on me four times a year, came here, to my great surprise, -at ten o'clock. She has become very strange, as you are aware, and I did -not at first pay any attention to the story which she began to relate to -me--the story of a young man whom she had become acquainted with through -some lady--an unfortunate young man who had been spoilt by bad company, -and whom one might save by a little help. Then what a blow it was, -my friend, when she all at once spoke out plainly, and told me of -the discovery which she had made by chance. I tell you, it is destiny -awaking and striking!" - -The story was indeed curious. Prematurely aged though she was, -Seraphine, amid her growing insanity, continued to lead a wild, rackety -life, and the strangest stories were related of her. A singular caprice -of hers, given her own viciousness, was to join, as a lady patroness, -a society whose purpose was to succor and moralize young offenders on -their release from prison. And it was in this wise that she had become -acquainted with Alexandre-Honore, now a big fellow of two-and-thirty, -who had just completed a term of six years' imprisonment. He had ended -by telling her his true story, speaking of Rougemont, naming Norine his -mother, and relating the fruitless efforts that he had made in former -years to discover his father, who was some immensely wealthy man. In the -midst of it, Seraphine suddenly understood everything, and in particular -why it was that his face had seemed so familiar to her. His striking -resemblance to Beauchene sufficed to throw a vivid light upon the -question of his parentage. For fear of worry, she herself told him -nothing, but as she remembered how passionately Constance had at one -time striven to find him, she went to her and acquainted her with her -discovery. - -"He knows nothing as yet," Constance explained to Morange. "My -sister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who will -find him a good situation. It appears that he now asks nothing better -than to work. If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, there -have been many excuses for it! And, besides, I will answer for him as -soon as he is in my hands; he will then only do as I tell him." - -All that Constance knew respecting Alexandre's recent years was a story -which he had concocted and retailed to Seraphine--a story to the effect -that he owed his long term of imprisonment to a woman, the real culprit, -who had been his mistress and whom he had refused to denounce. Of course -that imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out of -the twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the six -others, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominy -and crime. On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had a -restful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmer -and keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer. -And cleansed, clad, and schooled by Seraphine, he had almost become a -presentable young man. - -Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had been -staring so fixedly. - -"Well, what do you want to do with him?" he inquired. "Does he write a -decent hand?" - -"Yes, his handwriting is good. No doubt, however, he knows very little. -It is for that reason that I wish to intrust him to you. You will polish -him up for me and make him conversant with everything. My desire is that -in a year or two he should know everything about the factory, like a -master." - -At that last word which enlightened him, the accountant's good sense -suddenly awoke. Amid the manias which were wrecking his mind, he had -remained a man of figures with a passion for arithmetical accuracy, and -he protested. - -"Well, madame, since you wish me to assist you, pray tell me everything; -tell me in what work we can employ this young man here. Really now, -you surely cannot hope through him to regain possession of the factory, -re-purchase the shares, and become sole owner of the place?" - -Then, with the greatest logic and clearness, he showed how foolish such -a dream would be, enumerating figures and fully setting forth how large -a sum of money would be needed to indemnify Denis, who was installed in -the place like a conqueror. - -"Besides, dear madame, I don't understand why you should take that young -man rather than another. He has no legal rights, as you must be aware. -He could never be anything but a stranger here, and I should prefer an -intelligent, honest man, acquainted with our line of business." - -Constance had set to work poking the fire logs with the tongs. When she -at last looked up she thrust her face towards the other's, and said in -a low voice, but violently: "Alexandre is my husband's son, he is the -heir. He is not the stranger. The stranger is that Denis, that son of -the Froments, who has robbed us of our property! You rend my heart; you -make it bleed, my friend, by forcing me to tell you this." - -The answer she thus gave was the answer of a conservative bourgeoise, -who held that it would be more just if the inheritance should go to an -illegitimate scion of the house rather than to a stranger. Doubtless -the woman, the wife, the mother within her, bled even as she herself -acknowledged, but she sacrificed everything to her rancor; she would -drive the stranger away even if in doing so her own flesh should be -lacerated. Then, too, it vaguely seemed to her that her husband's son -must be in some degree her own, since his father was likewise the father -of the son to whom she had given birth, and who was dead. Besides, she -would make that young fellow her son; she would direct him, she would -compel him to be hers, to work through her and for her. - -"You wish to know how I shall employ him in the place," she resumed. -"I myself don't know. It is evident that I shall not easily find the -hundreds of thousands of francs which may be required. Your figures are -accurate, and it is possible that we may never have the money to buy -back the property. But, all the same, why not fight, why not try? And, -besides--I will admit it--suppose we are vanquished, well then, so much -the worse for the other. For I assure you that if this young man will -only listen to me, he will then become the agent of destruction, the -avenger and punisher, implanted in the factory to wreck it!" - -With a gesture which summoned ruin athwart the walls, she finished -expressing her abominable hopes. Among her vague plans, reared upon -hate, was that of employing the wretched Alexandre as a destructive -weapon, whose ravages would bring her some relief. Should she lose -all other battles, that would assuredly be the final one. And she had -attained to this pitch of madness through the boundless despair in which -the loss of her only son had plunged her, withered, consumed by a love -which she could not content, then demented, perverted to the point of -crime. - -Morange shuddered when, with her stubborn fierceness, she concluded: -"For twelve years past I have been waiting for a stroke of destiny, and -here it is! I would rather perish than not draw from it the last chance -of good fortune which it brings me!" - -This meant that Denis's ruin was decided on, and would be effected if -destiny were willing. And the old accountant could picture the disaster: -innocent children struck down in the person of their father, a great and -most unjust catastrophe, which made his kindly heart rise in rebellion. -Would he allow that fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud -all that he knew? Doubtless the memory of the other crime, the first -one, the monstrous buried crime about which they both kept silence, -returned at that horrible moment and shone out disturbingly in his eyes, -for she herself shuddered as if she could see it there, while with the -view of mastering him she gazed at him fixedly. For a moment, as -they peered into one another's eyes, they lived once more beside the -murderous trap, and shivered in the cold gust which rose from the abyss. -And this time again Morange, like a poor weak man overpowered by a -woman's will, was vanquished, and did not speak. - -"So it is agreed, my friend," she softly resumed. "I rely on you to -take Alexandre, in the first place, as a clerk. You can see him here one -evening at five o'clock, after dusk, for I do not wish him to know -at first what interest I take in him. Shall we say the day after -to-morrow?" - -"Yes, the evening of the day after to-morrow, if it pleases you, dear -madame." - -On the morrow Morange displayed so much agitation that the wife of the -door-porter of the house where he resided, a woman who was ever watching -him, imparted her fears to her husband. The old gentleman was certainly -going to have an attack, for he had forgotten to put on his slippers -when he came downstairs to fetch some water in the morning; and, -besides, he went on talking to himself, and looked dreadfully upset. The -most extraordinary incident of the day, however, was that after lunch -Morange quite forgot himself, and was an hour late in returning to his -office, a lack of punctuality which had no precedent, which, in the -memory of everybody at the works, had never occurred before. - -As a matter of fact, Morange had been carried away as by a storm, and, -walking straight before him, had once more found himself on the Grenelle -bridge, where Denis had one day saved him from the fascination of the -water. And some force, some impulse had carried him again to the very -same spot, and made him lean over the same parapet, gazing, in the same -way as previously, at the flowing river. Ever since the previous evening -he had been repeating the same words, words which he stammered in an -undertone, and which haunted and tortured him. "Would he allow that -fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?" No -doubt it was those words, of which he could not rid himself, that had -made him forget to put on his slippers in the morning, and that had just -now again dazed him to the point of preventing him from returning to the -factory, as if he no longer recognized the entrance as he passed it. And -if he were at present leaning over that water, had he not been impelled -thither by an unconscious desire to have done with all his troubles, -an instinctive hope of drowning the torment into which he was thrown -by those stubbornly recurring words? Down below, at the bottom of the -river, those words would at last cease; he would no longer repeat them; -he would no longer hear them urging him to an act of energy for which he -could not find sufficient strength. And the call of the water was very -gentle, and it would be so pleasant to have to struggle no longer, to -yield to destiny, like a poor soft-hearted weakling who has lived too -long. - -Morange leant forward more and more, and in fancy could already feel the -sonorous river seizing him, when a gay young voice in the rear recalled -him to reality. - -"What are you looking at, Monsieur Morange? Are there any big fishes -there?" - -It was Hortense, looking extremely pretty, and tall already for her ten -years, whom a maid was conducting on a visit to some little friends at -Auteuil. And when the distracted accountant turned round, he remained -for a moment with trembling hands, and eyes moist with tears, at the -sight of that apparition, that dear angel, who had recalled him from so -far. - -"What! is it you, my pet!" he exclaimed. "No, no, there are no big -fishes. I think that they hide at the bottom because the water is so -cold in winter. Are you going on a visit? You look quite beautiful in -that fur-trimmed cloak!" - -The little girl began to laugh, well pleased at being flattered and -loved, for her old friend's voice quivered with adoration. - -"Yes, yes, I am very happy; there are to be some private theatricals -where I'm going. Oh! it is amusing to feel happy!" - -She spoke those words like his own Reine might formerly have spoken -them, and he could have gone down on his knees to kiss her little hands -like an idol's. - -"But it is necessary that you should always be happy," he replied. "You -look so beautiful, I must really kiss you." - -"Oh! you may, Monsieur Morange, I'm quite willing. Ah! you know the doll -you gave me; her name's Margot, and you have no idea how good she is. -Come to see her some day." - -He had kissed her; and with glowing heart, ready for martyrdom, he -watched her as she went off in the pale light of winter. What he had -thought of would be too cowardly: besides, that child must be happy! - -He slowly quitted the bridge, while within him the haunting words rang -out with decisive distinctness, demanding a reply: "Would he allow that -fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?" No, -no! It was impossible: he would speak, he would act. Nevertheless, his -mind remained clouded, befogged. How could he speak, how could he act? - -Then, to crown his extravagant conduct, utterly breaking away from the -habits of forty years, he no sooner returned to the office than, instead -of immediately plunging into his everlasting additions, he began to -write a long letter. This letter, which was addressed to Mathieu, -recounted the whole affair--Alexandre's resurrection, Constance's plans, -and the service which he himself had promised to render her. These -things were set down simply as his impulse dictated, like a kind of -confession by which he relieved his feelings. He had not yet come to -any positive decision as to how he should play the part of a justiciar, -which seemed so heavy to his shoulders. His one purpose was to warn -Mathieu in order that there might be two of them to decide and act. -And he simply finished by asking the other to come to see him on the -following evening, though not before six o'clock, as he desired to see -Alexandre and learn how the interview passed off, and what Constance -might require of the young man. - -The ensuing night, the ensuing day, must have been full of abominable -torment for Morange. The doorkeeper's wife recounted, later on, that the -fourth-floor tenant had heard the old gentleman walking about overhead -all through the night. Doors were slammed, and furniture was dragged -about as if for a removal. It was even thought that one could detect -cries, sobs, and the monologues of a madman addressing phantoms, some -mysterious rendering of worship to the dead who haunted him. And at -the works during the day which followed Morange gave alarming signs of -distress, of the final sinking of his mind into a flood of gloom. -Ever darting troubled glances around him, he was tortured by internal -combats, which, without the slightest motive, made him descend the -stairs a dozen times, linger before the machinery in motion, and then -return to his additions up above, with the bewildered, distracted air -of one who could not find what he sought so painfully. When the darkness -fell, about four o'clock on that gloomy winter day, the two clerks whom -he had with him in his office noticed that he altogether ceased working. -From that moment, indeed, he waited with his eyes fixed upon the clock. -And when five o'clock struck he once more made sure that a certain total -was correct, then rose and went out, leaving the ledger open, as if he -meant to return to check the next addition. - -He followed the gallery which led to the passage connecting the -workshops with the private house. The whole factory was at that hour -lighted up, electric lamps cast the brightness of daylight over it, -while the stir of work ascended and the walls shook amid the rumbling -of machinery. And all at once, before reaching the passage, Morange -perceived the lift, the terrible cavity, the abyss of murder in which -Blaise had met his death fourteen years previously. Subsequent to that -catastrophe, and in order to prevent the like of it from ever occurring -again, the trap had been surrounded by a balustrade with a gate, in -such wise that a fall became impossible unless one should open the gate -expressly to take a plunge. At that moment the trap was lowered and the -gate was closed, and Morange, yielding to some superior force, bent over -the cavity, shuddering. The whole scene of long ago rose up before him; -he was again in the depths of that frightful void; he could see the -crushed corpse; and he could feel the gust of terror chilling him in -the presence of murder, accepted and concealed. Since he suffered so -dreadfully, since he could no longer sleep, since he had promised his -dear dead ones that he would join them, why should he not make an end -of himself? Two days previously, while leaning over the parapet of -the Grenelle bridge, a desire to do so had taken possession of him. He -merely had to lose his equilibrium and he would be liberated, laid to -rest in the peaceful earth between his wife and his daughter. And, all -at once, as if the abyss itself suggested to him the frightful solution -for which he had been vainly groping, in his growing madness, for two -days past, he thought that he could hear a voice calling him from below, -the voice of Blaise, which cried: "Come with the other one! Come with -the other one!" - -He started violently and drew himself erect; decision had fallen on him -in a lightning flash. Insane as he was, that appeared to him to be the -one sole logical, mathematical, sensible solution, which would settle -everything. It seemed to him so simple, too, that he was astonished that -he had sought it so long. And from that moment this poor soft-hearted -weakling, whose wretched brain was unhinged, gave proof of iron will and -sovereign heroism, assisted by the clearest reasoning, the most subtle -craft. - -In the first place he prepared everything, set the catch to prevent the -trap from being sent up again in his absence, and also assured himself -that the balustrade door opened and closed easily. He came and went with -a light, aerial step, as if carried off his feet, with his eyes ever on -the alert, anxious as he was to be neither seen nor heard. At last -he extinguished the three electric lamps and plunged the gallery into -darkness. From below, through the gaping cavity the stir of the working -factory, the rumbling of the machinery ever ascended. And it was only -then, everything being ready, that Morange turned into the passage to -betake himself to the little drawing room of the mansion. - -Constance was there waiting for him with Alexandre. She had given -instructions for the latter to call half-an-hour earlier, for she wished -to confess him while as yet telling him nothing of the real position -which she meant him to take in the house. She was not disposed to place -herself all at once at his mercy, and had therefore simply expressed her -willingness to give him employment in accordance with the recommendation -of her relative, the Baroness de Lowicz. Nevertheless, she studied him -with restrained ardor, and was well pleased to find that he was strong, -sturdy, and resolute, with a hard face lighted by terrible eyes, which -promised her an avenger. She would finish polishing him up, and then he -would suit her perfectly. For his part, without plainly understanding -the truth, he scented something, divined that his fortune was at hand, -and was quite ready to wait awhile for the certain feast, like a young -wolf who consents to be domesticated in order that he may, later on, -devour the whole flock at his ease. - -When Morange went in only one thing struck him, Alexandre's resemblance -to Beauchene, that extraordinary resemblance which had already upset -Constance, and which now sent an icy chill through the old accountant as -if in purposing to carry out his idea he had condemned his old master. - -"I was waiting for you, my friend; you are late, you who are so punctual -as a rule," said Constance. - -"Yes, there was a little work which I wished to finish." - -But she had merely been jesting, she felt so happy. And she immediately -settled everything: "Well, here is the gentleman whom I spoke about," -she said. "You will begin by taking him with you and making him -acquainted with the business, even if in the first instance you can -merely send him about on commissions for you. It is understood, is it -not?" - -"Quite so, dear madame, I will take him with me; you may rely on me." - -Then, as she gave Alexandre his dismissal, saying that he might come on -the morrow, Morange offered to show him out by way of his office and the -workshops, which were still open. - -"In that way he will form an acquaintance with the works, and can come -straight to me to-morrow." - -Constance laughed again, so fully did the accountant's obligingness -reassure her. - -"That is a good idea, my friend," she said. "Thank you. And au revoir, -monsieur; we will take charge of your future if you behave sensibly." - -At this moment, however, she was thunderstruck by an extravagant and -seemingly senseless incident. Morange, having shown Alexandre out of the -little salon, in advance of himself, turned round towards her with the -sudden grimace of a madman, revealing his insanity by the distortion of -his countenance. And in a low, familiar, sneering voice, he stammered in -her face: "Ha! ha! Blaise at the bottom of the hole! He speaks, he has -spoken to me! Ha! ha! the somersault! you would have the somersault! And -you shall have it again, the somersault, the somersault!" - -Then he disappeared, following Alexandre. - -She had listened to him agape with wonder. It was all so unforeseen, so -idiotic, that at first she did not understand it. But afterwards what a -flash of light came to her! That which Morange had referred to was the -murder yonder--the thing to which they had never referred, the monstrous -thing which they had kept buried for fourteen years past, which their -glances only had confessed, but which, all of a sudden, he had cast in -her teeth with the grimace of a madman. What was the meaning of the poor -fool's diabolical rebellion, the dim threat which she had felt passing -like a gust from an abyss? She turned frightfully pale, she intuitively -foresaw some frightful revenge of destiny, that destiny which, only a -moment previously, she had believed to be her minion. Yes, it was surely -that. And she felt herself carried fourteen years backward, and she -remained standing, quivering, icy cold, listening to the sounds which -arose from the works, waiting for the awful thud of the fall, even as -on the distant day when she had listened and waited for the other to be -crushed and killed. - -Meantime Morange, with his discreet, short step, was leading Alexandre -away, and speaking to him in a quiet, good-natured voice. - -"I must ask your pardon for going first, but I have to show you the way. -Oh! this is a very intricate place, with stairs and passages whose turns -and twists never end. The passage now turns to the left, you see." - -Then, on reaching the gallery where the darkness was complete, he -affected anger in the most natural manner possible. - -"Ah! well, that is just their way. They haven't yet lighted up this -part. The switch is at the other end. Fortunately I know where to step, -for I have been going backwards and forwards here for the last forty -years. Mind follow me carefully." - -Thereupon, at each successive step, he warned the other what he ought to -do, guiding him along in his obliging way without the faintest tremor in -his voice. - -"Don't let go of me, turn to the left.--Now we merely have to go -straight ahead.--Only, wait a moment, a barrier intersects the -gallery, and there is a gate.--There we are! I'm opening the gate, you -hear?--Follow me, I'll go first." - -Morange quietly stepped into the void, amid the darkness. And, without -a cry, he fell. Alexandre who was close in the rear, almost touching him -so as not to lose him, certainly detected the void and the gust which -followed the fall, as with sudden horror the flooring failed beneath -them; but force of motion carried him on, he stepped forward in his -turn, howled and likewise fell, head over heels. Both were smashed -below, both killed at once. True, Morange still breathed for a few -seconds. Alexandre, for his part, lay with his skull broken to pieces -and his brains scattered on the very spot where Blaise had been picked -up. - -Horrible was the stupefaction when those bodies were found there. Nobody -could explain the catastrophe. Morange carried off his secret, the -reason for that savage act of justice which he had accomplished -according to the chance suggestions of his dementia. Perhaps he had -wished to punish Constance, perhaps he had desired to repair the old -wrong: Denis long since stricken in the person of his brother, and now -saved for the sake of his daughter Hortense, who would live happily with -Margot, the pretty doll who was so good. By suppressing the criminal -instrument the old accountant had indeed averted the possibility of a -fresh crime. Swayed by his fixed idea, however, he had doubtless never -reasoned that cataclysmic deed of justice, which was above reason, -and which passed by with the impassive savagery of a death-dealing -hurricane. - -At the works there was but one opinion, Morange had assuredly been mad; -and he alone could have caused the accident, particularly as it was -impossible to account, otherwise than by an act of madness, for the -extinguishing of the lights, the opening of the balustrade-door, and -the plunge into the cavity which he knew to be there, and into which -had followed him the unfortunate young man his companion. Moreover, the -accountant's madness was no longer doubted by anybody a few days later, -when the doorkeeper of his house related his final eccentricities, and -a commissary of police went to search his rooms. He had been mad, mad -enough to be placed in confinement. - -To begin, nobody had ever seen a flat in such an extraordinary -condition, the kitchen a perfect stable, the drawing-room in a state of -utter abandonment with its Louis XIV. furniture gray with dust, and the -dining-room all topsy-turvy, the old oak tables and chairs being piled -up against the window as if to shut out every ray of light, though -nobody could tell why. The only properly kept room was that in which -Reine had formerly slept, which was as clean as a sanctuary, with its -pitch-pine furniture as bright as if it had been polished every day. But -the apartment in which Morange's madness became unmistakably manifest -was his own bedchamber, which he had turned into a museum of souvenirs, -covering its walls with photographs of his wife and daughter. Above a -table there, the wall facing the window quite disappeared from view, -for a sort of little chapel had been set up, decked with a multitude of -portraits. In the centre were photographs of Valerie and Reine, both -of them at twenty years of age, so that they looked like twin sisters; -while symmetrically disposed all around was an extraordinary number of -other portraits, again showing Valerie and Reine, now as children, now -as girls, and now as women, in every sort of position, too, and every -kind of toilet. And below them on the table, like an offering on an -altar, was found more than one hundred thousand francs, in gold, and -silver, and even copper; indeed, the whole fortune which Morange had -been saving up for several years by eating only dry bread, like a -pauper. - -At last, then, one knew what he had done with his savings; he had given -them to his dead wife and daughter, who had remained his will, passion, -and ambition. Haunted by remorse at having killed them while dreaming -of making them rich, he reserved for them that money which they had so -keenly desired, and which they would have spent with so much ardor. It -was still and ever for them that he earned it, and he took it to -them, lavished it upon them, never devoting even a tithe of it to any -egotistical pleasure, absorbed as he was in his vision-fraught worship -and eager to pacify and cheer their spirits. And the whole neighborhood -gossiped endlessly about the old mad gentleman who had let himself die -of wretchedness by the side of a perfect treasure, piled coin by coin -upon a table, and for twenty years past tendered to the portraits of -his wife and daughter, even as flowers might have been offered to their -memory. - -About six o'clock, when Mathieu reached the works, he found the place -terrified by the catastrophe. Ever since the morning he had been -rendered anxious by Morange's letter, which had greatly surprised and -worried him with that extraordinary story of Alexandre turning up -once more, being welcomed by Constance, and introduced by her into the -establishment. Plain as was the greater part of the letter, it contained -some singularly incoherent passages, and darted from one point to -another with incomprehensible suddenness. Mathieu had read it three -times, indulging on each occasion in fresh hypotheses of a gloomier and -gloomier nature; for the more he reflected, the more did the affair -seem to him to be fraught with menace. Then, on reaching the rendezvous -appointed by Morange, he found himself in presence of those bleeding -bodies which Victor Moineaud had just picked up and laid out side by -side! Silent, chilled to his bones, Mathieu listened to his son, Denis, -who had hastened up to tell him of the unexplainable misfortune, the -two men falling one atop of the other, first the old mad accountant, and -then the young fellow whom nobody knew and who seemed to have dropped -from heaven. - -Mathieu, for his part, had immediately recognized Alexandre, and if, -pale and terrified, he kept silent on the subject, it was because he -desired to take nobody, not even his son, into his confidence, given the -fresh suppositions, the frightful suppositions, which now arose in his -mind from out of all the darkness. He listened with growing anxiety to -the enumeration of the few points which were certain: the extinguishing -of the electric lights in the gallery and the opening of the balustrade -door, which was always kept closed and could only have been opened -by some habitue, since, to turn the handle, one had to press a secret -spring which kept it from moving. And, all at once, as Victor Moineaud -pointed out that the old man had certainly been the first to fall, -since one of the young man's legs had been stretched across his stomach, -Mathieu was carried fourteen years backward. He remembered old Moineaud -picking up Blaise on the very spot where Victor, the son, had just -picked up Morange and Alexandre. Blaise! At the thought of his dead boy -fresh light came to Mathieu, a frightful suspicion blazed up amid the -terrible obscurity in which he had been groping and doubting. And, -thereupon, leaving Denis to settle everything down below, he decided to -see Constance. - -Up above, however, when Mathieu was on the point of turning into the -communicating passage, he paused once more, this time near the lift. -It was there, fourteen years previously, that Morange, finding the trap -open, had gone down to warn and chide the workmen, while Constance, -according to her own account, had quietly returned into the house, -at the very moment when Blaise, coming from the other end of the dim -gallery, plunged into the gulf. Everybody had eventually accepted -that narrative as being accurate, but Mathieu now felt that it was -mendacious. He could recall various glances, various words, various -spells of silence; and sudden certainty came upon him, a certainty based -on all the petty things which he had not then understood, but which -now assumed the most frightful significance. Yes, it was certain, even -though round it there hovered the monstrous vagueness of silent crimes, -cowardly crimes, over which a shadow of horrible mystery always lurks. -Moreover, it explained the sequel, those two bodies lying below, as far, -that is, as logical reasoning can explain a madman's action with all its -gaps and mysteriousness. Nevertheless, Mathieu still strove to doubt; -before anything else he wished to see Constance. - -Showing a waxy pallor, she had remained erect, motionless, in the middle -of her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously had -begun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxiety -that she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, no -sound of footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could be -happening then? Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely a -nightmare after all? Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she had -fully understood him. Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reached -her ears? And now, had not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It was -death, the factory silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once her -heart ceased beating as she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearer -and nearer with increased rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieu -who came in. - -She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? How -was it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the one -whom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she would -not have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition of -the father. - -She did not speak. He simply said: "They made the plunge, they are both -dead--like Blaise." - -Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a moment -their eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder was -begun afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead, -one atop of the other. - -"Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And how -much blood there is upon you!" - -By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up and -even increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud that -she was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, and -would ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a final -revelation. - -"You don't know, then, that that ruffian, Alexandre, was one of the -murderers of your friend, Madame Angelin, the poor woman who was robbed -and strangled one winter afternoon. I compassionately hid that from you. -But he would now be at the galleys had I spoken out! And if I were to -speak to-day you would be there too!" - -That was the hatchet-stroke. She did not speak, but dropped, all of a -lump, upon the carpet, like a tree which has been felled. This time her -defeat was complete; destiny, which she awaited, had turned against her -and thrown her to the ground. A mother the less, perverted by the -love which she had set on her one child, a mother duped, robbed, -and maddened, who had glided into murder amid the dementia born of -inconsolable motherliness! And now she lay there, stretched out, scraggy -and withered, poisoned by the affection which she had been unable to -bestow. - -Mathieu became anxious, and summoned the old servant, who, after -procuring assistance, carried her mistress to her bed and then undressed -her. Meantime, as Constance gave no sign of life, seized as she was -by one of those fainting fits which often left her quite breathless, -Mathieu himself went for Boutan, and meeting him just as he was -returning home for dinner, was luckily able to bring him back at once. - -Boutan, who was now nearly seventy-two, and was quietly spending -his last years in serene cheerfulness, born of his hope in life, had -virtually ceased practising, only attending a very few old patients, -his friends. However, he did not refuse Mathieu's request. When he had -examined Constance he made a gesture of hopelessness, the meaning of -which was so plain that Mathieu, his anxiety increasing, bethought -himself of trying to find Beauchene in order that the latter might, at -least, be present if his wife should die. But the old servant, on being -questioned, began by raising her arms to heaven. She did not know where -Monsieur might be, Monsieur never left any address. At last, feeling -frightened herself, she made up her mind to hasten to the abode of the -two women, aunt and niece, with whom Beauchene spent the greater part -of his time. She knew their address perfectly well, as her mistress had -even sent her thither in pressing emergencies. But she learnt that the -ladies had gone with Monsieur to Nice for a holiday; whereupon, not -desiring to return without some member of the family, she was seized -on her way back with the fine idea of calling on Monsieur's sister, the -Baroness de Lowicz, whom she brought, almost by force, in her cab. - -It was in vain that Boutan attempted treatment. When Constance opened -her eyes again, she looked at him fixedly, recognized him, no doubt, and -then lowered her eyelids. And from that moment she obstinately refused -to reply to any question that was put to her. She must have heard and -have known that people were there, trying to succor her. But she would -have none of their succor, she was stubbornly intent on dying, on giving -no further sign of life. Neither did she raise her eyelids, nor did her -lips part again. It was as if she had already quitted the world amid the -mute agony of her defeat. - -That evening Seraphine's manner was extremely strange. She reeked -of ether, for she drank ether now. When she heard of the two-fold -"accident," the death of Morange and that of Alexandre, which had -brought on Constance's cardiacal attack, she simply gave an insane grin, -a kind of involuntary snigger, and stammered: "Ah! that's funny." - -Though she removed neither her hat nor her gloves, she installed herself -in an armchair, where she sat waiting, with her eyes wide open and -staring straight before her--those brown eyes flecked with gold, whose -living light was all that she had retained of her massacred beauty. At -sixty-two she looked like a centenarian; her bold, insolent face was -ravined, as it were, by her stormy life, and the glow of her sun-like -hair had been extinguished by a shower of ashes. And time went on, -midnight approached, and she was still there, near that death-bed of -which she seemed to be ignorant, in that quivering chamber where she -forgot herself, similar to a mere thing, apparently no longer even -knowing why she had been brought thither. - -Mathieu and Boutan had been unwilling to retire. Since Monsieur was -at Nice in the company of those ladies, the aunt and the niece, they -decided to spend the night there in order that Constance might not be -left alone with the old servant. And towards midnight, while they were -chatting together in undertones, they were suddenly stupefied at hearing -Seraphine raise her voice, after preserving silence for three hours. - -"He is dead, you know," said she. - -Who was dead? At last they understood that she referred to Dr. Gaude. -The celebrated surgeon, had, indeed, been found in his consulting-room -struck down by sudden death, the cause of which was not clearly known. -In fact, the strangest, the most horrible and tragical stories were -current on the subject. According to one of them a patient had wreaked -vengeance on the doctor; and Mathieu, full of emotion, recalled that one -day, long ago, Seraphine herself had suggested that all Gaude's unhappy -patients ought to band themselves together and put an end to him. - -When Seraphine perceived that Mathieu was gazing at her, as in a -nightmare, moved by the shuddering silence of that death-watch, she once -more grinned like a lunatic, and said: "He is dead, we were all there!" - -It was insane, improbable, impossible; and yet was it true or was it -false? A cold, terrifying quiver swept by, the icy quiver of mystery, of -that which one knows not, which one will never know. - -Boutan leant towards Mathieu and whispered in his ear: "She will be -raving mad and shut up in a padded cell before a week is over." And, -indeed, a week later the Baroness de Lowicz was wearing a straight -waistcoat. In her case Dr. Gaude's treatment had led to absolute -insanity. - -Mathieu and Boutan watched beside Constance until daybreak. She never -opened her lips, nor raised her eyelids. As the sun rose up, she turned -towards the wall, and then she died. - - - - -XXII - -STILL more years passed, and Mathieu was already sixty-eight and -Marianne sixty-five, when amid the increasing good fortune which they -owed to their faith in life, and their long courageous hopefulness, a -last battle, the most dolorous of their existence, almost struck them -down and sent them to the grave, despairing and inconsolable. - -One evening Marianne went to bed, quivering, utterly distracted. Quite a -rending was taking place in the family. A disastrous and hateful quarrel -had set the mill, where Gregoire reigned supreme, against the farm which -was managed by Gervais and Claire. And Ambroise, on being selected -as arbiter, had fanned the flames by judging the affair in a purely -business way from his Paris counting-house, without taking into account -the various passions which were kindled. - -It was on returning from a secret application to Ambroise, prompted by a -maternal longing for peace, that Marianne had taken to her bed, wounded -to the heart, and terrified by the thought of the future. Ambroise had -received her roughly, almost brutally, and she had gone back home in a -state of intense anguish, feeling as if her own flesh were lacerated -by the quarrelling of her ungrateful sons. And she had kept her bed, -begging Mathieu to say nothing, and explaining that a doctor's services -would be useless, since she did not suffer from any malady. She was -fading away, however, as he could well detect; she was day by day taking -leave of him, carried off by her bitter grief. Was it possible that all -those loving and well-loved children, who had grown up under their care -and their caresses, who had become the joy and pride of their victory, -all those children born of their love, united in their fidelity, a -sacred brotherly, sisterly battalion gathered close around them, was it -possible that they should now disband and desperately seek to destroy -one another? If so, it was true, then, that the more a family increases, -the greater is the harvest of ingratitude. And still more accurate -became the saying, that to judge of any human being's happiness or -unhappiness in life, one must wait until he be dead. - -"Ah!" said Mathieu, as he sat near Marianne's bed, holding her feverish -hand, "to think of it! To have struggled so much, and to have triumphed -so much, and then to encounter this supreme grief, which will bring -us more pain than all the others. Decidedly it is true that one must -continue battling until one's last breath, and that happiness is only -to be won by suffering and tears. We must still hope, still triumph, and -conquer and live." - -Marianne, however, had lost all courage, and seemed to be overwhelmed. - -"No," said she, "I have no energy left me, I am vanquished. I was always -able to heal the wounds which came from without, but this wound comes -from my own blood; my blood pours forth within me and stifles me. All -our work is destroyed. Our joy, our health, our strength, have at the -last day become mere lies." - -Then Mathieu, whom her grievous fears of a disaster gained, went off to -weep in the adjoining room, already picturing his wife dead and himself -in utter solitude. - -It was with reference to Lepailleur's moorland, the plots intersecting -the Chantebled estate, that the wretched quarrel had broken out between -the mill and the farm. For many years already, the romantic, ivy-covered -old mill, with its ancient mossy wheel, had ceased to exist. Gregoire, -at last putting his father's ideas into execution, had thrown it down -to replace it by a large steam mill, with spacious meal-stores which -a light railway-line connected with Janville station. And he himself, -since he had been making a big fortune--for all the wheat of the -district was now sent to him--had greatly changed, with nothing of his -youthful turbulence left save a quick temper, which his wife Therese -with her brave, loving heart alone could somewhat calm. On a score of -occasions he had almost broken off all relations with his father-in-law, -Lepailleur, who certainly abused his seventy years. Though the old -miller, in spite of all his prophecies of ruin, had been unable to -prevent the building of the new establishment, he none the less sneered -and jeered at it, exasperated as he was at having been in the wrong. -He had, in fact, been beaten for the second time. Not only did the -prodigious crops of Chantebled disprove his theory of the bankruptcy -of the earth, that villainous earth in which, like an obstinate peasant -weary of toil and eager for speedy fortune, he asserted nothing more -would grow; but now that mill of his, which he had so disdained, was -born as it were afresh, growing to a gigantic size, and becoming in his -son-in-law's hands an instrument of great wealth. - -The worst was that Lepailleur so stubbornly lived on, experiencing -continual defeats, but never willing to acknowledge that he was beaten. -One sole delight remained to him, the promise given and kept by Gregoire -that he would not sell the moorland enclosure to the farm. The old man -had even prevailed on him to leave it uncultivated, and the sight of -that sterile tract intersecting the wavy greenery of the beautiful -estate of Chantebled, like a spot of desolation, well pleased his -spiteful nature. He was often to be seen strolling there, like an old -king of the stones and the brambles, drawing up his tall, scraggy figure -as if he were quite proud of the poverty of that soil. In going thither -one of his objects doubtless was to find a pretext for a quarrel; for it -was he who in the course of one of these promenades, when he displayed -such provoking insolence, discovered an encroachment on the part of the -farm--an encroachment which his comments magnified to such a degree that -disastrous consequences seemed probable. As it was, all the happiness of -the Froments was for a time destroyed. - -In business matters Gregoire invariably showed the rough impulsiveness -of a man of sanguine temperament, obstinately determined to part with -no fraction of his rights. When his father-in-law told him that the -farm had impudently cleared some seven acres of his moorland, with the -intention no doubt of carrying this fine robbery even further, if it -were not promptly stopped, Gregoire at once decided to inquire into the -matter, declaring that he would not tolerate any invasion of that sort. -The misfortune then was that no boundary stones could be found. Thus, -the people of the farm might assert that they had made a mistake in -all good faith, or even that they had remained within their limits. But -Lepailleur ragefully maintained the contrary, entered into particulars, -and traced what he declared to be the proper frontier line with his -stick, swearing that within a few inches it was absolutely correct. -However, matters went altogether from bad to worse after an interview -between the brothers, Gervais and Gregoire, in the course of which the -latter lost his temper and indulged in unpardonable language. On the -morrow, too, he began an action-at-law, to which Gervais replied by -threatening that he would not send another grain of corn to be ground -at the mill. And this rupture of business relations meant serious -consequences for the mill, which really owed its prosperity to the -custom of Chantebled. - -From that moment matters grew worse each day, and conciliation soon -seemed to be out of the question; for Ambroise, on being solicited to -find a basis of agreement, became in his turn impassioned, and even -ended by enraging both parties. Thus the hateful ravages of that -fratricidal war were increased: there were now three brothers up in arms -against one another. And did not this forebode the end of everything; -might not this destructive fury gain the whole family, overwhelming it -as with a blast of folly and hatred after so many years of sterling good -sense and strong and healthy affection? - -Mathieu naturally tried to intervene. But at the very outset he felt -that if he should fail, if his paternal authority should be disregarded, -the disaster would become irreparable. Without renouncing the struggle, -he therefore waited for some opportunity which he might turn to good -account. At the same time, each successive day of discord increased his -anxiety. It was really all his own life-work, the little people which -had sprung from him, the little kingdom which he had founded under the -benevolent sun, that was threatened with sudden ruin. A work such as -this can only live by force of love. The love which created it can alone -perpetuate it; it crumbles as soon as the bond of fraternal solidarity -is broken. Thus it seemed to Mathieu that instead of leaving his work -behind him in full florescence of kindliness, joy, and vigor, he would -see it cast to the ground in fragments, soiled, and dead even before he -were dead himself. Yet what a fruitful and prosperous work had hitherto -been that estate of Chantebled, whose overflowing fertility increased -at each successive harvest; and that mill too, so enlarged and so -flourishing, which was the outcome of his own inspiring suggestions, -to say nothing of the prodigious fortunes which his conquering sons had -acquired in Paris! Yet it was all this admirable work, which faith in -life had created, that a fratricidal onslaught upon life was about to -destroy! - -One evening, in the mournful gloaming of one of the last days of -September, the couch on which Marianne lay dying of silent grief was, by -her desire, rolled to the window. Charlotte alone nursed her, and of -all her sons she had but the last one, Benjamin, beside her in the now -over-spacious house which had replaced the old shooting-box. Since the -family had been at war she had kept the doors closed, intent on opening -them only to her children when they became reconciled, if they should -then seek to make her happy by coming to embrace one another beneath her -roof. But she virtually despaired of that sole cure for her grief, the -only joy that would make her live again. - -That evening, as Mathieu came to sit beside her, and they lingered there -hand in hand according to their wont, they did not at first speak, but -gazed straight before them at the spreading plain; at the estate, whose -interminable fields blended with the mist far away; at the mill yonder -on the banks of the Yeuse, with its tall, smoking chimney; and at Paris -itself on the horizon, where a tawny cloud was rising as from the huge -furnace of some forge. - -The minutes slowly passed away. During the afternoon Mathieu had taken -a long walk in the direction of the farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne, -in the hope of quieting his torment by physical fatigue. And in a low -voice, as if speaking to himself, he at last said: - -"The ploughing could not take place under better conditions. Yonder on -the plateau the quality of the soil has been much improved by the recent -methods of cultivation; and here, too, on the slopes, the sandy soil -has been greatly enriched by the new distribution of the springs which -Gervais devised. The estate has almost doubled in value since it has -been in his hands and Claire's. There is no break in the prosperity; -labor yields unlimited victory." - -"What is the good of it if there is no more love?" murmured Marianne. - -"Then, too," continued Mathieu, after a pause, "I went down to the -Yeuse, and from a distance I saw that Gregoire had received the new -machine which Denis has just built for him. It was being unloaded in the -yard. It seems that it imparts a certain movement to the mill-stones, -which saves a good third of the power needed. With such appliances the -earth may produce seas of corn for innumerable nations, they will all -have bread. And that mill-engine, with its regular breath and motion, -will produce fresh wealth also." - -"What use is it if people hate one another?" Marianne exclaimed. - -At this Mathieu dropped the subject. But, in accordance with a -resolution which he had formed during his walk, he told his wife that -he meant to go to Paris on the morrow. And on noticing her surprise, -he pretended that he wished to see to a certain business matter, the -settlement of an old account. But the truth was, that he could no longer -endure the spectacle of his wife's lingering agony, which brought him -so much suffering. He wished to act, to make a supreme effort at -reconciliation. - -At ten o'clock on the following morning, when Mathieu alighted from the -train at the Paris terminus, he drove direct to the factory at Grenelle. -Before everything else he wished to see Denis, who had hitherto taken no -part in the quarrel. For a long time now, indeed ever since Constance's -death, Denis had been installed in the house on the quay with his -wife Marthe and their three children. This occupation of the luxurious -dwelling set apart for the master had been like a final entry into -possession, with respect to the whole works. True, Beauchene had lived -several years longer, but his name no longer figured in that of the -firm. He had surrendered his last shred of interest in the business for -an annuity; and at last one evening it was learnt that he had died that -day, struck down by an attack of apoplexy after an over-copious lunch, -at the residence of his lady-friends, the aunt and the niece. He had -previously been sinking into a state of second childhood, the outcome -of his life of fast and furious pleasure. And this, then, was the end -of the egotistical debauchee, ever going from bad to worse, and finally -swept into the gutter. - -"Why! what good wind has blown you here?" cried Denis gayly, when he -perceived his father. "Have you come to lunch? I'm still a bachelor, you -know; for it is only next Monday that I shall go to fetch Marthe and the -children from Dieppe, where they have spent a delightful September." - -Then, on hearing that his mother was ailing, even in danger, he become -serious and anxious. - -"Mamma ill, and in danger! You amaze me. I thought she was simply -troubled with some little indisposition. But come, father, what is -really the matter? Are you hiding something? Is something worrying you?" - -Thereupon he listened to the plain and detailed statement which Mathieu -felt obliged to make to him. And he was deeply moved by it, as if the -dread of the catastrophe which it foreshadowed would henceforth upset -his life. "What!" he angrily exclaimed, "my brothers are up to these -fine pranks with their idiotic quarrel! I knew that they did not get -on well together. I had heard of things which saddened me, but I never -imagined that matters had gone so far, and that you and mamma were so -affected that you had shut yourselves up and were dying of it all! But -things must be set to rights! One must see Ambroise at once. Let us go -and lunch with him, and finish the whole business." - -Before starting he had a few orders to give, so Mathieu went down to -wait for him in the factory yard. And there, during the ten minutes -which he spent walking about dreamily, all the distant past arose before -his eyes. He could see himself a mere clerk, crossing that courtyard -every morning on his arrival from Janville, with thirty sous for his -lunch in his pocket. The spot had remained much the same; there was the -central building, with its big clock, the workshops and the sheds, quite -a little town of gray structures, surmounted by two lofty chimneys, -which were ever smoking. True, his son had enlarged this city of toil; -the stretch of ground bordered by the Rue de la Federation and the -Boulevard de Grenelle had been utilized for the erection of other -buildings. And facing the quay there still stood the large brick house -with dressings of white stone, of which Constance had been so proud, -and where, with the mien of some queen of industry, she had received her -friends in her little salon hung with yellow silk. Eight hundred men now -worked in the place; the ground quivered with the ceaseless trepidation -of machinery; the establishment had grown to be the most important -of its kind in Paris, the one whence came the finest agricultural -appliances, the most powerful mechanical workers of the soil. And it -was his, Mathieu's, son whom fortune had made prince of that branch of -industry, and it was his daughter-in-law who, with her three strong, -healthy children near her, received her friends in the little salon hung -with yellow silk. - -As Mathieu, moved by his recollections, glanced towards the right, -towards the pavilion where he had dwelt with Marianne, and where Gervais -had been born, an old workman who passed, lifted his cap to him, saying, -"Good day, Monsieur Froment." - -Mathieu thereupon recognized Victor Moineaud, now five-and-fifty years -old, and aged, and wrecked by labor to even a greater degree than his -father had been at the time when mother Moineaud had come to offer the -Monster her children's immature flesh. Entering the works at sixteen -years of age, Victor, like his father, had spent forty years between -the forge and the anvil. It was iniquitous destiny beginning afresh: -the most crushing toil falling upon a beast of burden, the son hebetated -after the father, ground to death under the millstones of wretchedness -and injustice. - -"Good day, Victor," said Mathieu, "are you well?" - -"Oh, I'm no longer young, Monsieur Froment," the other replied. "I shall -soon have to look somewhere for a hole to lie in. Still, I hope it won't -be under an omnibus." - -He alluded to the death of his father, who had finally been picked up -under an omnibus in the Rue de Grenelle, with his skull split and both -legs broken. - -"But after all," resumed Victor, "one may as well die that way as any -other! It's even quicker. The old man was lucky in having Norine and -Cecile to look after him. If it hadn't been for them, it's starvation -that would have killed him, not an omnibus." - -Mathieu interrupted. "Are Norine and Cecile well?" he asked. - -"Yes, Monsieur Froment. Leastways, as far as I know, for, as you can -understand, we don't often see one another. Them and me, that's about -all that's left out of our lot; for Irma won't have anything more to do -with us since she's become one of the toffs. Euphrasie was lucky enough -to die, and that brigand Alfred disappeared, which was real relief, I -assure you; for I feared that I should be seeing him at the galleys. And -I was really pleased when I had some news of Norine and Cecile lately. -Norine is older than I am, you know; she will soon be sixty. But she -was always strong, and her boy, it seems, looks after her. Both she and -Cecile still work; yes, Cecile still lives on, though one used to think -that a fillip would have killed her. It's a pretty home, that one of -theirs; two mothers for a big lad of whom they've made a decent fellow." - -Mathieu nodded approvingly, and then remarked: "But you yourself, -Victor, had boys and girls who must now in their turn be fathers and -mothers." - -The old workman waved his hand vaguely. - -"Yes," said he, "I had eight, one more than my father. They've all -gone off, and they are fathers and mothers in their turn, as you say, -Monsieur Froment. It's all chance, you know; one has to live. There are -some of them who certainly don't eat white bread, ah! that they don't. -And the question is whether, when my arms fail me, I shall find one to -take me in, as Norine and Cecile took my father. But when everything's -said, what can you expect? It's all seed of poverty, it can't grow well, -or yield anything good." - -For a moment he remained silent; then resuming his walk towards the -works, with bent, weary back and hanging hands, dented by toil, he said: -"Au revoir, Monsieur Froment." - -"Au revoir, Victor," Mathieu answered in a kindly tone. - -Having given his orders, Denis now came to join his father, and proposed -to him that they should go on foot to the Avenue d'Antin. On the way he -warned him that they would certainly find Ambroise alone, for his -wife and four children were still at Dieppe, where, indeed, the two -sisters-in-law, Andree and Marthe, had spent the season together. - -In a period of ten years, Ambroise's fortune had increased tenfold. -Though he was barely five-and-forty, he reigned over the Paris market. -With his spirit of enterprise, he had greatly enlarged the business -left him by old Du Hordel, transforming it into a really universal -_comptoir_, through which passed merchandise from all parts of the -world. Frontiers did not exist for Ambroise, he enriched himself with -the spoils of the earth, particularly striving to extract from the -colonies all the wealth they were able to yield, and carrying on his -operations with such triumphant audacity, such keen perception, that the -most hazardous of his campaigns ended victoriously. - -A man of this stamp, whose fruitful activity was ever winning battles, -was certain to devour the idle, impotent Seguins. In the downfall of -their fortune, the dispersal of the home and family, he had carved a -share for himself by securing possession of the house in the Avenue -d'Antin. Seguin himself had not resided there for years, he had thought -it original to live at his club, where he secured accommodation after he -and his wife had separated by consent. Two of the children had also gone -off; Gaston, now a major in the army, was on duty in a distant garrison -town, and Lucie was cloistered in an Ursuline convent. Thus, Valentine, -left to herself and feeling very dreary, no longer able, moreover, to -keep up the establishment on a proper footing, in her turn quitted -the mansion for a cheerful and elegant little flat on the Boulevard -Malesherbes, where she finished her life as a very devout old lady, -presiding over a society for providing poor mothers with baby-linen, and -thus devoting herself to the children of others--she who had not known -how to bring up her own. And, in this wise, Ambroise had simply had to -take possession of the empty mansion, which was heavily mortgaged, to -such an extent, indeed, that when the Seguins died their heirs would -certainly be owing him money. - -Many were the recollections which awoke when Mathieu, accompanied by -Denis, entered that princely mansion of the Avenue d'Antin! There, as at -the factory, he could see himself arriving in poverty, as a needy tenant -begging his landlord to repair a roof, in order that the rain might no -longer pour down on the four children, whom, with culpable improvidence, -he already had to provide for. There, facing the avenue, was the -sumptuous Renaissance facade with eight lofty windows on each of its -upper floors; there, inside, was the hall, all bronze and marble, -conducting to the spacious ground-floor reception-rooms which a winter -garden prolonged; and there, up above, occupying all the central part of -the first floor, was Seguin's former "cabinet," the vast apartment with -lofty windows of old stained glass. Mathieu could well remember -that room with its profuse and amusing display of "antiquities," old -brocades, old goldsmith's ware and old pottery, and its richly bound -books, and its famous modern pewters. And he remembered it also at a -later date, in the abandonment to which it had fallen, the aspect of -ruin which it had assumed, covered, as it was, with gray dust which -bespoke the slow crumbling of the home. And now he found it once more -superb and cheerful, renovated with healthier and more substantial -luxury by Ambroise, who had put masons and joiners and upholsterers into -it for a period of three months. The whole mansion now lived afresh, -more luxurious than ever, filled at winter-time with sounds of -festivity, enlivened by the laughter of four happy children, and the -blaze of a living fortune which effort and conquest ever renewed. And -it was no longer Seguin, the idler, the artisan of nothingness, whom -Mathieu came to see there, it was his own son Ambroise, a man of -creative energy, whose victory had been sought by the very forces of -life, which had made him triumph there, installed him as the master in -the home of the vanquished. - -When Mathieu and Denis arrived Ambroise was absent, but was expected -home for lunch. They waited for him, and as the former again crossed -the ante-room the better to judge of some new arrangements that had been -made, he was surprised at being stopped by a lady who was sitting there -patiently, and whom he had not previously noticed. - -"I see that Monsieur Froment does not recognize me," she said. - -Mathieu made a vague gesture. The woman had a tall, plump figure, and -was certainly more than sixty years of age; but she evidently took care -of her person, and had a smiling mien, with a long, full face and -almost venerable white hair. One might have taken her for some worthy, -well-to-do provincial bourgeoise in full dress. - -"Celeste," said she. "Celeste, Madame Seguin's former maid." - -Thereupon he fully recognized her, but hid his stupefaction at finding -her so fortunately circumstanced at the close of her career. He had -imagined that she was buried in some sewer. - -In a gay, placid way she proceeded to recount her happiness: "Oh! I am -very pleased," she said; "I had retired to Rougemont, my birth-place, -and I ended by there marrying a retired naval officer, who has a very -comfortable pension, not to speak of a little fortune which his first -wife left him. As he has two big sons, I ventured to recommend the -younger one to Monsieur Ambroise, who was kind enough to take him into -his counting-house. And so I have profited by my first journey to Paris -since then, to come and give Monsieur Ambroise my best thanks." - -She did not say how she had managed to marry the retired naval officer; -how she had originally been a servant in his household, and how she -had hastened his first wife's death in order to marry him. All things -considered, however, she rendered him very happy, and even rid him of -his sons, who were in his way, thanks to the relations she had kept up -in Paris. - -She continued smiling like a worthy woman, whose feelings softened at -the recollection of the past. "You can have no idea how pleased I felt -when I saw you pass just now, Monsieur Froment," she resumed. "Ah! it -was a long time ago that I first had the honor of seeing you here! You -remember La Couteau, don't you? She was always complaining, was she not? -But she is very well pleased now; she and her husband have retired to -a pretty little house of their own, with some little savings which they -live on very quietly. She is no longer young, but she has buried a good -many in her time, and she'll bury more before she has finished! For -instance, Madame Menoux--you must surely remember Madame Menoux, the -little haberdasher close by--well, there was a woman now who never had -any luck! She lost her second child, and she lost that big fellow, her -husband, whom she was so fond of, and she herself died of grief six -months afterwards. I did at one time think of taking her to Rougemont, -where the air is so good for one's health. There are old folks of ninety -living there. Take La Couteau, for instance, she will live as long -as she likes! Oh! yes, it is a very pleasant part indeed, a perfect -paradise." - -At these words the abominable Rougemont, the bloody Rougemont, arose -before Mathieu's eyes, rearing its peaceful steeple above the low -plain, with its cemetery paved with little Parisians, where wild flowers -bloomed and hid the victims of so many murders. - -But Celeste was rattling on again, saying: "You remember Madame Bourdieu -whom you used to know in the Rue de Miromesnil; she died very near -our village on some property where she went to live when she gave up -business, a good many years ago. She was luckier than her colleague La -Rouche, who was far too good-natured with people. You must have read -about her case in the newspapers, she was sent to prison with a medical -man named Sarraille." - -"La Rouche! Sarraille!" Yes, Mathieu had certainly read the trial of -those two social pests, who were fated to meet at last in their work of -iniquity. And what an echo did those names awaken in the past: Valerie -Morange! Reine Morange! Already in the factory yard Mathieu had fancied -that he could see the shadow of Morange gliding past him--the punctual, -timid, soft-hearted accountant, whom misfortune and insanity had carried -off into the darkness. And suddenly the unhappy man here again appeared -to Mathieu, like a wandering phantom, the restless victim of all the -imbecile ambition, all the desperate craving for pleasure which animated -the period; a poor, weak, mediocre being, so cruelly punished for the -crimes of others, that he was doubtless unable to sleep in the tomb -into which he had flung himself, bleeding, with broken limbs. And before -Mathieu's eyes there likewise passed the spectre of Seraphine, with -the fierce and pain-fraught face of one who is racked and killed by -insatiate desire. - -"Well, excuse me for having ventured to stop you, Monsieur Froment," -Celeste concluded; "but I am very, very pleased at having met you -again." - -He was still looking at her; and as he quitted her he said, with the -indulgence born of his optimism: "May you keep happy since you are -happy. Happiness must know what it does." - -Nevertheless, Mathieu remained disturbed, as he thought of the apparent -injustice of impassive nature. The memory of his Marianne, struck down -by such deep grief, pining away through the impious quarrels of her -sons, returned to him. And as Ambroise at last came in and gayly -embraced him, after receiving Celeste's thanks, he felt a thrill of -anguish, for the decisive moment which would save or wreck the family -was now at hand. - -Indeed, Denis, after inviting himself and Mathieu to lunch, promptly -plunged into the subject. - -"We are not here for the mere pleasure of lunching with you," said he; -"mamma is ill, did you know it?" - -"Ill?" said Ambroise. "Not seriously ill?" - -"Yes, very ill, in danger. And are you aware that she has been ill -like this ever since she came to speak to you about the quarrel between -Gregoire and Gervais, when it seems that you treated her very roughly." - -"I treated her roughly? We simply talked business, and perhaps I spoke -to her like a business man, a little bluntly." - -Then Ambroise turned towards Mathieu, who was waiting, pale and silent: -"Is it true, father, that mamma is ill and causes you anxiety?" - -And as his father replied with a long affirmative nod, he gave vent to -his emotion, even as Denis had done at the works immediately on learning -the truth. - -"But dash it all," he said; "this affair is becoming quite idiotic! In -my opinion Gregoire is right and Gervais wrong. Only I don't care a fig -about that; they must make it up at once, so that poor mamma may not -have another moment's suffering. But then, why did you shut yourselves -up? Why did you not let us know how grieved you were? Every one would -have reflected and understood things." - -Then, all at once, Ambroise embraced his father with that promptness of -decision which he displayed to such happy effect in business as soon as -ever a ray of light illumined his mind. - -"After all, father," said he; "you are the cleverest; you understand -things and foresee them. Even if Gregoire were within his rights in -bringing an action against Gervais, it would be idiotic for him to do -so, because far above any petty private interest, there is the interest -of all of us, the interest of the family, which is to remain, united, -compact, and unattackable, if it desires to continue invincible. Our -sovereign strength lies in our union--And so it's simple enough. We -will lunch as quickly as possible and take the first train. We shall -go, Denis and I, to Chantebled with you. Peace must be concluded this -evening. I will see to it." - -Laughing, and well pleased to find his own feelings shared by his two -sons, Mathieu returned Ambroise's embrace. And while waiting for lunch -to be served, they went down to see the winter garden, which was being -enlarged for some fetes which Ambroise wished to give. He took pleasure -in adding to the magnificence of the mansion, and in reigning there with -princely pomp. At lunch he apologized for only offering his father -and brother a bachelor's pot-luck, though, truth to tell, the fare was -excellent. Indeed, whenever Andree and the children absented themselves, -Ambroise still kept a good cook to minister to his needs, for he held -the cuisine of restaurants in horror. - -"Well, for my part," said Denis, "I go to a restaurant for my meals; for -since Marthe and all the others have been at Dieppe, I have virtually -shut up the house." - -"You are a wise man, you see," Ambroise answered, with quiet frankness. -"For my part, as you are aware, I am an enjoyer. Now, make haste and -drink your coffee, and we will start." - -They reached Janville by the two o'clock train. Their plan was to repair -to Chantebled in the first instance, in order that Ambroise and Denis -might begin by talking to Gervais, who was of a gentler nature than -Gregoire, and with whom they thought they might devise some means of -conciliation. Then they intended to betake themselves to the mill, -lecture Gregoire, and impose on him such peace conditions as they might -have agreed upon. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farm, however, -the difficulties of their undertaking appeared to them, and seemed to -increase in magnitude. An arrangement would not be arrived at so easily -as they had at first imagined. So they girded their loins in readiness -for a hard battle. - -"Suppose we begin by going to see mamma," Denis suggested. "We should -see and embrace her, and that would give us some courage." - -Ambroise deemed the idea an excellent one. "Yes, let us go by all means, -particularly as mamma has always been a good counsellor. She must have -some idea." - -They climbed to the first floor of the house, to the spacious room -where Marianne spent her days on a couch beside the window. And to their -stupefaction they found her seated on that couch with Gregoire standing -by her and holding both her hands, while on the other side were Gervais -and Claire, laughing softly. - -"Why! what is this?" exclaimed Ambroise in amazement. "The work is -done!" - -"And we who despaired of being able to accomplish it!" declared Denis, -with a gesture of bewilderment. - -Mathieu was equally stupefied and delighted, and on noticing the -surprise occasioned by the arrival of the two big brothers from Paris, -he proceeded to explain the position. - -"I went to Paris this morning to fetch them," he said, "and I've brought -them here to reconcile us all!" - -A joyous peal of laughter resounded. The big brothers were too -late! Neither their wisdom nor their diplomacy had been needed. They -themselves made merry over it, feeling the while greatly relieved that -the victory should have been won without any battle. - -Marianne, whose eyes were moist, and who felt divinely happy, so happy -that she seemed already well again, simply replied to Mathieu: "You see, -my friend, it's done. But as yet I know nothing further. Gregoire came -here and kissed me, and wished me to send for Gervais and Claire at -once. Then, of his own accord, he told them that they were all three -mad in causing me such grief, and that they ought to come to an -understanding together. Thereupon they kissed one another. And now it's -done; it's all over." - -But Gregoire gayly intervened. "Wait a moment; just listen; I cut too -fine a figure in the story as mamma relates it, and I must tell you the -truth. I wasn't the first to desire the reconciliation; the first was -my wife, Therese. She has a good sterling heart and the very brains of a -mule, in such wise that whenever she is determined on anything I always -have to do it in the end. Well, yesterday evening we had a bit of a -quarrel, for she had heard, I don't know how, that mamma was ill with -grief. And this pained her, and she tried to prove to me how stupid the -quarrel was, for we should all of us lose by it. This morning she began -again, and of course she convinced me, more particularly as, with the -thought of poor mamma lying ill through our fault, I had hardly slept -all night. But father Lepailleur still had to be convinced, and Therese -undertook to do that also. She even hit upon something extraordinary, so -that the old man might imagine that he was the conqueror of conquerors. -She persuaded him at last to sell you that terrible enclosure at such -an insane price that he will be able to shout 'victory!' over all the -house-tops." - -Then turning to his brother and sister, Gregoire added, in a jocular -tone; "My dear Gervais, my dear Claire, let yourselves be robbed, I beg -of you. The peace of my home is at stake. Give my father-in-law the last -joy of believing that he alone has always been in the right, and that we -have never been anything but fools." - -"Oh! as much money as he likes," replied Gervais, laughing. "Besides, -that enclosure has always been a dishonor for the estate, streaking -it with stones and brambles, like a nasty sore. We have long dreamt -of seeing the property spotless, with its crops waving without a break -under the sun. And Chantebled is rich enough to pay for its glory." - -Thus the affair was settled. The wheat of the farm would return to the -mill to be ground, and the mother would get well again. It was the force -of life, the need of love, the union necessary for the whole family if -it were to continue victorious, that had imposed true brotherliness -on the sons, who for a moment had been foolish enough to destroy their -power by assailing one another. - -The delight of finding themselves once more together there, Denis, -Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, the four big brothers, and Claire, the big -sister, all reconciled and again invincible, increased when Charlotte -arrived, bringing with her the other three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, -and Marthe, who had married and settled in the district. Louise, having -heard that her mother was ill, had gone to fetch her sisters, in order -that they might repair to Chantebled together. And what a hearty laugh -there was when the procession entered! - -"Let them all come!" cried Ambroise, in a jocular way. "Let's have the -family complete, a real meeting of the great privy council. You see, -mamma, you must get well at once; the whole of your court is at your -knees, and unanimously decides that it can no longer allow you to have -even a headache." - -Then, as Benjamin put in an appearance the very last, behind the three -sisters, the laughter broke out afresh. - -"And to think that we were forgetting Benjamin!" Mathieu exclaimed. - -"Come, little one, come and kiss me in your turn," said Marianne -affectionately, in a low voice. "The others jest because you are the -last of the brood. But if I spoil you that only concerns ourselves, does -it not? Tell them that you spent the morning with me, and that if you -went out for a walk it was because I wished you to do so." - -Benjamin smiled with a gentle and rather sad expression. "But I was -downstairs, mamma; I saw them go up one after the other. I waited for -them all to kiss, before coming up in my turn." - -He was already one-and-twenty and extremely handsome, with a bright -face, large brown eyes, long curly hair, and a frizzy, downy beard. -Though he had never been ill, his mother would have it that he was weak, -and insisted on coddling him. All of them, moreover, were very fond -of him, both for his grace of person and the gentle charm of his -disposition. He had grown up in a kind of dream, full of a desire which -he could not put into words, ever seeking the unknown, something which -he knew not, did not possess. And when his parents saw that he had no -taste for any profession, and that even the idea of marrying did -not appeal to him, they evinced no anger, but, on the contrary, they -secretly plotted to keep this son, their last-born, life's final gift, -to themselves. Had they not surrendered all the others? Would they not -be forgiven for yielding to the egotism of love by reserving one for -themselves, one who would be theirs entirely, who would never marry, or -toil and moil, but would merely live beside them and love them, and be -loved in return? This was the dream of their old age, the share which, -in return for long fruitfulness, they would have liked to snatch -from devouring life, which, though it gives one everything, yet takes -everything away. - -"Oh! just listen, Benjamin," Ambroise suddenly resumed, "you are -interested in our brave Nicolas, I know. Would you like to have some -news of him? I heard from him only the day before yesterday. And it's -right that I should speak of him, since he's the only one of the brood, -as mamma puts it, who cannot be here." - -Benjamin at once became quite excited, asking, "Is it true? Has he -written to you? What does he say? What is he doing?" - -He could never think without emotion of Nicolas's departure for Senegal. -He was twelve years old at that time, and nearly nine years had gone by -since then, yet the scene, with that eternal farewell, that flight, as -it were, into the infinite of time and hope, was ever present in his -mind. - -"You know that I have business relations with Nicolas," resumed -Ambroise. "Oh! if we had but a few fellows as intelligent and courageous -as he is in our colonies, we should soon rake in all the scattered -wealth of those virgin lands. Well, Nicolas, as you are aware, went to -Senegal with Lisbeth, who was the very companion and helpmate he needed. -Thanks to the few thousand francs which they possessed between them, -they soon established a prosperous business; but I divined that the -field was still too small for them, and that they dreamt of clearing and -conquering a larger expanse. And now, all at once, Nicolas writes to me -that he is starting for the Soudan, the valley of the Niger, which has -only lately been opened. He is taking his wife and his four children -with him, and they are all going off to conquer as fortune may will -it, like valiant pioneers beset by the idea of founding a new world. I -confess that it amazes me, for it is a very hazardous enterprise. But -all the same one must admit that our Nicolas is a very plucky fellow, -and one can't help admiring his great energy and faith in thus setting -out for an almost unknown region, fully convinced that he will subject -and populate it." - -Silence fell. A great gust seemed to have swept by, the gust of the -infinite coming from the far away mysterious virgin plains. And the -family could picture that young fellow, one of themselves, going off -through the deserts, carrying the good seed of humanity under the -spreading sky into unknown climes. - -"Ah!" said Benjamin softly, his eyes dilating and gazing far, far away -as if to the world's end; "ah! he's happy, for he sees other rivers, and -other forests, and other suns than ours!" - -But Marianne shuddered. "No, no, my boy," said she; "there are no other -rivers than the Yeuse, no other forests but our woods of Lillebonne, -no other sun but that of Chantebled. Come and kiss me again--let us -all kiss once more, and I shall get well, and we shall never be parted -again." - -The laughter began afresh with the embraces. It was a great day, a day -of victory, the most decisive victory which the family had ever won by -refusing to let discord destroy it. Henceforth it would be invincible. - -At twilight, on the evening of that day, Mathieu and Marianne again -found themselves, as on the previous evening, hand in hand near the -window whence they could see the estate stretching to the horizon; that -horizon behind which arose the breath of Paris, the tawny cloud of its -gigantic forge. But how little did that serene evening resemble the -other, and how great was their present felicity, their trust in the -goodness of their work. - -"Do you feel better?" Mathieu asked his wife; "do you feel your strength -returning; does your heart beat more freely?" - -"Oh! my friend, I feel cured; I was only pining with grief. To-morrow I -shall be strong." - -Then Mathieu sank into a deep reverie, as he sat there face to face with -his conquest--that estate which spread out under the setting sun. -And again, as in the morning, did recollections crowd upon him; he -remembered a morning more than forty years previously when he had -left Marianne, with thirty sous in her purse, in the little tumbledown -shooting-box on the verge of the woods. They lived there on next to -nothing; they owed money, they typified gay improvidence with the four -little mouths which they already had to feed, those children who had -sprung from their love, their faith in life. - -Then he recalled his return home at night time, the three hundred -francs, a month's salary, which he had carried in his pocket, the -calculations which he had made, the cowardly anxiety which he had felt, -disturbed as he was by the poisonous egotism which he had encountered -in Paris. There were the Beauchenes, with their factory, and their only -son, Maurice, whom they were bringing up to be a future prince, the -Beauchenes, who had prophesied to him that he and his wife and their -troop of children could only expect a life of black misery, and death in -a garret. There were also the Seguins, then his landlords, who had shown -him their millions, and their magnificent mansion, full of treasures, -crushing him the while, treating him with derisive pity because he did -not behave sensibly like themselves, who were content with having but -two children, a boy and a girl. And even those poor Moranges had talked -to him of giving a royal dowry to their one daughter Reine, dreaming at -that time of an appointment that would bring in twelve thousand francs -a year, and full of contempt for the misery which a numerous family -entails. And then the very Lepailleurs, the people of the mill, had -evinced distrust because there were twelve francs owing to them for milk -and eggs; for it had seemed to them doubtful whether a bourgeois, insane -enough to have so many children, could possibly pay his debts. Ah! the -views of the others had then appeared to be correct; he had repeated to -himself that he would never have a factory, nor a mansion, nor even a -mill, and that in all probability he would never earn twelve thousand -francs a year. The others had everything and he nothing. The others, the -rich, behaved sensibly, and did not burden themselves with offspring; -whereas, he, the poor man, already had more children than he could -provide for. What madness it had seemed to be! - -But forty years had rolled away, and behold his madness was wisdom! He -had conquered by his divine improvidence; the poor man had vanquished -the wealthy. He had placed his trust in the future, and now the whole -harvest was garnered. The Beauchene factory was his through his son -Denis; the Seguins' mansion was his through his son Ambroise; the -Lepailleurs' mill was his through his son Gregoire. Tragical, even -excessive punishment, had blown those sorry Moranges away in a tempest -of blood and insanity. And other social wastage had swept by and rolled -into the gutter; Seraphine, the useless creature, had succumbed to -her passions; the Moineauds had been dispersed, annihilated by their -poisonous environment. And he, Mathieu, and Marianne alone remained -erect, face to face with that estate of Chantebled, which they had -conquered from the Seguins, and where their children, Gervais and -Claire, at present reigned, prolonging the dynasty of their race. This -was their kingdom; as far as the eye could see the fields spread out -with wondrous fertility under the sun's farewell, proclaiming the -battles, the heroic creative labor of their lives. There was their work, -there was what they had produced, whether in the realm of animate or -inanimate nature, thanks to the power of love within them, and their -energy of will. By love, and resolution, and action, they had created a -world. - -"Look, look!" murmured Mathieu, waving his arm, "all that has sprung -from us, and we must continue to love, we must continue to be happy, in -order that it may all live." - -"Ah!" Marianne gayly replied, "it will live forever now, since we have -all become reconciled and united amid our victory." - -Victory! yes, it was the natural, necessary victory that is reaped by -the numerous family! Thanks to numbers they had ended by invading every -sphere and possessing everything. Fruitfulness was the invincible, -sovereign conqueress. Yet their conquest had not been meditated and -planned; ever serenely loyal in their dealings with others, they owed -it simply to the fulfilment of duty throughout their long years of toil. -And they now stood before it hand in hand, like heroic figures, glorious -because they had ever been good and strong, because they had created -abundantly, because they had given abundance of joy, and health, and -hope to the world amid all the everlasting struggles and the everlasting -tears. - - - - -XXIII - -AND Mathieu and Marianne lived more than a score of years longer, and -Mathieu was ninety years old and Marianne eighty-seven, when their -three eldest sons, Denis, Ambroise, and Gervais, ever erect beside them, -planned that they would celebrate their diamond wedding, the seventieth -anniversary of their marriage, by a fete at which they would assemble -all the members of the family at Chantebled. - -It was no little affair. When they had drawn up a complete list, they -found that one hundred and fifty-eight children, grandchildren, and -great-grandchildren had sprung from Mathieu and Marianne, without -counting a few little ones of a fourth generation. By adding to the -above those who had married into the family as husbands and wives they -would be three hundred in number. And where at the farm could they find -a room large enough for the huge table of the patriarchal feast that -they dreamt of? The anniversary fell on June 2, and the spring that year -was one of incomparable mildness and beauty. So they decided that they -would lunch out of doors, and place the tables in front of the old -pavilion, on the large lawn, enclosed by curtains of superb elms and -hornbeams, which gave the spot the aspect of a huge hall of verdure. -There they would be at home, on the very breast of the beneficent earth, -under the central and now gigantic oak, planted by the two ancestors, -whose blessed fruitfulness the whole swarming progeny was about to -celebrate. - -Thus the festival was settled and organized amid a great impulse of -love and joy. All were eager to take part in it, all hastened to the -triumphal gathering, from the white-haired old men to the urchins who -still sucked their thumbs. And the broad blue sky and the flaming sun -were bent on participating in it also, as well as the whole estate, the -streaming springs and the fields in flower, giving promise of bounteous -harvests. Magnificent looked the huge horseshoe table set out amid the -grass, with handsome china and snowy cloths which the sunbeams flecked -athwart the foliage. The august pair, the father and mother, were to -sit side by side, in the centre, under the oak tree. It was decided -also that the other couples should not be separated, that it would be -charming to place them side by side according to the generation they -belonged to. But as for the young folks, the youths and maidens, the -urchins and the little girls, they, it was thought, might well be left -to seat themselves as their fancy listed. - -Early in the morning those bidden to the feast began to arrive in bands; -the dispersed family returned to the common nest, swooping down upon it -from the four points of the compass. But alas! death's scythe had been -at work, and there were many who could not come. Departed ones slept, -each year more numerous, in the peaceful, flowery, Janville cemetery. -Near Rose and Blaise, who had been the first to depart, others had gone -thither to sleep the eternal sleep, each time carrying away a little -more of the family's heart, and making of that sacred spot a place of -worship and eternal souvenir. First Charlotte, after long illness, had -joined Blaise, happy in leaving Berthe to replace her beside Mathieu and -Marianne, who were heart-stricken by her death, as if indeed they were -for the second time losing their dear son. Afterwards their daughter -Claire had likewise departed from them, leaving the farm to her husband -Frederic and her brother Gervais, who likewise had become a widower -during the ensuing year. Then, too, Mathieu and Marianne had lost their -son Gregoire, the master of the mill, whose widow Therese still ruled -there amid a numerous progeny. And again they had to mourn another of -their daughters, the kind-hearted Marguerite, Dr. Chambouvet's wife, -who sickened and died, through having sheltered a poor workman's little -children, who were affected with croup. And the other losses could no -longer be counted among them were some who had married into the family, -wives and husbands, and there were in particular many children, the -tithe that death always exacts, those who are struck down by the storms -which sweep over the human crop, all the dear little ones for whom the -living weep, and who sanctify the ground in which they rest. - -But if the dear departed yonder slept in deepest silence, how gay was -the uproar and how great the victory of life that morning along the -roads which led to Chantebled! The number of those who were born -surpassed that of those who died. From each that departed, a whole -florescence of living beings seemed to blossom forth. They sprang up in -dozens from the ground where their forerunners had laid themselves to -sleep when weary of their work. And they flocked to Chantebled from -every side, even as swallows return at spring to revivify their old -nests, filling the blue sky with the joy of their return. Outside the -farm, vehicles were ever setting down fresh families with troops -of children, whose sea of fair heads was always expanding. -Great-grandfathers with snowy hair came leading little ones who could -scarcely toddle. There were very nice-looking old ladies whom young -girls of dazzling freshness assisted to alight. There were mothers -expecting the arrival of other babes, and fathers to whom the charming -idea had occurred of inviting their daughters' affianced lovers. And -they were all related, they had all sprung from a common ancestry, they -were all mingled in an inextricable tangle, fathers, mothers, -brothers, sisters, fathers-in-law, mothers-in-law, brothers-in-law, -sisters-in-law, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, and cousins, of every -possible degree, down to the fourth generation. And they were all one -family; one sole little nation, assembling in joy and pride to celebrate -that diamond wedding, the rare prodigious nuptials of two heroic -creatures whom life had glorified and from whom all had sprung! And what -an epic, what a Biblical numbering of that people suggested itself! How -even name all those who entered the farm, how simply set forth their -names, their ages, their degree of relationship, the health, the -strength, and the hope that they had brought into the world! - -Before everybody else there were those of the farm itself, all those who -had been born and who had grown up there. Gervais, now sixty-two, was -helped by his two eldest sons, Leon and Henri, who between them had ten -children; while his three daughters, Mathilde, Leontine, and Julienne, -who were married in the district, in like way numbered between them -twelve. Then Frederic, Claire's husband, who was five years older than -Gervais, had surrendered his post as a faithful lieutenant to his son -Joseph, while his daughters Angele and Lucille, as well as a second son -Jules, also helped on the farm, the four supplying a troop of fifteen -children, some of them boys and some girls. - -Then, of all those who came from without, the mill claimed the first -place. Therese, Gregoire's widow, arrived with her offspring, her -son Robert, who now managed the mill under her control, and her three -daughters, Genevieve, Aline, and Natalie, followed by quite a train of -children, ten belonging to the daughters and four to Robert. Next came -Louise, notary Mazaud's wife, and Madeleine, architect Herbette's wife, -followed by Dr. Chambouvet, who had lost his wife, the good Marguerite. -And here again were three valiant companies; in the first, four -daughters, of whom Colette was the eldest; in the second, five sons with -Hilary at the head of them; and in the third, a son and daughter only, -Sebastien and Christine; the whole, however, forming quite an army, for -there were twenty of Mathieu's great-grandchildren in the rear. - -But Paris arrived on the scene with Denis and his wife Marthe, -who headed a grand cortege. Denis, now nearly seventy, and a -great-grandfather through his daughters Hortense and Marcelle, had -enjoyed the happy rest which follows accomplished labor ever since he -had handed his works over to his eldest sons Lucien and Paul, who were -both men of more than forty, and whose own sons were already on the road -to every sort of fortune. And what with the mother and father, the four -children, the fifteen grandchildren, and the three great-grandchildren, -two of whom were yet in swaddling clothes, this was really an invading -tribe packed into five vehicles. - -Then the final entry was that of the little nation which had sprung from -Ambroise, who to his great grief had early lost his wife Andree. His was -such a green old age that at sixty-seven he still directed his business, -in which his sons Leonce and Charles remained simple _employes_ like -his sons-in-law--the husbands of his daughters, Pauline and Sophie--who -trembled before him, uncontested king that he remained, obeyed by one -and all, grandfather of seven big bearded young men and nine strong -young women, through four of whom he had become a great-grandfather -even before his elder, the wise Denis. For this troop six carriages were -required. And the defile lasted two hours, and the farm was soon full of -a happy, laughing throng, holiday-making in the bright June sunlight. - -Mathieu and Marianne had not yet put in an appearance. Ambroise, who was -the grand master of the ceremonies that day, had made them promise to -remain in their room, like sovereigns hidden from their people, until -he should go to fetch them. He desired that they should appear in all -solemnity. And when he made up his mind to summon them, the whole nation -being assembled together, he found his brother Benjamin on the threshold -of the house defending the door like a bodyguard. - -He, Benjamin, had remained the one idler, the one unfruitful scion of -that swarming tribe, which had toiled and multiplied so prodigiously. -Now three-and-forty years of age, without a wife and without children, -he lived, it seemed, solely for the joy of the old home, as a companion -to his father and a passionate worshipper of his mother, who with the -egotism of love had set themselves upon keeping him for themselves -alone. At first they had not been opposed to his marrying, but when -they had seen him refuse one match after another, they had secretly felt -great delight. Nevertheless, as years rolled by, some unacknowledged -remorse had come to them amid their happiness at having him beside -them like some hoarded treasure, the delight of an avaricious old age, -following a life of prodigality. Did not their Benjamin suffer at having -been thus monopolized, shut up for their sole pleasure within the -four walls of their house? He had at all times displayed an anxious -dreaminess, his eyes had ever sought far-away things, the unknown land -where perfect satisfaction dwelt, yonder, behind the horizon. And now -that age was stealing upon him his torment seemed to increase, as if he -were in despair at finding himself unable to try the possibilities of -the unknown, before he ended a useless life devoid of happiness. - -However, Benjamin moved away from the door, Ambroise gave his orders, -and Mathieu and Marianne appeared upon the verdant lawn in the sunlight. -An acclamation, merry laughter, affectionate clapping of hands greeted -them. The gay excited throng, the whole swarming family cried aloud: -"Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to the -Father and the Mother!" - -At ninety years of age Mathieu was still very upright and slim, closely -buttoned in a black frock-coat like a young bridegroom. Over his bare -head fell a snowy fleece, for after long wearing his hair cut short he -had now in a final impulse of coquetry allowed it to grow, so that it -seemed liked the _renouveau_ of an old but vigorous tree. Age might have -withered and worn and wrinkled his face, but he still retained the eyes -of his young days, large lustrous eyes, at once smiling and pensive, -which still bespoke a man of thought and action, one who was very -simple, very gay, and very good-hearted. And Marianne at eighty-seven -years of age also held herself very upright in her light bridal gown, -still strong and still showing some of the healthy beauty of other days. -With hair white like Mathieu's, and softened face, illumined as by a -last glow under her silky tresses, she resembled one of those sacred -marbles whose features time has ravined, without, however, being able to -efface from them the tranquil splendor of life. She seemed, indeed, like -some fruitful Cybele, retaining all firmness of contour, and living -anew in the broad daylight with gentle good humor sparkling in her large -black eyes. - -Arm-in-arm close to one another, like a worthy couple who had come from -afar, who had walked on side by side without ever parting for seventy -long years, Mathieu and Marianne smiled with tears of joy in their eyes -at the whole swarming family which had sprung from their love, and which -still acclaimed them: - -"Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to the -Father and the Mother!" - -Then came the ceremony of reciting a compliment and offering a bouquet. -A fair-haired little girl named Rose, five years of age, had been -intrusted with this duty. She had been chosen because she was the eldest -child of the fourth generation. She was the daughter of Angeline, who -was the daughter of Berthe, who was the daughter of Charlotte, wife of -Blaise. And when the two ancestors saw her approach them with her big -bouquet, their emotion increased, happy tears again gathered in their -eyes, and recollections faltered on their lips: "Oh! our little Rose! -Our Blaise, our Charlotte!" - -All the past revived before them. The name of Rose had been given to the -child in memory of the other long-mourned Rose, who had been the first -to leave them, and who slept yonder in the little cemetery. There in his -turn had Blaise been laid, and thither Charlotte had followed them. Then -Berthe, Blaise's daughter, who had married Philippe Havard, had given -birth to Angeline. And, later, Angeline, having married Georges Delmas, -had given birth to Rose. Berthe and Philippe Havard, Angeline and -Georges Delmas stood behind the child. And she represented one and all, -the dead, the living, the whole flourishing line, its many griefs, its -many joys, all the valiant toil of creation, all the river of life -that it typified, for everything ended in her, dear, frail, fair-haired -angel, with eyes bright like the dawn, in whose depths the future -sparkled. - -"Oh! our Rose! our Rose!" - -With a big bouquet between her little hands Rose had stepped forward. -She had been learning a very fine compliment for a fortnight past, and -that very morning she had recited it to her mother without making a -single mistake. But when she found herself there among all these people -she could not recollect a word of it. Still that did not trouble her, -she was already a very bold little damsel, and she frankly dropped her -bouquet and sprang at the necks of Mathieu and Marianne, exclaiming in -her shrill, flute-like voice: "Grandpapa, grandmamma, it's your fete, -and I kiss you with all my heart!" - -And that suited everybody remarkably well. They even found it far better -than any compliment. Laughter and clapping of hands and acclamations -again arose. Then they forthwith began to take their seats at table. - -This, however, was quite an affair, so large was the horse-shoe table -spread out under the oak on the short, freshly cut grass. First Mathieu -and Marianne, still arm in arm, went ceremoniously to seat themselves -in the centre with their backs towards the trunk of the great tree. On -Mathieu's left, Marthe and Denis, Louise and her husband, notary Mazaud, -took their places, since it had been fittingly decided that the husbands -and wives should not be separated. On the right of Marianne came -Ambroise, Therese, Gervais, Dr. Chambouvet, three widowers and a widow, -then another married couple, Madeleine and her husband, architect -Herbette, and then Benjamin alone. The other married folks afterwards -installed themselves according to the generation they belonged to; and -then, as had been decided, youth and childhood, the whole troop of -young people and little ones took seats as they pleased amid no little -turbulence. - -What a moment of sovereign glory it was for Mathieu and Marianne! They -found themselves there in a triumph of which they would never have dared -to dream. Life, as if to reward them for having shown faith in her, -for having increased her sway with all bravery, seemed to have taken -pleasure in prolonging their existences beyond the usual limits so that -their eyes might behold the marvellous blossoming of their work. The -whole of their dear Chantebled, everything good and beautiful that they -had there begotten and established, participated in the festival. From -the cultivated fields that they had set in the place of marshes came the -broad quiver of great coming harvests; from the pasture lands amid the -distant woods came the warm breath of cattle and innumerable flocks -which ever increased the ark of life; and they heard, too, the loud -babble of the captured springs with which they had fertilized the now -fruitful moorlands, the flow of that water which is like the very blood -of our mother earth. The social task was accomplished, bread was won, -subsistence had been created, drawn from the nothingness of barren soil. - -And on what a lovely and well-loved spot did their happy, grateful race -offer them that festival! Those elms and hornbeams, which made the lawn -a great hall of greenery, had been planted by themselves; they had seen -them growing day by day like the most peaceable and most sturdy of their -children. And in particular that oak, now so gigantic, thanks to the -clear waters of the adjoining basin through which one of the sources -ever streamed, was their own big son, one that dated from the day when -they had founded Chantebled, he, Mathieu, digging the hole and she, -Marianne, holding the sapling erect. And now, as that tree stood there, -shading them with its expanse of verdure, was it not like some royal -symbol of the whole family? Like that oak the family had grown and -multiplied, ever throwing out fresh branches which spread far over -the ground; and like that oak it now formed by itself a perfect forest -sprung from a single trunk, vivified by the same sap, strong in the same -health, and full of song, and breeziness, and sunlight. - -Leaning against that giant tree Mathieu and Marianne became merged in -its sovereign glory and majesty, and was not their royalty akin to -its own? Had they not begotten as many beings as the tree had begotten -branches? Did they not reign there over a nation of their children, who -lived by them, even as the leaves above lived by the tree? The three -hundred big and little ones seated around them were but a prolongation -of themselves; they belonged to the same tree of life, they had sprung -from their love and still clung to them by every fibre. Mathieu and -Marianne divined how joyous they all were at glorifying themselves in -making much of them; how moved the elder ones, how turbulently merry the -younger felt. They could hear their own hearts beating in the breasts of -the fair-haired urchins who already laughed with ecstasy at the sight of -the cakes and pastry on the table. And their work of human creation was -assembled in front of them and within them, in the same way as the -oak's huge dome spread out above it; and all around they were likewise -encompassed by the fruitfulness of their other work, the fertility and -growth of nature which had increased even as they themselves multiplied. - -Then was the true beauty which had its abode in Mathieu and Marianne -made manifest, that beauty of having loved one another for seventy years -and of still worshipping one another now even as on the first day. For -seventy years had they trod life's pathway side by side and arm in arm, -without a quarrel, without ever a deed of unfaithfulness. They could -certainly recall great sorrows, but these had always come from without. -And if they had sometimes sobbed they had consoled one another by -mingling their tears. Under their white locks they had retained the -faith of their early days, their hearts remained blended, merged one -into the other, even as on the morrow of their marriage, each having -then been freely given and never taken back. In them the power of love, -the will of action, the divine desire whose flame creates worlds, had -happily met and united. He, adoring his wife, had known no other -joy than the passion of creation, looking on the work that had to -be performed and the work that was accomplished as the sole why and -wherefore of his being, his duty and his reward. She, adoring her -husband, had simply striven to be a true companion, spouse, mother, -and good counsellor, one who was endowed with delicacy of judgment and -helped to overcome all difficulties. Between them they were reason, -and health, and strength. If, too, they had always triumphed athwart -obstacles and tears, it was only by reason of their long agreement, -their common fealty amid an eternal renewal of their love, whose -armor rendered them invincible. They could not be conquered, they had -conquered by the very power of their union without designing it. And -they ended heroically, as conquerors of happiness, hand in hand, pure -as crystal is, very great, very handsome, the more so from their extreme -age, their long, long life, which one love had entirely filled. And the -sole strength of their innumerable offspring now gathered there, the -conquering tribe that had sprung from their loins, was the strength of -union inherited from them: the loyal love transmitted from ancestors to -children, the mutual affection which impelled them to help one another -and ever fight for a better life in all brotherliness. - -But mirthful sounds arose, the banquet was at last being served. All the -servants of the farm had gathered to discharge this duty--they would not -allow a single person from without to help them. Nearly all had grown up -on the estate, and belonged, as it were, to the family. By and by they -would have a table for themselves, and in their turn celebrate the -diamond wedding. And it was amid exclamations and merry laughter that -they brought the first dishes. - -All at once, however, the serving ceased, silence fell, an unexpected -incident attracted all attention. A young man, whom none apparently -could recognize, was stepping across the lawn, between the arms of the -horse-shoe table. He smiled gayly as he walked on, only stopping when -he was face to face with Mathieu and Marianne. Then in a loud voice -he said: "Good day, grandfather! good day, grandmother! You must have -another cover laid, for I have come to celebrate the day with you." - -The onlookers remained silent, in great astonishment. Who was this young -man whom none had ever seen before? Assuredly he could not belong to the -family, for they would have known his name, have recognized his face? -Why, then, did he address the ancestors by the venerated names of -grandfather and grandmother? And the stupefaction was the greater by -reason of his extraordinary resemblance to Mathieu. Assuredly, he was a -Froment, he had the bright eyes and the lofty tower-like forehead of -the race. Mathieu lived again in him, such as he appeared in -a piously-preserved portrait representing him at the age of -seven-and-twenty when he had begun the conquest of Chantebled. - -Mathieu, for his part, rose, trembling, while Marianne smiled divinely, -for she understood the truth before all the others. - -"Who are you, my child?" asked Mathieu, "you, who call me grandfather, -and who resemble me as if you were my brother?" - -"I am Dominique, the eldest son of your son Nicolas, who lives with my -mother, Lisbeth, in the vast free country yonder, the other France!" - -"And how old are you?" - -"I shall be seven-and-twenty next August, when, yonder, the waters of -the Niger, the good giant, come back to fertilize our spreading fields." - -"And tell us, are you married, have you any children?" - -"I have taken for my wife a French woman, born in Senegal, and in the -brick house which I have built, four children are already growing up -under the flaming sun of the Soudan." - -"And tell us also, have you any brothers, any sisters?" - -"My father, Nicolas, and Lisbeth, my mother, have had eighteen children, -two of whom are dead. We are sixteen, nine boys and seven girls." - -At this Mathieu laughed gayly, as if to say that his son Nicolas at -fifty years of age had already proved a more valiant artisan of life -than himself. - -"Well then, my boy," he said, "since you are the son of my son Nicolas, -come and embrace us to celebrate our wedding. And a cover shall be -placed for you; you are at home here." - -In four strides Dominique made the round of the tables, then cast his -strong arms about the old people and embraced them--they the while -feeling faint with happy emotion, so delightful was that surprise, yet -another child falling among them, and on that day, as from some distant -sky, and telling them of the other family, the other nation which -had sprung from them, and which was swarming yonder with increase of -fruitfulness amid the fiery glow of the tropics. - -That surprise was due to the sly craft of Ambroise, who merrily -explained how he had prepared it like a masterly coup de theatre. For -a week past he had been lodging and hiding Dominique in his house in -Paris; the young man having been sent from the Soudan by his father to -negotiate certain business matters, and in particular to order of Denis -a quantity of special agricultural machinery adapted to the soil of -that far-away region. Thus Denis alone had been taken into the other's -confidence. - -When all those seated at the table saw Dominique in the old people's -arms, and learnt the whole story, there came an extraordinary outburst -of delight; deafening acclamations arose once more; and what with their -enthusiastic greetings and embraces they almost stifled the messenger -from the sister family, that prince of the second dynasty of the -Froments which ruled in the land of the future France. - -Mathieu gayly gave his orders: "There, place his cover in front of us! -He alone will be in front of us like the ambassador of some powerful -empire. Remember that, apart from his father and mother, he represents -nine brothers and seven sisters, without counting the four children that -he already has himself. There, my boy, sit down; and now let the service -continue." - -The feast proved a mirthful one under the big oak tree whose shade was -spangled by the sunbeams. Delicious freshness arose from the grass, -friendly nature seemed to contribute its share of caresses. The laughter -never ceased, old folks became playful children once more in presence of -the ninety and the eighty-seven years of the bridegroom and the bride. -Faces beamed softly under white and dark and sunny hair; the whole -assembly was joyful, beautiful with a healthy rapturous beauty; the -children radiant, the youths superb, the maidens adorable, the married -folk united, side by side. And what good appetites there were! What a -gay tumult greeted the advent of each fresh dish! And how the good wine -was honored to celebrate the goodness of life which had granted the two -patriarchs the supreme grace of assembling them all at their table on -such a glorious occasion! At dessert came toasts and health-drinking and -fresh acclamations. But, amid all the chatter which flew from one to -the other end of the table, the conversation invariably reverted to -the surprise at the outset: that triumphal entry of the brotherly -ambassador. It was he, his unexpected presence, all that he had not -yet said, all the adventurous romance which he surely personated, that -fanned the growing fever, the excitement of the family, intoxicated -by that open-air gala. And as soon as the coffee was served no end of -questions arose on every side, and he had to speak out. - -"Well, what can I say?" he replied, laughing, to a question put to him -by Ambroise, who wished to know what he thought of Chantebled, where -he had taken him for a stroll during the morning. "I'm afraid that if -I speak in all frankness, you won't think me very complimentary. -Cultivation, no doubt, is quite an art here, a splendid effort of will -and science and organization, as is needed to draw from this old soil -such crops as it can still produce. You toil a great deal, and you -effect prodigies. But, good heavens! how small your kingdom is! How can -you live here without hurting yourselves by ever rubbing against other -people's elbows? You are all heaped up to such a degree that you no -longer have the amount of air needful for a man's lungs. Your largest -stretches of land, what you call your big estates, are mere clods of -soil where the few cattle that one sees look to me like lost ants. But -ah! the immensity of our Niger; the immensity of the plains it waters; -the immensity of our fields, whose only limit is the distant horizon!" - -Benjamin had listened, quivering. Ever since that son of the great river -had arrived, he had continued gazing at him, with passion rising in his -dreamy eyes. And on hearing him speak in this fashion he could no longer -restrain himself, but rose, went round the table, and sat down beside -him. - -"The Niger--the immense plains--tell us all about them," he said. - -"The Niger, the good giant, the father of us all over yonder!" responded -Dominique. "I was barely eight years old when my parents quitted -Senegal, yielding to an impulse of reckless bravery and wild hope, -possessed by a craving to plunge into the Soudan and conquer as chance -might will it. There are many days' march among rocks and scrub and -rivers from St. Louis to our present farm, far beyond Djenny. And I no -longer remember the first journey. It seems to me as if I sprang from -good father Niger himself, from the wondrous fertility of his waters. -He is gentle but immense, rolling countless waves like the sea, and so -broad, so vast, that no bridge can span him as he flows from horizon to -horizon. He carries archipelagoes on his breast, and stretches out arms -covered with herbage like pasture land. And there are the depths where -flotillas of huge fishes roam at their ease. Father Niger has his -tempests, too, and his days of fire, when his waters beget life in the -burning clasp of the sun. And he has his delightful nights, his soft and -rosy nights, when peace descends on earth from the stars.... He is the -ancestor, the founder, the fertilizer of the Western Soudan, which he -has dowered with incalculable wealth, wresting it from the invasion of -neighboring Saharas, building it up of his own fertile ooze. It is he -who every year at regular seasons floods the valley like an ocean and -leaves it rich, pregnant, as it were, with amazing vegetation. Even -like the Nile, he has vanquished the sands; he is the father of untold -generations, the creative deity of a world as yet unknown, which in -later times will enrich old Europe.... And the valley of the Niger, the -good giant's colossal daughter. Ah! what pure immensity is hers; what -a flight, so to say, into the infinite! The plain opens and expands, -unbroken and limitless. Ever and ever comes the plain, fields are -succeeded by other fields stretching out of sight, whose end a plough -would only reach in months and months. All the food needed for a great -nation will be reaped there when cultivation is practised with a little -courage and a little science, for it is still a virgin kingdom such -as the good river created it, thousands of years ago. To-morrow this -kingdom will belong to the workers who are bold enough to take it, each -carving for himself a domain as large as his strength of toil can dream -of; not an estate of acres, but leagues and leagues of ploughland wavy -with eternal crops.... And what breadth of atmosphere there is in that -immensity! What delight it is to inhale all the air of that space at one -breath, and how healthy and strong the life, for one is no longer piled -one upon the other, but one feels free and powerful, master of that part -of the earth which one has desired under the sun which shines for all." - -Benjamin listened and questioned, never satisfied. "How are you -installed there?" he asked. "How do you live? What are your habits? What -is your work?" - -Dominique began to laugh again, conscious as he was that he was -astonishing, upsetting all these unknown relatives who pressed so close -to him, aglow with increasing curiosity. Women and old men had in -turn left their places to draw near to him; even children had gathered -around, as if to listen to a fine story. - -"Oh! we live in republican fashion," said he; "every member of our -community has to help in the common fraternal task. The family counts -more or less expert artisans of all kinds for the rough work. My father -in particular has revealed himself to be a very skilful mason, for -he had to build a place for us when we arrived. He even made his own -bricks, thanks to some deposits of clayey soil which exist near Djenny. -So our farm is now a little village: each married couple will have its -own house. Then, too, we are not only agriculturists, we are fishermen -and hunters also. We have our boats; the Niger abounds in fish to an -extraordinary degree, and there are wonderful hauls at times. And even -the shooting and hunting would suffice to feed us; game is plentiful, -there are partridges and wild guinea-fowl, not to mention the -flamingoes, the pelicans, the egrets, the thousands of creatures who -do not prey on one another. Black lions visit us at times: eagles fly -slowly over our heads; at dusk hippopotami come in parties of three -and four to gambol in the river with the clumsy grace of negro children -bathing. But, after all, we are more particularly cultivators, kings -of the plain, especially when the waters of the Niger withdraw after -fertilizing our fields. Our estate has no limits; it stretches as far as -we can labor. And ah! if you could only see the natives, who do not even -plough, but have few if any appliances beyond sticks, with which they -just scratch the soil before confiding the seed to it! There is no -trouble, no worry; the earth is rich, the sun ardent, and thus the crop -will always be a fine one. When we ourselves employ the plough, when we -bestow a little care on the soil which teems with life, what prodigious -crops there are, an abundance of grain such as your barns could never -hold! As soon as we possess the agricultural machinery, which I have -come to order here in France, we shall need flotillas of boats in order -to send you the overplus of our granaries.... When the river subsides, -when its waters fall, the crop we more particularly grow is rice; there -are, indeed, plains of rice, which occasionally yield two crops. Then -come millet and ground-beans, and by and by will come corn, when we can -grow it on a large scale. Vast cotton fields follow one after the other, -and we also grow manioc and indigo, while in our kitchen gardens we have -onions and pimentoes, and gourds and cucumbers. And I don't mention the -natural vegetation, the precious gum-trees, of which we possess quite a -forest; the butter-trees, the flour-trees, the silk-trees, which grow -on our ground like briers alongside your roads.... Finally, we are -shepherds; we own ever-increasing flocks, whose numbers we don't even -know. Our goats, our bearded sheep may be counted by the thousand; our -horses scamper freely through paddocks as large as cities, and when -our hunch-backed cattle come down to the Niger to drink at that hour of -serene splendor the sunset, they cover a league of the river banks.... -And, above everything else, we are free men and joyous men, working for -the delight of living without restraint, and our reward is the thought -that our work is very great and good and beautiful, since it is the -creation of another France, the sovereign France of to-morrow." - -From that moment Dominique paused no more. There was no longer any need -to question him, he poured forth all the beauty and grandeur in his -mind. He spoke of Djenny, the ancient queen city, whose people and -whose monuments came from Egypt, the city which even yet reigns over -the valley. He spoke of four other centres, Bamakoo, Niamina, Segu, -and Sansandig, big villages which would some day be great towns. And he -spoke particularly of Timbuctoo the glorious, so long unknown, with a -veil of legends cast over it as if it were some forbidden paradise, with -its gold, its ivory, its beautiful women, all rising like a mirage of -inaccessible delight beyond the devouring sands. He spoke of Timbuctoo, -the gate of the Sahara and the Western Soudan, the frontier town where -life ended and met and mingled, whither the camel of the desert -brought the weapons and merchandise of Europe as well as salt, that -indispensable commodity, and where the pirogues of the Niger landed the -precious ivory, the surface gold, the ostrich feathers, the gum, the -crops, all the wealth of the fruitful valley. He spoke of Timbuctoo the -store-place, the metropolis and market of Central Africa, with its -piles of ivory, its piles of virgin gold, its sacks of rice, millet, -and ground-nuts, its cakes of indigo, its tufts of ostrich plumes, its -metals, its dates, its stuffs, its iron-ware, and particularly its slabs -of rock salt, brought on the backs of beasts of burden from Taudeni, the -frightful Saharian city of salt, whose soil is salt for leagues around, -an infernal mine of that salt which is so precious in the Soudan that it -serves as a medium of exchange, as money more precious even than gold. -And finally, he spoke of Timbuctoo impoverished, fallen from its high -estate, the opulent and resplendent city of former times now almost in -ruins, hiding remnants of its treasures behind cracked walls in fear of -the robbers of the desert; but withal apt to become once more a city -of glory and fortune, royally seated as it is between the Soudan, that -granary of abundance, and the Sahara, the road to Europe, as soon as -France shall have opened that road, have connected the provinces of her -new empire, and have founded that huge new France of which the ancient -fatherland will be but the directing mind. - -"That is the dream!" cried Dominique, "that is the gigantic work which -the future will achieve! Algeria, connected with Timbuctoo by the Sahara -railway line, over which electric engines will carry the whole of old -Europe through the far expanse of sand! Timbuctoo connected with Senegal -by flotillas of steam vessels and yet other railways, all intersecting -the vast empire on every side! New France connected with mother France, -the old land, by a wondrous development of the means of communication, -and founded, and got ready for the hundred millions of inhabitants who -will some day spring up there!... Doubtless these things cannot be done -in a night. The trans-Saharian railway is not yet laid down; there are -two thousand five hundred kilometres* of bare desert to be crossed which -can hardly tempt railway companies; and a certain amount of prosperity -must be developed by starting cultivation, seeking and working mines, -and increasing exportations before a pecuniary effort can be possible -on the part of the motherland. Moreover, there is the question of the -natives, mostly of gentle race, though some are ferocious bandits, -whose savagery is increased by religious fanaticism, thus rendering the -difficulties of our conquest all the greater. Until the terrible problem -of Islamism is solved we shall always be coming in conflict with it. And -only life, long years of life, can create a new nation, adapt it to the -new land, blend diverse elements together, and yield normal existence, -homogeneous strength, and genius proper to the clime. But no matter! -From this day a new France is born yonder, a huge empire; and it needs -our blood--and some must be given it, in order that it may be peopled -and be able to draw its incalculable wealth from the soil, and become -the greatest, the strongest, and the mightiest in the world!" - - * About 1,553 English miles. - -Transported with enthusiasm, quivering at the thought of the distant -ideal at last revealed to him, Benjamin sat there with tears in his -eyes. Ah! the healthy life! the noble life! the other life! the whole -mission and work of which he had as yet but confusedly dreamt! Again he -asked a question: "And are there many French families there, colonizing -like yours?" - -Dominique burst into a loud laugh. "Oh, no," said he, "there are -certainly a few colonists in our old possessions of Senegal, but yonder -in the Niger valley, beyond Djenny, there are, I think, only ourselves. -We are the pioneers, the vanguard, the riskers full of faith and hope. -And there is some merit in it, for to sensible stay-at-home folks it -all seems like defying common sense. Can you picture it? A French family -installed among savages, and unprotected, save for the vicinity of a -little fort, where a French officer commands a dozen native soldiers--a -French family, which is sometimes called upon to fight in person, and -which establishes a farm in a land where the fanaticism of some head -tribesman may any day stir up trouble. It seems so insane that folks -get angry at the mere thought of it, yet it enraptures us and gives us -gayety and health, and the courage to achieve victory. We are opening -the road, we are giving the example, we are carrying our dear old France -yonder, taking to ourselves a huge expanse of virgin land, which will -become a province. We have already founded a village which in a hundred -years will be a great town. In the colonies no race is more fruitful -than the French, though it seems to become barren on its own ancient -soil. Thus we shall swarm and swarm, and fill the world! So come then, -come then, all of you; since here you are set too closely, since you -lack air in your little fields and your overheated, pestilence-breeding -towns. There is room for everybody yonder; there are new lands, there is -open air that none has breathed, and there is a task to be accomplished -which will make all of you heroes, strong, sturdy men, well pleased to -live! Come with me. I will take the men, I will take all the women who -are willing, and you will carve for yourselves other provinces and found -other cities for the future glory and power of the great new France." - -He laughed so gayly, he was so handsome, so spirited, so robust, that -once again the whole table acclaimed him. They would certainly not -follow him yonder, for all those married couples already had their own -nests; and all those young folks were already too strongly rooted to the -old land by the ties of their race--a race which after displaying such -adventurous instincts has now fallen asleep, as it were, at its own -fireside. But what a marvellous story it all was--a story to which big -and little alike, had listened in rapture, and which to-morrow would, -doubtless, arouse within them a passion for glorious enterprise far -away! The seed of the unknown was sown, and would grow into a crop of -fabulous magnitude. - -For the moment Benjamin was the only one who cried amid the enthusiasm -which drowned his words: "Yes, yes, I want to live. Take me, take me -with you!" - -But Dominique resumed, by way of conclusion: "And there is one thing, -grandfather, which I have not yet told you. My father has given the name -of Chantebled to our farm yonder. He often tells us how you founded your -estate here, in an impulse of far-seeing audacity, although everybody -jeered and shrugged their shoulders and declared that you must be mad. -And, yonder, my father has to put up with the same derision, the same -contemptuous pity, for people declare that the good Niger will some day -sweep away our village, even if a band of prowling natives does not kill -and eat us! But I'm easy in mind about all that, we shall conquer as -you conquered, for what seems to be the folly of action is really divine -wisdom. There will be another kingdom of the Froments yonder, another -huge Chantebled, of which you and my grandmother will be the ancestors, -the distant patriarchs, worshipped like deities.... And I drink to your -health, grandfather, and I drink to yours, grandmother, on behalf of -your other future people, who will grow up full of spirit under the -burning sun of the tropics!" - -Then with great emotion Mathieu, who had risen, replied in a powerful -voice: "To your health! my boy. To the health of my son Nicolas, his -wife, Lisbeth, and all who have been born from them! And to the health -of all who will follow, from generation to generation!" - -And Marianne, who had likewise risen, in her turn said: "To the health -of your wives, and your daughters, your spouses and your mothers! To the -health of those who will love and produce the greatest sum of life, in -order that the greatest possible sum of happiness may follow!" - -Then, the banquet ended, they quitted the table and spread freely over -the lawn. There was a last ovation around Mathieu and Marianne, who were -encompassed by their eager offspring. At one and the same time a score -of arms were outstretched, carrying children, whose fair or dark heads -they were asked to kiss. Aged as they were, returning to a divine -state of childhood, they did not always recognize those little lads and -lasses. They made mistakes, used wrong names, fancied that one child -was another. Laughter thereupon arose, the mistakes were rectified, and -appeals were made to the old people's memory. They likewise laughed, the -errors were amusing, but it mattered little if they no longer remembered -a name, the child at any rate belonged to the harvest that had sprung -from them. - -Then there were certain granddaughters and great-granddaughters whom -they themselves summoned and kissed by way of bringing good luck to the -babes that were expected, the children of their children's children, -the race which would ever spread and perpetuate them through the far-off -ages. And there were mothers, also, who were nursing, mothers whose -little ones, after sleeping quietly during the feast, had now awakened, -shrieking their hunger aloud. These had to be fed, and the mothers -merrily seated themselves together under the trees and gave them the -breast in all serenity. Therein lay the royal beauty of woman, wife and -mother; fruitful maternity triumphed over virginity by which life is -slain. Ah! might manners and customs change, might the idea of morality -and the idea of beauty be altered, and the world recast, based on the -triumphant beauty of the mother suckling her babe in all the majesty of -her symbolism! From fresh sowings there ever came fresh harvests, the -sun ever rose anew above the horizon, and milk streamed forth endlessly -like the eternal sap of living humanity. And that river of milk carried -life through the veins of the world, and expanded and overflowed for the -centuries of the future. - -The greatest possible sum of life in order that the greatest possible -happiness might result: that was the act of faith in life, the act of -hope in the justice and goodness of life's work. Victorious fruitfulness -remained the one true force, the sovereign power which alone moulded -the future. She was the great revolutionary, the incessant artisan of -progress, the mother of every civilization, ever re-creating her army -of innumerable fighters, throwing through the centuries millions after -millions of poor and hungry and rebellious beings into the fight for -truth and justice. Not a single forward step in history has ever been -taken without numerousness having urged humanity forward. To-morrow, -like yesterday, will be won by the swarming of the multitude whose quest -is happiness. And to-morrow will give the benefits which our age has -awaited; economic equality obtained even as political equality has been -obtained; a just apportionment of wealth rendered easy; and compulsory -work re-established as the one glorious and essential need. - -It is not true that labor has been imposed on mankind as punishment -for sin, it is on the contrary an honor, a mark of nobility, the most -precious of boons, the joy, the health, the strength, the very soul of -the world, which itself labors incessantly, ever creating the future. -And misery, the great, abominable social crime, will disappear amid the -glorification of labor, the distribution of the universal task among one -and all, each accepting his legitimate share of duties and rights. And -may children come, they will simply be instruments of wealth, they will -but increase the human capital, the free happiness of a life in which -the children of some will no longer be beasts of burden, or food for -slaughter or for vice, to serve the egotism of the children of others. -And life will then again prove the conqueror; there will come the -renascence of life, honored and worshipped, the religion of life so long -crushed beneath the hateful nightmare of Roman Catholicism, from which -on divers occasions the nations have sought to free themselves by -violence, and which they will drive away at last on the now near -day when cult and power, and sovereign beauty shall be vested in the -fruitful earth and the fruitful spouse. - -In that last resplendent hour of eventide, Mathieu and Marianne reigned -by virtue of their numerous race. They ended as heroes of life, because -of the great creative work which they had accomplished amid battle and -toil and grief. Often had they sobbed, but with extreme old age had come -peace, deep smiling peace, made up of the good labor performed and the -certainty of approaching rest while their children and their children's -children resumed the fight, labored and suffered, lived in their own -turn. And a part of Mathieu and Marianne's heroic grandeur sprang from -the divine desire with which they had glowed, the desire which moulds -and regulates the world. They were like a sacred temple in which the -god had fixed his abode, they were animated by the inextinguishable fire -with which the universe ever burns for the work of continual creation. -Their radiant beauty under their white hair came from the light which -yet filled their eyes, the light of love's power, which age had been -unable to extinguish. Doubtless, as they themselves jestingly remarked -at times, they had been prodigals, their family had been such a large -one. But, after all, had they not been right? Their children had -diminished no other's share, each had come with his or her own means -of subsistence. And, besides, 'tis good to garner in excess when the -granaries of a country are empty. Many such improvidents are needed -to combat the egotism of others at times of great dearth. Amid all the -frightful loss and wastage, the race is strengthened, the country is -made afresh, a good civic example is given by such healthy prodigality -as Mathieu and Marianne had shown. - -But a last act of heroism was required of them. A month after the -festival, when Dominique was on the point of returning to the Soudan, -Benjamin one evening told them of his passion, of the irresistible -summons from the unknown distant plains, which he could but obey. - -"Dear father, darling mother, let me go with Dominique! I have -struggled, I feel horrified with myself at quitting you thus, at your -great age. But I suffer too dreadfully; my soul is full of yearnings, -and seems ready to burst; and I shall die of shameful sloth, if I do not -go." - -They listened with breaking hearts. Their son's words did not surprise -them; they had heard them coming ever since their diamond wedding. And -they trembled, and felt that they could not refuse; for they knew that -they were guilty in having kept their last-born in the family nest after -surrendering to life all the others. Ah! how insatiable life was--it -would not so much as suffer that tardy avarice of theirs; it demanded -even the precious, discreetly hidden treasure from which, with jealous -egotism, they had dreamt of parting only when they might find themselves -upon the threshold of the grave. - -Deep silence reigned; but at last Mathieu slowly answered: "I cannot -keep you back, my son; go whither life calls you.... If I knew, however, -that I should die to-night, I would ask you to wait till to-morrow." - -In her turn Marianne gently said: "Why cannot we die at once? We should -then escape this last great pang, and you would only carry our memory -away with you." - -Once again did the cemetery of Janville appear, the field of peace, -where dear ones already slept, and where they would soon join them. No -sadness tinged that thought, however; they hoped that they would lie -down there together on the same day, for they could not imagine life, -one without the other. And, besides, would they not forever live in -their children; forever be united, immortal, in their race? - -"Dear father, darling mother," Benjamin repeated; "it is I who will be -dead to-morrow if I do not go. To wait for your death--good God! would -not that be to desire it? You must still live long years, and I wish to -live like you." - -There came another pause, then Mathieu and Marianne replied together: -"Go then, my boy. You are right, one must live." - -But on the day of farewell, what a wrench, what a final pang there was -when they had to tear themselves from that flesh of their flesh, all -that remained to them, in order to hand over to life the supreme gift -it demanded! The departure of Nicolas seemed to begin afresh; again -came the "never more" of the migratory child taking wing, given to the -passing wind for the sowing of unknown distant lands, far beyond the -frontiers. - -"Never more!" cried Mathieu in tears. - -And Marianne repeated in a great sob which rose from the very depths of -her being: "Never more! Never more!" - -There was now no longer any mere question of increasing a family, of -building up the country afresh, of re-peopling France for the struggles -of the future, the question was one of the expansion of humanity, of the -reclaiming of deserts, of the peopling of the entire earth. After one's -country came the earth; after one's family, one's nation, and then -mankind. And what an invading flight, what a sudden outlook upon the -world's immensity! All the freshness of the oceans, all the perfumes -of virgin continents, blended in a mighty gust like a breeze from the -offing. Scarcely fifteen hundred million souls are to-day scattered -through the few cultivated patches of the globe, and is that not indeed -paltry, when the globe, ploughed from end to end, might nourish ten -times that number? What narrowness of mind there is in seeking to limit -mankind to its present figure, in admitting simply the continuance of -exchanges among nations, and of capitals dying where they stand--as -Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis died--while other queens of the earth -arise, inherit, and flourish amid fresh forms of civilization, and this -without population ever more increasing! Such a theory is deadly, for -nothing remains stationary: whatever ceases to increase decreases and -disappears. Life is the rising tide whose waves daily continue the work -of creation, and perfect the work of awaited happiness, which shall come -when the times are accomplished. The flux and reflux of nations are but -periods of the forward march: the great centuries of light, which dark -ages at times replace, simply mark the phases of that march. Another -step forward is ever taken, a little more of the earth is conquered, a -little more life is brought into play. The law seems to lie in a -double phenomenon; fruitfulness creating civilization, and civilization -restraining fruitfulness. And equilibrium will come from it all on the -day when the earth, being entirely inhabited, cleared, and utilized, -shall at last have accomplished its destiny. And the divine dream, the -generous utopian thought soars into the heavens; families blended into -nations, nations blended into mankind, one sole brotherly people making -of the world one sole city of peace and truth and justice! Ah! may -eternal fruitfulness ever expand, may the seed of humanity be carried -over the frontiers, peopling the untilled deserts afar, and increasing -mankind through the coming centuries until dawns the reign of sovereign -life, mistress at last both of time and of space! - -And after the departure of Benjamin, whom Dominique took with him, -Mathieu and Marianne recovered the joyful serenity and peace born of the -work which they had so prodigally accomplished. Nothing more was theirs; -nothing save the happiness of having given all to life. The "Never -more" of separation became the "Still more" of life--life incessantly -increasing, expanding beyond the limitless horizon. Candid and -smiling, those all but centenarian heroes triumphed in the overflowing -florescence of their race. The milk had streamed even athwart the -seas--from the old land of France to the immensity of virgin Africa, the -young and giant France of to-morrow. After the foundation of Chantebled, -on a disdained, neglected spot of the national patrimony, another -Chantebled was rising and becoming a kingdom in the vast deserted -tracts which life yet had to fertilize. And this was the exodus, human -expansion throughout the world, mankind upon the march towards the -Infinite. - - -England.--August 1898-May 1899. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fruitfulness, by Emile Zola - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS *** - -***** This file should be named 10330.txt or 10330.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/3/10330/ - -Produced by David Widger and Dagny - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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