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. Zolaproposes to embody what he considers to be the four cardinal principlesof human life. These works spring from the previous series of The ThreeCities: "Lourdes, " "Rome, " and "Paris, " which dealt with the principlesof 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 necessarytransition from one series to the other. "Fruitfulness, " says M. Zola, "creates the home. Thence springs the city. From the idea of citizenshipcomes that of the fatherland; and love of country, in minds fed byscience, leads to the conception of a wider and vaster fatherland, comprising all the peoples of the earth. Of these three stages in theprogress of mankind, the fourth still remains to be attained. I havethought then of writing, as it were, a poem in four volumes, in fourchants, in which I shall endeavor to sum up the philosophy of all mywork. The first of these volumes is 'Fruitfulness'; the second willbe called 'Work'; the third, 'Truth'; the last, 'Justice. ' In'Fruitfulness' the hero's name is Matthew. In the next work it will beLuke; in 'Truth, ' Mark; and in 'justice, ' John. The children of mybrain will, like the four Evangelists preaching the gospel, diffuse thereligion 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": "Anew religion, a new religion!" Critics of those works were careful topoint out that no real answer was ever returned to the Abbe's despairingcall; and it must be confessed that one must yet wait for the greaterpart of that answer, since "Fruitfulness, " though complete as anarrative, forms but a portion of the whole. It is only after thepublication of the succeeding volumes that one will be able to judge howfar M. Zola's doctrines and theories in their ensemble may appeal to therequirements of the world. 

While "Fruitfulness, " as I have said, constitutes a first instalment ofM. 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 hesaid: "For some ten years now I have been haunted by the idea of anovel, of which I shall, doubtless, never write the first page.... Thatnovel would have been called 'Wastage'... And I should have pleaded init in favor of all the rights of life, with all the passion which Imay have in my heart. "* M. Zola's article then proceeds to discuss thevarious social problems, theories, and speculations which are setforth 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 wouldbe 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 mustbe looked at notably as a tract for the times in relation to certaingrievous evils from which France and other countries--though moreparticularly France--are undoubtedly suffering. And it may be said thatsome such denunciation of those evils was undoubtedly necessary, andthat 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 reckonedwith. Thus, in preparing "Fruitfulness, " he was before all elsedischarging a patriotic duty, and that duty he took in hand in an hourof cruel adversity, when to assist a great cause he withdrew from Franceand sought for a time a residence in England, where for eleven months Iwas privileged to help him in maintaining his incognito. "Fruitfulness"was entirely written in England, begun in a Surrey country house, andfinished at the Queen's Hotel, Norwood. 

It would be superfluous for me to enter here into all the questionswhich M. Zola raises in his pages. The evils from which France suffersin relation to the stagnancy of its population, are well known, and thattheir continuance--if continuance there be--will mean the downfall ofthe country from its position as one of the world's great powers beforethe close of the twentieth century, is a mathematical certainty. ThatM. Zola, in order to combat those evils, and to do his duty as a goodcitizen anxious to prevent the decline of his country, should have dealtwith his subject with the greatest frankness and outspokenness, was onlynatural. Moreover, absolute freedom of speech exists in France, which isnot the case elsewhere. Thus, when I first perused the original proofsof M. Zola's work, I came to the conclusion that any version of it inthe English language would be well-nigh impossible. For some time Iremained of that opinion, and I made a statement to that effect ina leading literary journal. Subsequently, however, my views becamemodified. "The man who is ridiculous, " wrote a French poet, Barthelemy, "is he whose opinions never change, " and thus I at last reverted to atask from which I had turned aside almost in despair. 

Various considerations influenced me, and among them was the thoughtthat if "Fruitfulness" were not presented to the public in an Englishdress, M. Zola's new series would remain incomplete, decapitated sofar as British and American readers were concerned. After all, thecriticisms dealing with the French original were solely directed againstmatters of form, the mould in which some part of the work was cast. Itshigh moral purpose was distinctly recognized by several even of itsmost bitter detractors. For me the problem was how to retain the wholeensemble of the narrative and the essence of the lessons which the workinculcates, while recasting some portion of it and sacrificing thosematters of form to which exception was taken. It is not for me to saywhether I have succeeded in the task; but I think that nothing in anydegree offensive to delicate susceptibilities will be found in thispresent version of M. Zola's book. 

The English reviews of the French original showed that if certainportions of it were deemed indiscreet, it none the less teemed withadmirable and even delightful pages. Among the English reviewers weretwo well-known lady writers, Madame Darmesteter (formerly Miss MaryRobinson), and Miss Hannah Lynch. And the former remarked in one part ofher critique: "Even this short review reveals how honest, how moral, how human and comely is the fable of _Fecondite_, "* while the latterexpressed the view that the work was "eminently, pugnaciously virtuousin M. Zola's strictly material conception of virtue. " And again: "Thepages 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 wenever expected to find in M. Zola's work. The tale is a simple one: thecheerful 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 theoriginal, and one of them, indeed, referred to the evil denounced byM. Zola as a mere evil of the hour, whereas it has been growing andspreading for half a century, gradually sapping all the vitality ofFrance. But beside that evil, beside the downfall of the families itattacks, M. Zola portrays the triumph of rectitude, the triumph whichfollows faith in the powers of life, and observance of the law ofuniversal labor. "Fruitfulness" contains charming pictures of homelymarried life, delightful glimpses of childhood and youth: the firstsmile, the first step, the first word, followed by the playfulnessand the flirtations of boyhood, and the happiness which waits on theespousals of those who truly love. And the punishment of the guiltyis awful, and the triumph of the righteous is the greatest that can beconceived. All those features have been retained, so far as my abilitieshave allowed, in the present version, which will at the same time, Ithink, give the reader unacquainted with the French language a generalidea of M. Zola's views on one of the great questions of the age, aswell 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 thewoods, where they had now been installed for nearly a month, Mathieu wasmaking all haste in order that he might catch the seven-o'clock trainwhich every day conveyed him from Janville to Paris. It was alreadyhalf-past six, and there were fully two thousand paces from the pavilionto Janville. Afterwards came a railway journey of three-quarters of anhour, and another journey of at least equal duration through Paris, fromthe Northern Railway terminus to the Boulevard de Grenelle. He seldomreached his office at the factory before half-past eight o'clock. 

He had just kissed the children. Fortunately they were asleep; otherwisethey would have linked their arms about his neck, laughed and kissedhim, being ever unwilling to let him go. And as he hastily returned tothe principal bedroom, he found his wife, Marianne, in bed there, butawake and sitting up. She had risen a moment before in order to pullback 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 ofher four-and-twenty years. He, who was three years the elder, positivelyadored her. 

"You know, my darling, " said he, "I must make haste, for I fear I maymiss the train--and so manage as well as you can. You still have thirtysous left, haven't you?"

She began to laugh, looking charming with her bare arms and herloose-flowing dark hair. The ever-recurring pecuniary worries ofthe household left her brave and joyous. Yet she had been married atseventeen, her husband at twenty, and they already had to provide forfour children. 

"Oh! we shall be all right, " said she. "It's the end of the monthto-day, and you'll receive your money to-night. I'll settle our littledebts at Janville to-morrow. There are only the Lepailleurs, who worryme with their bill for milk and eggs, for they always look as if theyfancied one meant to rob them. But with thirty sous, my dear! why, weshall have quite a high time of it!"

She was still laughing as she held out her firm white arms for thecustomary morning good-by. 

"Run off, since you are in a hurry. I will go to meet you at the littlebridge to-night. "

"No, no, I insist on your going to bed! You know very well that evenif I catch the quarter-to-eleven-o'clock train, I cannot reach Janvillebefore half-past eleven. Ah! what a day I have before me! I had topromise the Moranges that I would take dejeuner with them; and thisevening Beauchene is entertaining a customer--a business dinner, whichI'm obliged to attend. So go to bed, and have a good sleep while you arewaiting for me. "

She gently nodded, but would give no positive promise. "Don't forget tocall on the landlord, " she added, "to tell him that the rain comes intothe children's bedroom. It's not right that we should be soaked here asif we were on the high-way, even if those millionaires, the Seguins duHordel, 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 promiseyou. "

Then Mathieu took her in his arms, and there was no ending to theirleave-taking. He still lingered. She had begun to laugh again, whilegiving him many a kiss in return for his own. There was all the love ofbounding health between them, the joy that springs from the most perfectunion, as when man and wife are but one both in flesh and in soul. 

"Run off, run off, darling! Remember to tell Constance that, beforeshe goes into the country, she ought to run down here some Sunday withMaurice. "

"Yes, yes, I will tell her--till to-night, darling. "

But he came back once more, caught her in a tight embrace, and pressedto her lips a long, loving kiss, which she returned with her wholeheart. And then he hurried away. 

He usually took an omnibus on his arrival at the Northern Railwayterminus. But on the days when only thirty sous remained at home hebravely went through Paris on foot. It was, too, a very fine walk by wayof 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 Almabridge, and the Quai d'Orsay. 

Beauchene's works were at the very end of the Quai d'Orsay, between theRue de la Federation and the Boulevard de Grenelle. There was hereaboutsa large square plot, at one end of which, facing the quay, stood ahandsome private house of brickwork with white stone dressings, that hadbeen erected by Leon Beauchene, father of Alexandre, the present masterof the works. From the balconies one could perceive the houses whichwere perched aloft in the midst of greenery on the height of Passy, beyond the Seine; whilst on the right arose the campanile of theTrocadero palace. On one side, skirting the Rue de la Federation, onecould still see a garden and a little house, which had been the modestdwelling of Leon Beauchene in the heroic days of desperate toil when hehad laid the foundations of his fortune. Then the factory buildingsand sheds, quite a mass of grayish structures, overtopped by two hugechimneys, occupied both the back part of the ground and that whichfringed the Boulevard de Grenelle, the latter being shut off bylong windowless walls. This important and well-known establishmentmanufactured chiefly agricultural appliances, from the most powerfulmachines to those ingenious and delicate implements on which particularcare must be bestowed if perfection is to be attained. In addition tothe 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-spreadingyard, with its paving stones invariably black and often streaked byrivulets of steaming water. Dense smoke arose from the high chimneys, strident jets of steam emerged from the roof, whilst a low rumbling anda shaking of the ground betokened the activity within, the ceaselessbustle of labor. 

It was thirty-five minutes past eight by the big clock of the centralbuilding when Mathieu crossed the yard towards the office which heoccupied as chief designer. For eight years he had been employed at theworks where, after a brilliant and special course of study, he had madehis beginning as assistant draughtsman when but nineteen years old, receiving at that time a salary of one hundred francs a month. Hisfather, Pierre Froment, * had four sons by Marie his wife--Jean theeldest, then Mathieu, Marc, and Luc--and while leaving them free tochoose a particular career he had striven to give each of them somemanual calling. Leon Beauchene, the founder of the works, had been deada year, and his son Alexandre had succeeded him and married ConstanceMeunier, daughter of a very wealthy wall-paper manufacturer of theMarais, at the time when Mathieu entered the establishment, the masterof which was scarcely five years older than himself. It was therethat Mathieu had become acquainted with a poor cousin of Alexandre's, Marianne, then sixteen years old, whom he had married during thefollowing year. 

 * Of _Lourdes_, _Rome_, and _Paris_. 

Marianne, when only twelve, had become dependent upon her uncle, LeonBeauchene. After all sorts of mishaps a brother of the latter, one FelixBeauchene, a man of adventurous mind but a blunderhead, had gone toAlgeria with his wife and daughter, there to woo fortune afresh; andthe farm he had established was indeed prospering when, during a suddenrevival of Arab brigandage, both he and his wife were murdered and theirhome was destroyed. Thus the only place of refuge for the little girl, who had escaped miraculously, was the home of her uncle, who showed hergreat kindness during the two years of life that remained to him. Withher, however, were Alexandre, whose companionship was rather dull, and his younger sister, Seraphine, a big, vicious, and flighty girlof eighteen, who, as it happened, soon left the house amid a frightfulscandal--an elopement with a certain Baron Lowicz, a genuine baron, buta swindler and forger, to whom it became necessary to marry her. Shethen received a dowry of 300, 000 francs. Alexandre, after his father'sdeath, made a money match with Constance, who brought him half a millionfrancs, and Marianne then found herself still more a stranger, stillmore isolated beside her new cousin, a thin, dry, authoritative woman, who ruled the home with absolute sway. Mathieu was there, however, and afew months sufficed: fine, powerful, and healthy love sprang up betweenthe young people; there was no lightning flash such as throws thepassion-swayed into each other's arms, but esteem, tenderness, faith, and that mutual conviction of happiness in reciprocal bestowal whichtends to indissoluble marriage. And they were delighted at marryingpenniless, at bringing one another but their full hearts forever andforever. The only change in Mathieu's circumstances was an increase ofsalary to two hundred francs a month. True, his new cousin by marriagejust vaguely hinted at a possible partnership, but that would not betill some very much later date. 

As it happened Mathieu Froment gradually became indispensable at theworks. The young master, Alexandre Beauchene, passed through an anxiouscrisis. The dowry which his father had been forced to draw from hiscoffers in order to get Seraphine married, and other large expenseswhich had been occasioned by the girl's rebellious and perverse conduct, had left but little working capital in the business. Then, too, onthe morrow of Leon Beauchene's death it was found that, with thecarelessness often evinced in such matters, he had neglected to leavea will; so that Seraphine eagerly opposed her brother's interests, demanding her personal share of the inheritance, and even suggestingthe sale of the works. The property had narrowly escaped being cut up, annihilated. And Alexandre Beauchene still shivered with terror andanger at the recollection of that time, amidst all his delight at havingat last rid himself of his sister by paying her in money the liberallyestimated value of her share. It was in order to fill up the voidthus created in his finances that he had espoused the half-millionrepresented by Constance--an ugly creature, as he himself bitterlyacknowledged, coarse male as he was. Truth to tell, she was so thin, soscraggy, that before consenting to make her his wife he had often calledher "that bag of bones. " But, on the other hand, thanks to his marriagewith her, all his losses were made good in five or six years' time; thebusiness of the works even doubled, and great prosperity set in. AndMathieu, having become a most active and necessary coadjutor, endedby taking the post of chief designer, at a salary of four thousand twohundred 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 maninstalling himself at his drawing-table. "I say, my dear Froment, " heexclaimed, "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 attwelve o'clock. "

Then Mathieu very carefully scrutinized a wash drawing of a very simplebut powerful steam thresher, an invention of his own, on which he hadbeen 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 openand Beauchene appeared--tall, with a ruddy face, a narrow brow, and bigbrown, protruding eyes. He had a rather large nose, thick lips, and afull black beard, on which he bestowed great care, as he likewise did onhis hair, which was carefully combed over his head in order to concealthe serious baldness that was already coming upon him, although he wasscarcely two-and-thirty. Frock-coated the first thing in the morning, he was already smoking a big cigar; and his loud voice, his peals ofgayety, his bustling ways, all betokened an egotist and good liver stillin his prime, a man for whom money--capital increased and increased bythe labor of others--was the one only sovereign power. 

"Ah! ah! it's ready, is it not?" said he; "Monsieur Firon-Badinier hasagain written me that he will be here at three o'clock. And you knowthat I'm going to take you to the restaurant with him this evening; forone can never induce those fellows to give orders unless one plies themwith 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 thequarter-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 oneo'clock. And there was a terrible lot of work waiting for me thismorning. 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, hehad given proof of unfailing business instinct with regard to manyprofitable undertakings. Invariably the first to appear at the works, helooked after everything, foresaw everything, filling the place with hisbustling zeal, and doubling his output year by year. Recently, however, fatigue had been gaining ground on him. He had always sought plenty ofamusement, 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 itthat you manage never to look tired?"

As a matter of fact, the young man who stood there erect before hisdrawing-table seemed possessed of the sturdy health of a young oaktree. Tall and slender, he had the broad, lofty, tower-like brow of theFroments. He wore his thick hair cut quite short, and his beard, whichcurled slightly, in a point. But the chief expression of his face restedin his eyes, which were at once deep and bright, keen and thoughtful, and almost invariably illumined by a smile. They showed him to be atonce a man of thought and of action, very simple, very gay, and of akindly disposition. 

"Oh! I, " he answered with a laugh, "I behave reasonably. "

But Beauchene protested: "No, you don't! The man who already has fourchildren when he is only twenty-seven can't claim to be reasonable. Andtwins too--your Blaise and your Denis to begin with! And then your boyAmbroise and your little girl Rose. Without counting the other littlegirl that you lost at her birth. Including her, you would now have hadfive youngsters, you wretched fellow! No, no, I'm the one who behavesreasonably--I, who have but one child, and, like a prudent, sensibleman, desire no others!"

He often made such jesting remarks as these, through which filtered hisgenuine indignation; for he deemed the young couple to be over-carelessof their interests, and declared that the prolificness of his cousinMarianne was quite scandalous. 

Accustomed as Mathieu was to these attacks, which left him perfectlyserene, he went on laughing, without even giving a reply, when a workmanabruptly entered the room--one who was currently called "old Moineaud, "though he was scarcely three-and-forty years of age. Short andthick-set, he had a bullet head, a bull's neck, and face and handsscarred and dented by more than a quarter of a century of toil. Bycalling he was a fitter, and he had come to submit a difficulty whichhad just arisen in the piecing together of a reaping machine. But, hisemployer, who was still angrily thinking of over-numerous families, didnot 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 stateof things! How can you do otherwise than starve?"

Moineaud began to laugh like the gay thriftless Paris workman that hewas. 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 athome. And, besides, they worked as they grew older, and brought a littlemoney in. However, he preferred to answer his employer with a jest whichset them all laughing. 

After he had explained the difficulty with the reaper, the othersfollowed him to examine the work for themselves. They were alreadyturning into a passage, when Beauchene, seeing the door of the women'sworkshop open, determined to pass that way, so that he might givehis customary look around. It was a long, spacious place, where thepolishers, in smocks of black serge, sat in double rows polishing andgrinding their pieces at little work-boards. Nearly all of them wereyoung, a few were pretty, but most had low and common faces. An animalodor and a stench of rancid oil pervaded the place. 

The regulations required perfect silence there during work. Yet all thegirls were gossiping. As soon, however, as the master's approach wassignalled the chatter abruptly ceased. There was but one girl who, having her head turned, and thus seeing nothing of Beauchene, went onfuriously abusing a companion, with whom she had previously started adispute. She and the other were sisters, and, as it happened, daughtersof old Moineaud. Euphrasie, the younger one, she who was shouting, wasa skinny creature of seventeen, light-haired, with a long, lean, pointed face, uncomely and malignant; whereas the elder, Norine, barelynineteen, was a pretty girl, a blonde like her sister, but having amilky skin, and withal plump and sturdy, showing real shoulders, arms, and hips, and one of those bright sunshiny faces, with wild hair andblack eyes, all the freshness of the Parisian hussy, aglow with thefleeting charm of youth. 

Norine was ever quarrelling with Euphrasie, and was pleased to have hercaught in a misdeed; so she allowed her to rattle on. And it thereuponbecame necessary for Beauchene to intervene. He habitually evinced greatseverity in the women's workshop, for he had hitherto held the view thatan employer who jested with his workgirls was a lost man. Thus, in spiteof the low character of which he was said to give proof in his walksabroad, there had as yet never been the faintest suggestion of scandalin connection with him and the women in his employ. 

"Well, now, Mademoiselle Euphrasie!" he exclaimed; "do you intend to bequiet? This is quite improper. You are fined twenty sous, and if I hearyou again you will be locked out for a week. "

The girl had turned round in consternation. Then, stifling her rage, shecast a terrible glance at her sister, thinking that she might at leasthave warned her. But the other, with the discreet air of a pretty wenchconscious of her attractiveness, continued smiling, looking her employerfull 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. Thenhe, with flushed cheeks and an angry air, resumed, addressing one andall: "As soon as the superintendent turns her back you chatter away likeso many magpies. Just be careful, or you will have to deal with me!"

Moineaud, the father, had witnessed the scene unmoved, as if the twogirls--she whom the master had scolded, and she who slyly gazed athim--were not his own daughters. And now the round was resumed and thethree men quitted the women's workshop amidst profound silence, whichonly the whir of the little grinders disturbed. 

When the fitting difficulty had been overcome downstairs and Moineaudhad received his orders, Beauchene returned to his residence accompaniedby Mathieu, who wished to convey Marianne's invitation to Constance. Agallery connected the black factory buildings with the luxurious privatehouse on the quay. And they found Constance in a little drawing-roomhung with yellow satin, a room to which she was very partial. She wasseated near a sofa, on which lay little Maurice, her fondly prized andonly 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 faintring round his heavy eyelids. His mother, that "bag of bones, " a littledark woman, yellow and withered at six-and-twenty, looked at him with anexpression of egotistical pride. 

"Oh, no! he's never ill, " she answered. "Only he has been complaining ofhis 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 thesame! A child who is as strong as a Turk! I should just like anybody totell me that he isn't strong. "

Precisely at that moment in walked Dr. Boutan, a short, stout man offorty, with very keen eyes set in a clean-shaven, heavy, but extremelygood-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 throughspending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in thecountry, will set him right again. "

"I told you so!" cried Beauchene. 

Constance had kept her son's little hand in her own. He had againstretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, in her happiness, continued smiling. Whenever she chose she could appearquite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features. The doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chattingin the houses of friends. A general practitioner, and one who moreparticularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturallya confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in familycircles. It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of thatmuch-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four childrenshe already had. 

Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver hisinvitation. "Well, " said he, "if you are soon leaving for the country, you must come one Sunday to Janville. My wife would be so delighted tosee you there, to show you our encampment. "

Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which theyoccupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates andfive egg-cups. But Beauchene knew the pavilion, for he went shootingin the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of someextensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled outby the owner. 

"Seguin, " said he, "is a friend of mine. I have lunched at yourpavilion. It's a perfect hovel!"

Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled whatMadame Seguin--to whom she referred as Valentine--had told her of thedilapidated condition of the old shooting-box. But the doctor, afterlistening with a smile, broke in:

"Mme. Seguin is a patient of mine. At the time when her last childwas born I advised her to stay at that pavilion. The atmosphere iswholesome, and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass. "

Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchene began to jest in hishabitual way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there wouldprobably be no end to Mathieu's progeny, numerous as it already was. But this elicited an angry protest from Constance, who on the subjectof children held the same views as her husband himself professed in hismore serious moments. 

Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant. They regarded himand his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger. 

The advent of the young couple's last child, little Rose, had alreadyincreased their expenses to such a point that they had been obliged toseek refuge in the country, in a mere pauper's hovel. And yet, in spiteof Beauchene's sneers and Constance's angry remarks, Mathieu outwardlyremained very calm. Constance and Marianne had never been able to agree;they differed too much in all respects; and for his part he laughedoff every attack, unwilling as he was to let anger master him, lest arupture should ensue. 

But Beauchene waxed passionate on the subject. That question of thebirth-rate and the present-day falling off in population was one whichhe thought he had completely mastered, and on which he held forth atlength authoritatively. He began by challenging the impartiality ofBoutan, whom he knew to be a fervent partisan of large families. Hemade merry with him, declaring that no medical man could possibly havea disinterested opinion on the subject. Then he brought out all that hevaguely knew of Malthusianism, the geometrical increase of births, andthe arithmetical increase of food-substances, the earth becoming sopopulous 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 couldprovide for. The rich were falsely accused of social wrong-doing; theywere by no means responsible for poverty. Indeed, they were the onlyreasonable people; they alone, by limiting their families, acted as goodcitizens should act. And he became quite triumphant, repeating that heknew of no cause for self-reproach, and that his ever-growing fortuneleft 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 thatthe Malthusian theories were shattered, that the calculations had beenbased on a possible, not a real, increase of population; in vain too didhe prove that the present-day economic crisis, the evil distributionof wealth under the capitalist system, was the one hateful cause ofpoverty, and that whenever labor should be justly apportioned among oneand all the fruitful earth would easily provide sustenance for happy menten times more numerous than they are now. The other refused to listento anything, took refuge in his egotism, declared that all those matterswere no concern of his, that he felt no remorse at being rich, and thatthose who wished to become rich had, in the main, simply to do as he haddone. 

"Then, logically, this is the end of France, eh?" Boutan remarkedmaliciously. "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 inferiorto what it formerly was; and yet number means power more than evernowadays. It has been calculated that an average of four childrenper family is necessary in order that population may increase and thestrength of a nation be maintained. You have but one child; you are abad 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 exportFrench machinery!... Yes, certainly I see families, acquaintances aroundme who may well allow themselves four children; and I grant that theydeserve censure when they have no families. But as for me, my deardoctor, it is impossible. You know very well that in my position Iabsolutely can't. "

Then, for the hundredth time, he gave his reasons, relating how theworks had narrowly escaped being cut into pieces, annihilated, simplybecause he had unfortunately been burdened with a sister. Seraphine hadbehaved abominably. There had been first her dowry; next her demands forthe division of the property on their father's death; and the works hadbeen saved only by means of a large pecuniary sacrifice which had longcrippled their prosperity. And people imagined that he would be asimprudent as his father! Why, if Maurice should have a brother or asister, 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 inheritancein accordance with badly framed laws. He was resolved that Mauriceshould be the sole master of the fortune which he himself had derivedfrom his father, and which he would transmit to his heir increasedtenfold. 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 theworld. There has never been any progress but such as has been determinedby increase of births. If nations have accomplished evolutions, ifcivilization has advanced, it is because the nations have multiplied andsubsequently spread through all the countries of the earth. And will notto-morrow's evolution, the advent of truth and justice, be broughtabout by the constant onslaught of the greater number, the revolutionaryfruitfulness of the toilers and the poor?

It is quite true that Mathieu did not plainly say all these things tohimself; indeed, he felt slightly ashamed of the four children that healready had, and was disturbed by the counsels of prudence addressed tohim by the Beauchenes. But within him there struggled his faith in life, his belief that the greatest possible sum of life must bring about thegreatest sum of happiness. 

At last, wishing to change the subject, he bethought himself ofMarianne's commission, and at the first favorable opportunity exclaimed:"Well, we shall rely on you, Marianne and I, for Sunday after next, atJanville. "

But there was still no answer, for just then a servant came to say thata 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 littlelonger. 

La Moineaude, short and fat like her husband, was a woman of aboutforty, worn out before her time, with ashen face, pale eyes, thin fadedhair, and a weak mouth which already lacked many teeth. A large familyhad 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 peoplewhom she had not expected to find there. She said nothing. She had hopedto 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'vehad to wean him, for I couldn't feed him any longer. I had nine othersbefore this one, but three are dead. My eldest son, Eugene, is a soldierin Tonquin. You have my two big girls, Euphrasie and Norine, at theworks. And I have three left at home--Victor, who is now fifteen, thenCecile and Irma, who are ten and seven. After Irma I thought I haddone with children for good, and I was well pleased. But, you see, thisurchin came! And I, forty too--it's not just! The good Lord must surelyhave abandoned us. "

Then Dr. Boutan began to question her. He avoided looking at theBeauchenes, but there was a malicious twinkle in his little eyes, andit was evident that he took pleasure in recapitulating the employer'sarguments against excessive prolificness. He pretended to get angryand to reproach the Moineauds for their ten wretched children--the boysfated 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 wasin distress; for people with a tribe of children about them could neverbecome rich. And the poor creature sadly answered that he was quiteright, but that no idea of becoming rich could ever have entered theirheads. Moineaud knew well enough that he would never be a cabinetminister, and so it was all the same to them how many children theymight have on their hands. Indeed, a number proved a help when theyoungsters 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 toinquire: "Well, my good woman, what is it I can do for you?"

"_Mon Dieu_, madame, it worries me; it's something which Moineaud didn'tdare to ask of Monsieur Beauchene. For my part I hoped to find you aloneand beg you to intercede for us. The fact is we should be very, verygrateful if our little Victor could only be taken on at the works. "

"But he is only fifteen, " exclaimed Beauchene. "You must wait till he'ssixteen. The law is strict. "

"No doubt. Only one might perhaps just tell a little fib. It would berendering us such a service--"

"No, it is impossible. "

Big tears welled into La Moineaude's eyes. And Mathieu, who hadlistened with passionate interest, felt quite upset. Ah! that wretchedtoil-doomed flesh that hastened to offer itself without waiting untilit was even ripe for work! Ah! the laborer who is prepared to lie, whomhunger sets against the very law designed for his own protection!

When La Moineaude had gone off in despair the doctor continued speakingof juvenile and female labor. As soon as a woman first finds herself amother she can no longer continue toiling at a factory. Her lying-in andthe nursing of her babe force her to remain at home, or else grievousinfirmities may ensue for her and her offspring. As for the child, itbecomes anemic, sometimes crippled; besides, it helps to keep wages downby being taken to work at a low scale of remuneration. Then the doctorwent on to speak of the prolificness of wretchedness, the swarming ofthe lower classes. Was not the most hateful natality of all that whichmeant the endless increase of starvelings and social rebels?

"I perfectly understand you, " Beauchene ended by saying, without anyshow of anger, as he abruptly brought his perambulations to an end. "Youwant to place me in contradiction with myself, and make me confess thatI accept Moineaud's seven children and need them, whereas I, with myfixed determination to rest content with an only son, suppress, as itwere, 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 Iam 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 allreally progressive measures. He willingly recognized that children werenecessary, that the army required soldiers, and the factories workmen. Only he also invoked the prudential duties of the higher classes, andreasoned after the fashion of a man of wealth, a conservative clingingto the fortune he has acquired. 

Mathieu meanwhile ended by understanding the brutal truth: Capitalis compelled to favor the multiplication of lives foredoomed towretchedness; in spite of everything it must stimulate the prolificnessof 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 thatthere may be enough cheap workers. Then also speculation on the wages'ratio wrests all nobility from labor, which is regarded as the worstmisfortune a man can be condemned to, when in reality it is the mostprecious of boons. Such, then, is the cancer preying upon mankind. Incountries of political equality and economical inequality the capitalistregime, the faulty distribution of wealth, at once restrains andprecipitates the birth-rate by perpetually increasing the wrongfulapportionment 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 theypossess crumble yet more and more. If labor be honored to-morrow, ifa just apportionment of wealth be arrived at, equilibrium will berestored. Otherwise social revolution lies at the end of the road. 

But Beauchene, in his triumphant manner, tried to show that he possessedgreat breadth of mind; he admitted the disquieting strides of a decreaseof population, and denounced the causes of it--alcoholism, militarism, excessive mortality among infants, and other numerous matters. Then heindicated remedies; first, reductions in taxation, fiscal means in whichhe had little faith; then freedom to will one's estate as one pleased, which seemed to him more efficacious; a change, too, in the marriagelaws, without forgetting the granting of affiliation rights. 

However, Boutan ended by interrupting him. "All the legislative measuresin the world will do nothing, " said the doctor. "Manners and customs, our notions of what is moral and what is not, our very conceptionsof the beautiful in life--all must be changed. If France is becomingdepopulated, it is because she so chooses. It is simply necessary thenfor her to choose so no longer. But what a task--a whole world to createanew!"

At this Mathieu raised a superb cry: "Well! we'll create it. I've begunwell enough, surely!"

But Constance, after laughing in a constrained way, in her turn thoughtit as well to change the subject. And so she at last replied to hisinvitation, saying that she would do her best to go to Janville, thoughshe 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 byBeauchene, who still went on jesting, like a man well pleased with life, one who was satisfied with himself and others, and who felt certain ofbeing able to arrange things as might best suit his pleasure and hisinterests. 

An hour later, a few minutes after midday, as Mathieu, who had beendelayed in the works, went up to the offices to fetch Morange as hehad promised to do, it occurred to him to take a short cut through thewomen's workshop. And there, in that spacious gallery, already desertedand silent, he came upon an unexpected scene which utterly amazedhim. On some pretext or other Norine had lingered there the last, andBeauchene was with her, clasping her around the waist whilst he eagerlypressed his lips to hers. But all at once they caught sight of Mathieuand 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 ofthirty-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 hisyounger days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. Hestill took great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, andpreserved the correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bredclerk. 

"You don't know our new flat yet, do you?" he asked Mathieu as he ledhim away. "Oh! it's perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us andanother for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there infour minutes, watch in hand. "

He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on hisstool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married aclerk's daughter, one Valerie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whoseparents' home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shamefulwretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominableincumbrance. Valerie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was luckyenough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-workingfellow, Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, thisaccomplished, she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher upthe social ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of pettyclerkdom by making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate ora doctor. Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; andValerie trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughterson her hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, andshe resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so thatshe might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this meansgain that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. Her husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharingher ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for herbenefit. But he had now been eight years at the Beauchene works, andhe still earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and hiswife to despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchene's that he would evermake his fortune. 

"You see!" he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards withMathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, "it is that new house yonder atthe street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?"

Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconiesand sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poorlittle houses predominating in the district. 

"Why, it is a palace!" he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, whothereupon drew himself up quite proudly. 

"You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is onthe fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, soeasy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing. "

Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he wereushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there wasa carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, onreaching 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 hastenedforward. At thirty-two Valerie was still young and charming. She wasa pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting ofsuperb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, ofwhich her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in alow-necked dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the veryportrait 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 Valeriegayly as she pressed both Mathieu's hands. "What a pity that MadameFroment could not come with you! Reine, why don't you relieve thegentleman 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 knowwhere you are lunching. "

All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his sidesmiled so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to thisinnocent display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, the walls of which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design ofgolden flowers, while the furniture consisted of some of those whitelacquered Louis XVI. Pieces which makers turn out by the gross. Therosewood piano showed like a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, overlooking the Boulevard de Grenelle, came Reine's bedroom, paleblue, with furniture of polished pine. Her parents' room, a very smallapartment, was at the other end of the flat, separated from theparlor by the dining-room. The hangings adorning it were yellow; and abedstead, a washstand, and a wardrobe, all of thuya, had been crowdedinto it. Finally the classic "old carved oak" triumphed in thedining-room, where a heavily gilded hanging lamp flashed like fire abovethe 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 leadinghim hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feelthe things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the placerecalled something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with thearrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which thenicknacks in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. Influenced by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despitethemselves, no doubt, had tried to copy the Beauchenes. Always shortof money as they were, they could only and by dint of great sacrificesindulge in a species of make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they wereproud of it, and, by imitating the envied higher class from afar, theyimagined 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 theview was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from theBeauchene 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 itnot?" said she; "far better than the few trees that one can see from thequay. "

The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seatsat table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogethercost him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though theamount was a heavy charge on Morange's slender income. Mathieu now beganto understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire thenew flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over itbefore him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite. There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing ofthe luxury he brushed against in other people's homes, and he wasquite satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne andhis children. Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges sodesirous of cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with asomewhat sad smile. 

Valerie was wearing a pretty gown of foulard with a pattern of littleyellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck outcoquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather toomuch luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then camecutlets, and afterwards asparagus. 

The conversation began with some mention of Janville. 

"And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very finechildren indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I thinkI should feel dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lackof 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 perpetualadmiration of the Beauchenes, though at times they covertly criticisedthem. Valerie was very proud of being privileged to attend Constance'sSaturday "at-homes, " and of having been twice invited to dinner by herduring the previous winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, Tuesday, and she even gave little private parties, and half ruinedherself in providing refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, she spoke with profound respect of Mme. Seguin du Hordel and that lady'smagnificent mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, for Constance had obliginglyobtained her an invitation to a ball there. But she was particularlyvain of the friendship of Beauchene's sister, Seraphine, whom sheinvariably called "Madame la Baronne de Lowicz. "

"The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon, " she said. "She is sovery good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? Afterher marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and theirwretched disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has nogreat liking for Madame Beauchene, as you must know. "

Then she again reverted to the manufacturer's wife, declared that littleMaurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with badflesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parentsif they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thusstarted, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges, had but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to comparehim with M. Beauchene, who was such a wealthy man. Valerie, forher part, pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with fourdaughters, who had been obliged to wait months and months for boots andfrocks and hats, and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest theyshould never find husbands. A family was all very well, but when ithappened to consist of daughters the situation became terrible forpeople of limited means; for if daughters were to be launched properlyinto life they must have dowries. 

"Besides, " said she, "I am very ambitious for my husband, and I amconvinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will onlylisten to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. Asthings stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine asuitable dowry. "

Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife'shand and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valerie was reallythe 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, " saidhe. "She has a good head as well as a good heart. "

Then, while Valerie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flatshe would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two monthswhich, like the Beauchenes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, Mathieu looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Theircase was very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that hewould never be a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wifewould indeed make him a minister some day. Every petty bourgeois in ademocratic community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, there is a universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the othersaside so that he may the more speedily climb a rung of the socialladder. This general ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, is possible only in a country where political equality and economicinequality prevail; for each has the same right to fortune and has butto conquer it. There is, however, a struggle of the vilest egotism, ifone wishes to taste the pleasures of the highly placed, pleasures whichare displayed to the gaze of all and are eagerly coveted by nearlyeverybody in the lower spheres. Under a democratic constitution a nationcannot live happily if its manners and customs are not simple, and ifthe conditions of life are not virtually equal for one and all. Under other circumstances than these the liberal professions proveall-devouring: there is a rush for public functions; manual toil isregarded with contempt; luxury increases and becomes necessary; andwealth and power are furiously appropriated by assault in order that onemay greedily taste the voluptuousness of enjoyment. And in such a stateof affairs, children, as Valerie put it, were incumbrances, whereas oneneeded to be free, absolutely unburdened, if one wished to climb overall one's competitors. 

Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even theleast fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happyones of the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneaththat envied luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts ofuseless needs are created, and production is turned aside from thestrictly necessary. One can no longer express hardship by saying thatpeople lack bread; what they lack in the majority of cases is thesuperfluous, which they are unable to renounce without imagining thatthey have gone to the dogs and are in danger of starvation. 

At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited byhis good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towardstheir 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 maysoon 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, toearn five thousand francs a year, after eight years' zeal, and to thinkthat one will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair oflife. "

"It's monstrous, " the young woman interrupted: "it is like breakingone's head intentionally against a wall. "

"Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to lookout for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom Ihad under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligentfellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left usto go to the Credit National, and what do you think he is now earningthere? Twelve thousand francs--you hear me--twelve thousand francs!"

The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges' eyes dilatedwith ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red. 

"Last March, " continued Morange, "I happened to meet Michaud, who toldme all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take mewith him and help me on in my turn. Only there's some risk to run. Heexplained 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 sixhundred! How can one live on that in the meantime, especially now thatthis 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 ofprudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromisehis future. But, at the same time, he can't moulder away in a situationunworthy 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 unforeseenoccurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be openat the Credit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matterentirely to yourself, for we don't want to quarrel with the Beauchenesjust now. "

Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was verypunctual, and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant washurried, the coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hotas it was, when the arrival of a visitor upset the little household andcaused 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 andelegant, with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Herred lips were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flameever shone in her large brown eyes flecked with gold. 

"Pray don't disturb yourselves, my friends, " said she. "Your servantwanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming inhere, because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch yourcharming little Reine to take her to a matinee at the Circus. "

A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless withjoy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: "Oh! Madame la Baronne, you are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact isthat 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 keepyou waiting a moment longer. "

Seraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture ofsurprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she nowshook. 

"And you, are you quite well?" she asked. 

"Quite well, " he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctivelypushed 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 theBeauchene works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of bothconscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandaleven before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needyadventurer 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 wasextremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband anddrove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawlat a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Seraphine made everyuse of her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every fete, tookpart in every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were toldof her; but she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus stillreceived everywhere. 

"You are living in the country, are you not?" she asked again, turningtowards 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 brothergood advice. "

In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with herusual boldness she treated the matter as a joke. 

"We talked about Dr. Gaude, " she resumed; "I fancied that she wanted toask for his address; but she did not dare. "

"Dr. Gaude!" interrupted Morange. "Ah! yes, a friend of my wife's spoketo her about him. He's a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of hisoperations are like miracles. "

Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude's clinic at the Hopital Marbeuf, aclinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, justas they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, andwho bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, waslikewise partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerousexperiments on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. Thenewspapers were always talking about him, his cures were constantlypuffed and advertised by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselvesto his skill. And he certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carvinghis patients in the quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with nevera scruple, never a doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right ornot. 

Seraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth betweenher blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which hadappeared on Mathieu's face since Gaude had been spoken of. "Ah!" saidshe; "there's a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr. Boutan, who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can't understandwhy Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the viewsshe does. She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully sharethem. "

Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinionswere the same. However, as Valerie did not return with Reine, he grewimpatient, 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 asa moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on herbold bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, "And is my goodcousin 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 youngsorceress whose eyes burn and poison men's hearts. And at last sheslowly resumed: "And so it is all over between us?"

He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been apassing fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and shetwo-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was alreadymarried. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, andhad 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 carryhim off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simplyhave made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her anyanswer, even by a wave of the hand, she went on: "I prefer that: don'treply: don't say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, youknow. "

For a moment Mathieu's eyes flashed, then he closed them in order thathe might no longer see Seraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemedas if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to hisas she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, fullof mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to hismouth 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 beencurled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silkdecked with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dressmaterial. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rosesilk. 

"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 thissweet girl of yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would giveone such a charming child--well, at all events, I shall steal her fromyou; you need not expect me to bring her back again. "

The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew herwell, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short andpassionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In herestimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of herin the eyes of man. 

The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they couldnot find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing suchcoveted wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door ofthe flat was closed Valerie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, "Letus see them drive off. "

Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a positionnear her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean overand look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with asuperb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put afinishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Seraphine hadinstalled 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 sheraised her head, smiled and bowed. And Seraphine did the same, while thehorse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came afinal explosion--

"Look at her!" repeated Valerie; "she is so candid! At twelve years oldshe is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trusther to nobody. Wouldn't one think her a little duchess who has alwayshad a carriage of her own?"

Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. "Well, " said he, "I hopethat she _will_ have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me getinto the Credit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled. "

And turning towards Mathieu he added, "There are three of us, and, asI 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 earlierthan usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon hislandlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself sobusy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchene. This was a relief, forthe secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he fearedlest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, whenthey exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even thatthere was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shownhimself more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had feltin the morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one whofinds 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 intoMorange's office at half-past five to receive his month's salary. Thisrightly amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundredhad been advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalmentsof fifty, he now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed withsuch an air of satisfaction that the accountant commented on it. 

"Well, " said the young fellow, "the money's welcome, for I left my wifewith just thirty sous this morning. "

It was already more than six o'clock when he found himself outside thesuperb house which the Seguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenued'Antin. Seguin's grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil atJanville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made aconsiderable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of arich, elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, while passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art andliterature, going for fashion's sake to extreme opinions. He had proudlymarried an almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race, the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind wasnarrow. Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making ofher one who, while following religious practices, was eager for thejoys of the world. Seguin, since his marriage, had likewise practisedreligion, because it was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfatherhad had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been contentwith six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even thatnumber more than was right. 

One part of Seguin's fortune consisted of an estate of some twelvehundred acres--woods and heaths--above Janville, which his father hadpurchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. The old man's long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to hisnative village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on thepoint of there building himself a princely residence in the midst of avast park when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estatehad come to Seguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he hadturned the shooting rights to some account by dividing them into sharesof five hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. Theincome derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apartfrom the woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, patches of sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past theopinion of the district had been that no agriculturist could ever turnthe expanse to good account. The defunct army contractor alone had beenable to picture there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creatingaround his regal abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained anauthorization to add to the name of Seguin that of Du Hordel--taken froma ruined tower called the Hordel which stood on the estate. 

It was through Beauchene, one of the shareholders of the shootingrights, that Mathieu had made Seguin's acquaintance, and had discoveredthe old hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased himso much that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treatedMarianne as a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit herthere, and had declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, laughing the while over her previous ignorance of it like one who hadknown nothing of her property. In reality she herself would not havelived there for an hour. Her husband had launched her into thefeverish life of literary, artistic, and social Paris, hurrying herto gatherings, studios, exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasureresorts--all those brasier-like places where weak heads and waveringhearts are lost. He himself, amid all his passion for show, felt boredto death everywhere, and was at ease only among his horses; andthis despite his pretensions with respect to advanced literature andphilosophy, his collections of curios, such as the bourgeois of to-daydoes not yet understand, his furniture, his pottery, his pewter-work, and particularly his bookbindings, of which he was very proud. Andhe was turning his wife into a copy of himself, perverting her by hisextravagant opinions and his promiscuous friendships, so that the littledevotee who had been confided to his keeping was now on the high roadto every kind of folly. She still went to mass and partook of the holycommunion; but she was each day growing more and more familiarwith 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 lovedwith gentleness. 

When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows oneach of the stories of its ornate Renaissance facade, he laughed lightlyas he thought: "These folks don't have to wait for a monthly pittance ofthree hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand. "

The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right handwere 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 ofthe broad staircase, was Seguin's so-called "cabinet, " a vast apartment, sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, whichoccupied all the central part of the house; while the husband's bed anddressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and childrenon the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites ofrooms were kept in reserve for the time when the children should havegrown up. 

A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinetand begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For amoment the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spaciousroom, feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of oldstained glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, theoak bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes theycontained; the tables laden with bibelots, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith'swork, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. ThenEastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats andcouches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one couldhide oneself behind fringes of lofty plants. 

"Oh! so it's you, Monsieur Froment, " suddenly exclaimed somebody in thedirection of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupona tall young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden fromMathieu's view, came forward with outstretched hand. 

"Ah!" said Mathieu, after a moment's hesitation, "Monsieur CharlesSanterre. "

This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves togetheronce before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as anovelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a finebrow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustacheand beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped toconceal. He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he soughtunder pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use asinstruments of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle hehad remained a bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests ofothers. In literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had madeit his specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refinedsurroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value ofhis works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed tobe a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he hadallowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadayshe posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatestpessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of humanpassion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of theworld. 

"Seguin will be here in a moment, " he resumed in an amiable way. "Itoccurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant thisevening, before going to a certain first performance where there willprobably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night. "

Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in eveningdress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist calledattention to a new pewter treasure among Seguin's collection. Itrepresented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hairstreaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, and Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figuresymbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when manshould finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do withher. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helpedon the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Seguins' home. 

However, Seguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same ageas Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquilinenose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also wasin evening dress. 

"Ah! well, my dear fellow, " said he with the slight lisp which heaffected, "Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must bepatient; we shall have an hour to wait. "

Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing muchpoliteness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. When the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquaintedhim with the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of thelittle pavilion at Janville--he at once consented to let the localplumber do any necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, he understood that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it requiredto be changed entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affabilityand began to protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend insuch repairs a sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of sixhundred francs. 

"Some soldering, " he repeated; "some soldering; it's understood. I willwrite 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 Iwant to show you a marvel. "

He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellowpossessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardlyyielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heartthat he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise ofa new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, whichSeguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. Onthe 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!" declaredMathieu, who was really charmed. "Some bindings nowadays are perfectgems. " Then he noticed the title: "Why, it's Monsieur Santerre's lastnovel!" said he. 

Seguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And whenhe saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the complimentpaid to it, he exclaimed: "My dear fellow, the binder brought it herethis 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--thatlily which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plantswhich spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of theworld, 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 fromMme. Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a bookthat everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperatedhim. Forsaking the customary bachelor's flat where in previous works hehad been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this timetried to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The storyhe told was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape arough-mannered husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refugein Brittany in the company of a young painter endowed with divineinspiration, one Norbert, who had undertaken to decorate a conventchapel with paintings that depicted his various visions. And for thirtyyears he went on painting there, ever in colloquy with the angels, andever having Anne-Marie beside him. And during those thirty years of lovethe Countess's beauty remained unimpaired; she was as young and as freshat the finish as at the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the story, wives and mothers of a neighboring littletown, sank into physical and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. Mathieu considered the author's theory that all physical beauty andmoral nobility belonged to virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, andhe could not restrain himself from hinting his disapproval of it. 

Both Santerre and Seguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite adiscussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religiousstandpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, "Increase andmultiply, " were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the truebasis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, hadheld marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become theideal of womanhood. Seguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded togive his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the tasteof Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty hadoften varied. 

"To-day, " said he, "you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim, attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissancethe type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, take even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robustbuild. Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, moreover, if we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if womenwere not encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figuresso that their very nature, their very organism is changed, there wouldperhaps be some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which istalked about so much nowadays. "

The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionatesuperiority. "Depopulation an evil!" exclaimed Seguin; "can you, my dearsir, 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 otherand at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche werepassed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But allthis literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his beliefin fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer hadfaith in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when hedoubted the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if tenthousand happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappyones; in which connection political and economic conditions had to betaken into account. But when all was said, he remained almost convincedthat the Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future asthey 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 inorganicmatter. And, besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it isimpossible to make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. In France, too, instead of contributing to any such danger, we are goingbackward, we are marching towards annihilation. The population ofFrance was once a fourth of the population of Europe, but now it is onlyone-eighth. In a century or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athensand ancient Rome, and we shall have fallen to the rank that Greece nowoccupies. Paris seems determined to die. "

But Santerre protested: "No, no; Paris simply wishes to remainstationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the mostintelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nationsadvance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. Weare simply giving the world an example of high culture, superiorintelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example whenin turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs ofthis already on every side. "

"Quite so!" exclaimed Seguin, backing up his friend. "The phenomenon isgeneral; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing innumbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan isaffected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon asEurope forces open the door there. "

Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seatedbefore him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. Thepale, slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longerin question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as ifcommuning with himself, he said: "So you do not fear the Yellow Peril, that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, wouldat some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people itafresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by thesudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming toendow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrencecivilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. Howwas it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with theirpopulations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athensand Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashesand renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death hasalready laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is butthe capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as youplease and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris isdying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it isnone the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tidewhich will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory ofequilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases togrow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she willdie, and the country with her. "

"Well, for my part, " declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegantpessimist, "if she wishes to die, I shan't oppose her. In fact, I'mfully determined to help her. "

"It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check anyincrease of population, " added Seguin. 

But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: "I know HerbertSpencer's law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It iscertain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one maypicture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and nowto increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, bythe very effect of culture's victory when the world shall be entirelypopulated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will befollowed, through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? Moreand more nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and howmany thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment, compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thoughtof this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with apang. "

Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faithin the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right--he orthose two men so languidly stretched out before him. 

But Valentine, Seguin's wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibitionof masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire. 

"Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girlCeleste 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, shecould not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and veryfree and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her aboutwith him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quitefamiliar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus itwas only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she againshowed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once drawherself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity. 

"Ah! it's you, Monsieur Froment, " she said amiably, stepping towardsMathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. "Is Madame Froment ingood health? Are the children flourishing as usual?"

Seguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed withunbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horriblyrude fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation ofpoliteness. "What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put thatrag on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!"

And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! Shemade an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened andassumed an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowlyturned her eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazingat her with ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissivenessof 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 birdlikegayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio thatMathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have goneoff at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord apromise to repair the pavilion properly. 

"Wait another moment, " Valentine at last said to her husband; "Itold Celeste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them beforestarting. "

Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew hisrequest; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of diningat the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the firstperformance which they were to attend they would see all the horrorswhich had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. Sheappeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She evenwent further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildestpessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art thatthey themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatlyover-estimated, in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, thefree harmony of the passing wind. As for her moral views, they wereenough to make one shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours ofIbsen's idiotic, rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory ofpure intangible beauty. She deemed Santerre's last creation, Anne-Marie, to be far too material and degraded, because in one deplorable passagethe author remarked that Norbert's kisses had left their trace on theCountess's brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushedupon the volume and sought the page to which she had referred. 

"But I never degraded her, " exclaimed the novelist in despair. "Shenever has a child. "

"Pooh! What of that?" exclaimed Valentine. "If Anne-Marie is to raiseour hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert's kissesshould leave no mark upon her. "

But she was interrupted, for Celeste, the maid, a tall dark girl with anequine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the twochildren. 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 becarroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And theyalso had their mother's blue eyes, but their faces were elongated likethat of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayedindeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls. The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, andinsisted 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 andlooked visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it wasbecause they were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They atlast 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 themof the gentleman's name, though they had already seen him on two orthree occasions. 

"Good evening, Monsieur Froment. "

Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled themwith caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat themdown 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 tosee to. "

"So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?"

Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waitingfor orders;--

"You are not to leave them for a moment, Celeste--you hear? And, aboveall things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come homewithout finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them havetheir dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they goto sleep. "

The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectfulobedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Normanpeasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened toservice, and well knew what was done with children when the master andmistress were absent. 

"Madame, " she said in a simple way, "Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. Shehas been sick again. "

"What? sick again!" cried the father in a fury. "I am always hearingof that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we aregoing out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; youought not to let our children have papier-mache stomachs!"

The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could nothelp it. As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They hadexperienced every childish ailment, they were always catching coldor getting feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhatanxious demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants. 

"Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?" asked Valentine, stoopingdown to the child. "You aren't poorly now, are you? No, no, it'snothing, nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night veryprettily, so that he may not feel worried in leaving you. "

She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing thatMathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed:

"Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves themdearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, itwould perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, myduty to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl asI have. "

Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with alaugh:

"Well, that isn't the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. Hedeclares that to make the country prosperous every married couple oughtto have four children. "

"Four children! He's mad!" cried Seguin. And again with the greatestfreedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There wasa world of meaning in his wife's laughter while Celeste stood thereunmoved and the children listened without understanding. But at lastSanterre led the Seguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieuobtained from his landlord a promise that he would write to the plumberat Janville and that the roof of the pavilion should be entirelyrenovated, since the rain came into the bedrooms. 

The Seguins' landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into itwith their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at oneof the windows he perceived Celeste standing between the two children, intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame werereally 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 atthem. 

IV

AT half-past seven o'clock, when Mathieu arrived at the restaurant onthe Place de la Madeleine where he was to meet his employer, he foundhim already there, drinking a glass of madeira with his customer, M. Firon-Badinier. The dinner was a remarkable one; choice viands and thebest wines were served in abundance. But Mathieu was struck less by theappetite which the others displayed than by Beauchene's activity andskill. Glass in hand, never losing a bite, he had already persuadedhis customer, by the time the roast arrived, to order not only the newthresher but also a mowing machine. M. Firon-Badinier was to take thetrain for Evreux at nine-twenty, and when nine o'clock struck, theother, now eager to be rid of him, contrived to pack him off in a cab tothe 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 delightfulMay evening might cool his burning head. 

"Well, that's settled, " he said with a laugh. "But it wasn't so easilymanaged. It was the Pommard which induced the beggar to make up hismind. All the same, I was dreadfully afraid he would make me miss myappointment. "

These remarks, which escaped him amid his semi-intoxication, led him tomore confidential talk. He put on his hat again, lighted a freshcigar, and took Mathieu's arm. Then they walked on slowly through thepassion-stirred throng and the nightly blaze of the Boulevards. 

"There's plenty of time, " said Beauchene. "I'm not expected tillhalf-past nine, and it's close by. Will you have a cigar? No? You neversmoke?"

"Never. "

"Well, my dear fellow, it would be ridiculous to feign with you, sinceyou happened to see me this morning. Oh, it's a stupid affair! I'm quiteof that opinion; but, then, what would you have?"

Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his maritallife and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and thatgirl Norine, old Moineaud's daughter. He professed the greatest respectfor his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance wasnow beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyeswhen it would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. Sheknew very well that it was essential that the business should be kepttogether and pass intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe ofchildren would have meant the ruin of all their plans. 

Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began toask questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchene laughedgayly, like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extremevolubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming asemi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with anair of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of theRue Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a littlebachelor's lodging, which was kept in order by the concierge of thehouse, 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 theBeauchene works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whomhe again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women's workroom whilehis daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchene, and whileNorine, the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler'schildren 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 oflife, pays little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter ofindifference to what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings whofall from the nest. 

It was now half-past nine o'clock, and Mathieu had more than an hourbefore him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry, but strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunkfar more than usual, and Beauchene's insidious confidential talk, stillbuzzing 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 warmevening it was, too, on those Boulevards, blazing with electric lights, fevered by a swarming, jostling throng, amid a ceaseless rumble of cabsand omnibuses! It was all like a stream of ardent life flowing away intothe 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 hewas at the Beauchenes' in the morning, and saw the father and motherstanding, like accomplices who fully shared one another's views, besidethe sofa on which Maurice, their only son, lay dozing with a pale andwaxen face. The works must never be exposed to the danger of beingsubdivided. Maurice alone must inherit all the millions which thebusiness might yield, so that he might become one of the princes ofindustry. And therefore the husband hurried off to sin while the wifeclosed 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 beenabolished at the Revolution for the bourgeoisie's benefit; but now, alsofor its own purposes, it revived it. Each family must have but one son. 

Mathieu had reached this stage in his reflections when his thoughts werediverted by several street hawkers who, in selling the last edition ofan evening print, announced a "drawing" of the lottery stock of someenterprise launched by the Credit National. And then he suddenlyrecalled the Moranges in their dining-room, and heard them recapitulatetheir dream of making a big fortune as soon as the accountant shouldhave secured a post in one of the big banking establishments, where theprincipals raise men of value to the highest posts. Those Moranges livedin everlasting dread of seeing their daughter marry a needy petty clerk;succumbing to that irresistible fever which, in a democracy ravaged bypolitical equality and economic inequality, impels every one to climbhigher up the social ladder. Envy consumed them at the thought ofthe luxury of others; they plunged into debt in order that they mightimitate from afar the elegance of the upper class, and all their naturalhonesty and good nature was poisoned by the insanity born of ambitiouspride. And here again but one child was permissible, lest they shouldbe embarrassed, delayed, forever impeded in the attainment of the futurethey coveted. 

A crowd of people now barred Mathieu's way, and he perceived that hewas near the theatre, where a first performance was taking place thatevening. It was a theatre where free farcical pieces were produced, andon its walls were posted huge portraits of its "star, " a carroty wenchwith a long flat figure, destitute of all womanliness, and seeminglysymbolical of perversity. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the bills, thevilest remarks were heard, and Mathieu remembered that the Seguins andSanterre were inside the house, laughing at the piece, which was of sofilthy a nature that the spectators at the dress rehearsal, though theywere by no means over-nice in such matters, had expressed their disgustby almost wrecking the auditorium. And while the Seguins were gloatingover this horror, yonder, at their house in the Avenue d'Antin, Celestehad just put the children, Gaston and Lucie, to bed, and had thenhastily returned to the kitchen, where a friend, Madame Menoux, who kepta little haberdasher's shop in the neighborhood, awaited her. Gaston, having been given some wine to drink, was already asleep; but Lucie, whoagain felt sick, lay shivering in her bed, not daring to call Celeste, lest the servant, who did not like to be disturbed, should ill-treather. And, at two o'clock in the morning, after offering Santerre anoyster supper at a night restaurant, the Seguins would come home, theirminds unhinged by the imbecile literature and art to which they hadtaken for fashion's sake, vitiated yet more by the ignoble performancethey had witnessed, and the base society they had elbowed at supper. They seemed to typify vice for vice's sake, elegant vice and pessimismas a principle. 

Indeed, when Mathieu tried to sum up his day, he found vice on everyside, in each of the spheres with which he had come in contact. And nowthe examples he had witnessed filled him no longer with mere surprise;they disturbed him, they shook his beliefs, they made him doubtwhether his notions of life, duty, and happiness might not after all beinaccurate. 

He stopped short and drew a long breath, seeking to drive away hisgrowing intoxication. He had passed the Grand Opera and was reachingthe crossway of the Rue Drouot. Perhaps his increase of fever was dueto those glowing Boulevards. The private rooms of the restaurants werestill ablaze, the cafes threw bright radiance across the road, thepavement was blocked by their tables and chairs and customers. All Parisseemed to have come down thither to enjoy that delightful evening. Therewas endless elbowing, endless mingling of breath as the swelling crowdsauntered along. Couples lingered before the sparkling displays ofjewellers' shops. Middle-class families swept under dazzling archesof electric lamps into cafes concerts, whose huge posters promisedthe grossest amusements. Hundreds and hundreds of women went by withtrailing skirts, and whispered and jested and laughed; while men dartedin pursuit, now of a fair chignon, now of a dark one. In the opencabs men and women sat side by side, now husbands and wives long sincemarried, now chance couples who had met but an hour ago. But Mathieuwent on again, yielding to the force of the current, carried alonglike all the others, a prey to the same fever which sprang from thesurroundings, from the excitement of the day, from the customs of theage. And he no longer took the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins asisolated types; it was all Paris that symbolized vice, all Paris thatyielded to debauchery and sank into degradation. There were the folks ofhigh culture, the folks suffering from literary neurosis; there werethe merchant princes; there were the men of liberal professions, thelawyers, the doctors, the engineers; there were the people of the lowermiddle-class, the petty tradesmen, the petty clerks; there were eventhe manual workers, poisoned by the example of the upper spheres--allpractising the doctrines of egotism as vanity and the passion for moneygrew more and more intense.. .. No more children! Paris was bent ondying. And Mathieu recalled how Napoleon I. , one evening after battle, on beholding a plain strewn with the corpses of his soldiers, had puthis trust in Paris to repair the carnage of that day. But timeshad changed. Paris would no longer supply life, whether it were forslaughter or for toil. 

And as Mathieu thought of it all a sudden weakness came upon him. Againhe asked himself whether the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins, andall those thousands and thousands around him were not right, and whetherhe were not the fool, the dupe, the criminal, with his belief in lifeever renascent, ever growing and spreading throughout the world. Andbefore him arose, too, the image of Seraphine, the temptress, openingher perfumed arms to him and carrying him off to the same existence ofpleasure and baseness which the others led. 

Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in hispocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, thoughout of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. Theremainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jamfor the youngsters' bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, theothers, the Beauchenes and the Seguins, were rich. He bitterly recalledtheir wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildingscovering a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmenever increasing the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomelyappointed pavilion and whose only son was growing up for futuresovereignty, under his mother's vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, theSeguins' luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, the great hall, themagnificent staircase, the vast room above, crowded with marvels; hepictured all the refinement, all the train of wealth, all the tokens oflavish life, the big dowry which would be given to the little girl, thehigh position which would be purchased for the son. And he, bare andempty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not even a stone at the edge ofa field, would doubtless always possess nothing, neither factory buzzingwith workmen, nor mansion rearing its proud front aloft. And he was theimprudent one, and the others were the sensible, the wise. What wouldever become of himself and his troop of children? Would he not die insome garret? would they not lead lives of abject wretchedness? Ah! itwas evident the others were right, the others were sensible. And he feltunhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, like a fool who has allowedhimself to be duped. 

Then once more the image of Seraphine arose before his eyes, moretempting than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blazeof the Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic aroundit. Wild fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchene. Why should he not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding tosudden madness, turned his back upon the station and retraced his stepstowards the Boulevards. Seraphine, he said to himself, was doubtlesswaiting for him; she had told him that he would always be welcome. Asfor 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 eyeshe saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd stillstreamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu's temples werebeating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live thesame 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; andwhile he stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in thatincreasing obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And allat once the image of Seraphine faded from before his mind's eye andhe beheld another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, allsmiles and trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Couldhe deceive her? ... Then all at once he again rushed off towardsthe railway station, in fear lest he should lose his train. He wasdetermined that he would listen to no further promptings, that he wouldcast no further glance upon glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reachedthe station just in time to climb into a car. The train started and hejourneyed on, leaning out of his compartment and offering his face tothe cool night breeze in order that it might calm and carry off the evilfever that had possessed him. 

The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowingstars that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a softbluish radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Mariannefound herself on the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway betweenChantebled, the pavilion where she and her husband lived, and thestation of Janville. The children were fast asleep; she had left themin the charge of Zoe, the servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, thelight of which could be seen from afar, showing like a bright spark amidthe black line of the woods. 

Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o'clock train, as was hiswont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she broughther two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legsmoved 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 tothat pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forwardthrough the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never wentfurther than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seatedherself on its broad, low parapet, as on some rustic bench, and thenceshe overlooked the whole plain as far as the houses of Janville, beforewhich passed the railway line. And from afar she could see her husbandapproaching along the road which wound between the cornfields. 

That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety skyspangled with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitudeshe turned towards the bright little light shining on the verge of thesombre woods, a light telling of the quietude of the room in whichit burnt, the servant's tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of thechildren in the adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wanderall around her, over the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to theSeguins. The dilapidated pavilion stood at the extreme edge of thewoods whose copses, intersected by patches of heath, spread over a loftyplateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was notall, for to the west of the plateau lay more than two hundred and fiftyacres of land, a marshy expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, vast uncultivated tracts, where one went duck-shooting in winter. Andthere was yet a third part of the estate, acres upon acres of equallysterile soil, all sand and gravel, descending in a gentle slope to theembankment of the railway line. It was indeed a stretch of country lostto culture, where the few good patches of loam remained unproductive, inclosed within the waste land. But the spot had all the beauty andexquisite wildness of solitude, and was one that appealed to healthyminds fond of seeing nature in freedom. And on that lovely night onecould nowhere have found more perfect and more balmy quiet. 

Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded thewoodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, and descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over theexpanse, divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though thedarkness now prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woodsan owl raised its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the rightascended a faint croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like thevibration of crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, therecame a growing rumble which, little by little, rose above all the othersounds 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. Assoon as it left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token ofits coming, but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguishits rumble amid the other sounds rising from the country side. Forher part, she heard it immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancythrough every phase of its journey. And never had she been better ableto do so than on that splendid night, amid the profound quietude ofthe earth's slumber. It had left Monval, it was turning beside thebrickworks, it was skirting St. George's fields. In another two minutesit would be at Janville. Then all at once its white light shone outbeyond the poplar trees of Le Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of theengine grew louder, like that of some giant racer drawing near. On thatside the plain spread far away into a dark, unknown region, beneath thestar-spangled sky, which on the very horizon showed a ruddy reflectionlike that of some brasier, the reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazingand smoking in the darkness like a volcano. 

Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and thenits rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction ofVieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyesand ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between thedark patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to coverthe thousand yards and more which separated the station from the littlebridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; buton that particular night, such was the deep silence that she coulddistinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slimfigure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erectunder the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. Themilky 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 allthe gentleness of spouse and mother. Her straight brow, her nose, hermouth, her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed likesavory fruit, her delightful little ears--the whole of her face, fullof love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety whichcomes from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that byloving life she would live as she ought to live. 

"What! so you've come then!" Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was nearher. "But I begged you not to come out so late. Are you not afraid atbeing alone on the roads at this time of night?"

She began to laugh. "Afraid, " said she, "when the night is so mild andhealthful? Besides, wouldn't you rather have me here to kiss you tenminutes 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. Hetenderly took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, themost human of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields. After thescorching pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the dayand the degrading spectacles of the night, how reposeful was thatfar-spreading silence, that faint bluish radiance, that endlessunrolling of plains, steeped in refreshing gloom and dreaming offructification by the morrow's sun! And what suggestions of health, andrectitude, and felicity rose from productive Nature, who fell asleepbeneath the dew of night solely that she might reawaken in triumph, everand ever rejuvenated by life's torrent, which streams even through thedust of her paths. 

Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more. Hekept her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neithercould forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them fromthe stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields. 

"What a splendid night!" murmured Mathieu. "How beautiful and howpleasant to live in it!"

Then, after a moment's rapture, during which they both heard theirhearts beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him withloving interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie. 

"No, the Beauchenes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never caredmuch for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in thelegs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussedagain. I will tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Morangeshave promised to come. You can't have an idea of the delight and vanitythey displayed in showing me their new flat. What with their eagernessto make a big fortune I'm much afraid that those worthy folks will dosomething very foolish. Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord, and though I had a good deal of difficulty over it, he ended byconsenting to have the roof entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, thoseSeguins have! I came away feeling quite scared. But I will tell you allabout it by and by with the rest. "

Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited hisconfidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and thechildren. 

"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 yourtrain. "

He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke heflushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion heaffected sudden gayety. 

"Well, and you, my dear, " he asked, "how did you manage with your thirtysous?"

"My thirty sous!" she gayly responded, "why, I was much too rich; wefared 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, pureas crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; sherelated how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutestdetails respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day waslike 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, thewoman from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some finechickens for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, Ibelieve that she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told herthat I would go to her place to-morrow. "

While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a bigblack pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill whichwas still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it forthree generations. The last of them, Francois Lepailleur, who consideredhimself to be no fool, had come back from his military service withlittle inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrichhim, any more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It thenoccurred 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 ofthose fields and such small quantities of corn as the peasants of thedistrict still brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquatedand badly repaired mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modernappliances, and if the land, instead of being impoverished by adherenceto old-fashioned practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligentman who believed in progress, there would no doubt have been a fortunein it all. But Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treatedthe soil with contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grownweary of his eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers lovedtoo much. Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilizethe soil, it had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hatingit. All his faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of havinglost its fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some oldcow which one sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, everything went wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, theweather was never such as it should be, the seasons no longer came intheir proper order. Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster broughtabout by some evil power which had a spite against the peasantry, whowere foolish to give their sweat and their blood to such a thanklesscreature. 

"Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow threeyears old, called Antonin, " resumed Marianne, "and we fell to talking ofchildren together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, usedto have such large families. But she declared that one child wasquite enough. Yet she's only twenty-four, and her husband not yettwenty-seven. "

These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu's mind allday. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, "She gave you herreasons, no doubt?"

"Give reasons--she, with her head like a horse's, her long freckledface, pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth--I think she's simply a fool, ever in admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa andreads the newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that childrencost 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, slimfellow, as carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, green eyes, and prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had neverfelt in a good humor in his life. And I understand that he is alwayscomplaining of his father-in-law, because the other had three daughtersand a son. Of course that cut down his wife's dowry; she inherited onlya part of her father's property. And, besides, as the trade of a millernever enriched his father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning tillnight, and declares that he won't prevent his boy Antonin from goingto eat white bread in Paris, if he can find a good berth there when hegrows up. "

Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small familythe rule. Among the causes were the fear of having to split up aninheritance, the desire to rise in the social system, the disgust ofmanual toil, and the thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since thesoil was becoming bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when oneknew that one would never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on thepoint of explaining these things to his wife, but he hesitated, and thensimply said: "Lepailleur does wrong to complain; he has two cows and ahorse, and when there is urgent work he can take an assistant. We, thismorning, had just thirty sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, noscrap of land. For my part I think his mill superb; I envy him everytime I cross this bridge. Just fancy! we two being the millers--why, weshould be very rich and very happy!"

This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seatedthere, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between thewillows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully, scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made itripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed shelteringthe wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, andcreepers, 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 underthe willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise. "

"Yes, I know, " replied Marianne with tender gayety. "It must be theyoung couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder afortnight ago. You know whom I mean--Madame Angelin, that schoolmate ofConstance's. "

The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments. The wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hairand fine eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And thehusband was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much inlove, with moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of amusketeer. They had married with sudden passion for one another, havingbetween them an income of some ten thousand francs a year, which thehusband, a fan painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had itnot been for the spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage hadthrown him. And that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desertof Janville, that they might love freely, passionately, in the midst ofnature. 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 strollacross the fields, beside the hedges, along the shady banks of theYeuse, delighted when they could linger till very late near themurmuring water, in the thick shade of the willows. 

But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentionedit to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appearedthat the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, and did not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu's worryingthoughts once more came back to him, and again at this fresh examplehe wondered who was right--he who stood alone in his belief, or all theothers. 

"Well, " he muttered at last, "we all live according to our fancy. Butcome, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them. "

They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where thelamp shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front doorthey groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little housecomprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of thehall, and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there werefour bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those bigrooms; but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed atthis. By way of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains ofred stuff at the windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangingsseemed to them to impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home. 

They found Zoe, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting besidethe lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her asquietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp andentered the children's room to kiss them and make sure that they werecomfortable. It was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placedthe lamp on the mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the threelittle beds when Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at oneend of the room lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellowssix years of age; while in the second bed against the opposite wall wasAmbroise, now nearly four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, a cradle, was occupied by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age andweaned for three weeks past. She lay there half naked, showing her whiteflowerlike skin, and her mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, which she had thrust aside with her self-willed little fists. Meantimethe father busied himself with Ambroise's pillow, which had slippedaside. Both husband and wife came and went very gently, and bent againand again over the children's faces to make sure that they were sleepingpeacefully. They kissed them and lingered yet a little longer, fancyingthat they had heard Blaise and Denis stirring. At last the mother tookup 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 toworry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I didnot find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at easeabout her. " Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she wenton: "Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt theleast fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free fromanxiety. "

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 hadcounted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in abitter, 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 jotdown 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 doyou 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 isnobody 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 andthirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have anice month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly iflittle 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 tobe almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow asfull of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love lifeif one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and thelittle ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!"

At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head andmournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At greatlength he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their povertyand the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all theyhad said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvidentstarveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would neverhave factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousandfrancs a year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, hadbeen their own work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, improvident. And he went on with his recollections, telling Mariannethat he feared nothing for himself, but that he did not wish to condemnher 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 thathe had upon his mind. Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, however lovingly he spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, butburst into sobs. She did not question what he said, she spoke no wordsof revolt, but it was evident that her whole being rebelled, and thather heart was sorely grieved. 

He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin toher own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry withhimself. "Do not weep, my darling!" he exclaimed as he pressed her tohim: "it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in thatway. Don't distress yourself, I beg you; we'll think it all over andtalk about it some other time. "

She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with herhead resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving, trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and moreconfused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heedto the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basisof their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which hadpossessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have beeninstilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honorand rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fastreturning. Through the window, which had remained open, all the soundsof the lovely spring night poured into the room. It was spring, theseason of love, and beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, from fields and forests and waters came the murmur of germinatinglife. And never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss mayresult, 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 greatincessant battle against death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased amongall the other denizens of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, seeks death for death's sake, the annihilation of his species. ThenMathieu again caught his wife in a close embrace, printing on her lips along, ardent kiss. 

"Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would beimpossible for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, letthe others hold us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us loveand live as nature tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdomand true courage. "

V

MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead besidethe large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked ather, and saw that she was awake and smiling. 

"What! you are not asleep?" said he. "I hardly dared to stir for fear ofwaking 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 frightfulat Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. Thisrigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne wasagain expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu toaccept Beauchene's amiable offer to place at his disposal the littlepavilion in the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of the works hadlived before building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman whohad occupied this pavilion, which still contained the simple furnitureof former days, had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to benear 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 inApril. 

"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'ssplendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for alittle while with the children this afternoon. "

Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on thebed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: "Well, I hadn't been sleepingeither for the last twenty minutes; and I didn't move because I wantedyou to lie in bed a little late, as it's Sunday. How amusing to thinkthat we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wideopen!"

"Oh!" said he, "I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My onedelight on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, andspend the whole day with you and the children. " Then he uttered a cry ofsurprise 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 lookedradiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy browntresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled withgayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her faceall kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification ofFruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, ofsovereign dignity. 

They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine whichenveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne's pillows, set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he hadtidied the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded upthe sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slippeda cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoe, theservant whom they had brought from the country, could very well do allthose things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, and that he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that therewas to do. Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that theroom was cold, and blamed himself for not having already lighted thefire. Some logs and some small wood were piled in a corner, near thechimney-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 anidea! 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 alittle paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing anddressing when the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorousthumping. 

"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 commotionin the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing burstsof laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolstersflying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partitionas if it were a drum. 

"Yes, yes, " said the mother, smiling and anxious, "answer them; tellthem to come. They will be breaking everything if you don't. "

Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victoriousoutburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. AndMathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scufflingcould be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four ofthem wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and theytrotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, theirfaces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise, though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was theboldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise andDenis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught theothers to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained thedreamer 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 leftamid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadilyerect. 

"Ah! mamma, " cried Ambroise, "it's dreadfully cold, you know; do make mea little room. "

Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, andnestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and finecurly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout ofwar, 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 andindignant. 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 withher little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order thatshe might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhatanxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told himnot to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestledthere 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 takinghis ease. 

But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why itwas 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'ttrue. 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 mypillow 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 pretenceof killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. Thisunsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the wholebrood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that theirfather could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them hereand there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them intoperfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts. 

"Oh! what fun! what fun!"

"All the same, " Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herselfsomewhat from the embraces of the children, "all the same, you know, Iwant to get up. I mustn't idle, for it does me no good. And besides, youlittle ones need to be washed and dressed. "

They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly teno'clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where theearthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamedupon the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-roomand a drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a studyon the left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlookedthe Rue de la Federation, and was filled every morning with cheerfulnessby the rising sun. 

The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, whena 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 werefond of his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at theirbirths, and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity isallowable. And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to darttowards the doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them. 

"Now, please just leave the doctor quiet, " said she, adding gayly, "Goodmorning, doctor. I'm much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, forI'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 Iwould look in to see how you were getting on. "

Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieuexplained to him that they had remained late in bed. 

"Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as muchexercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see thatshe has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to bea doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call. "

Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busybreakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in theconversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, some train of thought which he did not explain: "I hear that you are tolunch 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 hadjust upset the Seguins' household. Valentine, like Marianne, was tobecome a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husbandhad given way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, theyhad continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spenther days on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor'slife. It was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes thatMarianne, on the occasion of her visit to the Seguins, might bring somegood influence to bear on them. 

He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack whichhad all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedlyrising from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, andnow they opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found thetwins upon his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round thewaist 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 andangry. But he calmed the parents by saying: "Let them be! they aresimply wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, youknow, since, as our friend Beauchene says, it is a little bit my faultif they are in the world. What charms me with your children is that theyenjoy such good health, just like their mother. For the present, at allevents, 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 wasgoing on beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off, escorted to the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting andlaughing gayly. 

Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order thatMarianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had beendressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcelymore than one o'clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de laFederation and found itself upon the quays. 

This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and thedensely populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspectall its own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almostdeserted streets running at right angles and fringed by factories withlofty, interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes alongthese streets, and on raising one's head one sees only lofty chimneysbelching forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings withdusty window panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be openone may espy deep yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. Theonly sounds are the strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumblingof machinery, and the sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the cartsto the pavement. But on Sundays the factories do not work, and thedistrict then falls into death-like silence. In summer time there is butbright sunshine heating the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden windrushing down the lonely streets. The population of Grenelle is said tobe the worst of Paris, both the most vicious and the most wretched. The neighborhood of the Ecole Militaire attracts thither a swarm ofworthless women, who bring in their train all the scum of the populace. In contrast to all this the gay bourgeois district of Passy rises upacross the Seine; while the rich aristocratic quarters of the Invalidesand the Faubourg St. Germain spread out close by. Thus the Beaucheneworks on the quay, as their owner laughingly said, turned their backupon misery and looked towards all the prosperity and gayety of thisworld. 

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 fondof that long diversified Quai d'Orsay, which starts from the Rue duBac 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. Howmajestically it spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were roundthat bend of the Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden ofthe Eiffel Tower! The river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; theavenue stretches out under superb foliage. You can really saunter thereamid delicious quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm andpower of Paris. 

It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little onesthat Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety wasfelt 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, theparents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well:they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winterafternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very coldin the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of brightlight. 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 tothe promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herselfup as if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed thewhole extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And herthree brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneaththeir steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In othercities of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by fourchildren would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectaclewas so unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and evencompassion were exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if theydid not actually hear, these comments, but they cared nothing forthem. They bravely went their way, smiling at one another, and feelingconvinced 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; andMarianne, feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa inthe drawing-room, where Zoe had previously lighted a good fire. Thechildren, quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, listening to a tale which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitorwas announced. This proved to be Constance, who, after driving out withMaurice, had thought of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom shesaw only once or twice a week, although the little pavilion was merelyseparated by a garden from the large house on the quay. 

"Oh! are you poorly, my dear?" she inquired as she entered the room andperceived Marianne on the sofa. 

"Oh! dear, no, " replied the other, "but I have been out walking for thelast two hours and am now taking some rest. "

Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife's rich, vaincousin, who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appearamiable. She apologized for not being able to call more frequently, andexplained what a number of duties she had to discharge as mistressof her home. Meantime Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round herpetticoats, gazing from a distance at the other children, who one andall returned his scrutiny. 

"Well, Maurice, " exclaimed his mother, "don't you wish your littlecousins good-day?"

He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all fiveremained embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunityto quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost outof their element in the presence of this young Parisian with bourgeoismanners. 

"And are all your little folks quite well?" resumed Constance, who, withher sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. "Ambroise hasgrown; his elder brothers also look very strong. "

Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice's advantage. Thelatter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion. Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full ofirony, disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Mariannewas likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of herdisapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever. 

Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussedthe subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. Sheinquired after Beauchene. "And Alexandre, " said she, "why did you notbring him with you? I haven't seen him for a week!"

"Why, " broke in Mathieu, "I told you he had gone shooting yesterdayevening. 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'tbe 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 regrettedhaving broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchenemight really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availedhimself so often of this pretext to absent himself from home thatConstance was doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of thathousehold, whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show abrave front. 

"Well, you know, " said she, "it is I who compel him to go about and takeas much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the openair. Shooting is very good for him. "

At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcinganother visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered theroom, with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight ofMadame Beauchene, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect modelof wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance, however, profited by the diversion of Valerie's arrival to declare thatshe unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now bewaiting for her at home. 

"Well, at all events, leave us Maurice, " suggested Mathieu. "Here'sReine here now, and all six children can play a little while together. Iwill 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'sskirts. And she refused the invitation. "Oh! no, no!" said she. "He hasto keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything awayfrom home. Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after youall in passing. Keep well; good-by. "

Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valerie, but simply shakinghands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the otherconsidered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiledat Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful thatday in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavyblack tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemedto be the latter's younger sister. 

Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: "Come and kiss me, mydear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautifuland tall. How old is she?"

"Nearly thirteen, " Valerie replied. 

She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieunoticed 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, whothanked her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leaveher with his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on hermind, and perhaps she wished to make a confidante of Marianne. 

"My dear Reine, " said he, "come with these little ones into thedining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay thecloth. "

This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the childrentrooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later, when everything was ready there, and Valerie came in, the latter's eyeslooked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, whenMathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was. Morange's scheme of leaving the Beauchene works and entering the serviceof the Credit National, where he would speedily rise to a high andlucrative position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry andmarrying her off to advantage--all the ambitious dreams of rank andwealth in which his wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihoodof fulfilment, since it seemed probable that Valerie might again havea child. Both she and her husband were in despair over it, and thoughMarianne had done her utmost to pacify her friend and reconcile herto circumstances, there were reasons to fear that in her distractedcondition she might do something desperate. 

Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Seguins du Hordelat the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, they came upon similartrouble there. Seguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple toaccuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite abachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had neverfully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like afire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night athis club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ringat every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society andappeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite andjealousy upon his ailing wife. 

She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferredagainst her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part togive up her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as longas possible. And now she was really very ill, haunted too by anunreasoning, irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. Mathieu, who had seen her but a few months previously looking sofair and fresh, was amazed to find her such a wreck. And on her sideValentine gazed, all astonishment, at Marianne, noticing with surprisehow calm and strong the young woman seemed, and how limpid her clear andsmiling eyes remained. 

On the day of the Froments' visit Seguin had gone out early in themorning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunchwas for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Celeste, themaid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who wasstretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentineturned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied:

"No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of myvillage is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, Sophie Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who bringsnurses to Paris?"

"Well, what of it?" exclaimed Valentine, on the point of orderingCeleste to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to bedisturbed in this manner. 

"Well, madame, she's here; and as I told you before, if you wouldintrust her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse foryou in the country, and bring her here whenever she's wanted. "

La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remainedajar, and scarcely had Celeste finished than, without waiting for aninvitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizenedwoman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by herfrequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointednose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression ofgood nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive ofartfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her blackcape, black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her theappearance of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sundaybest. 

"Have you been a nurse?" Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her. 

"Yes, madame, " replied La Couteau, "but that was ten years ago, when Iwas only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn't likely to make much moneyby remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bringothers to Paris. "

As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that thosewho give their services as wet nurses to bourgeois families are simplyfools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too muchon 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 soI thought that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in anothermanner. "

"And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?"

"Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but moreparticularly Madame Broquette's office in the Rue Roquepine. It's a veryrespectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived--And so, ifyou like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you--thepick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and youcan rely on me. "

As her mistress did not immediately reply, Celeste ventured tointervene, and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau hadcalled that day. 

"When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takesa baby with her, sometimes a nurse's child, and sometimes the child ofpeople who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And shetakes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just nowcame to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose babyshe is to take away with her. "

Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in theneighborhood and a great friend of Celeste's. She had married a formersoldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fiftyfrancs 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 doubledtheir income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost attheir ease. Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties tospend hours gossiping in Madame Menoux's little shop, was forever beingscolded for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, fullof anxiety and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proudat being questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux'sbaby was a fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by acertain 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 ofmine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubtshe has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsomea place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so verykind and obliging. "

Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu'seyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself, made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed noconfidence 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 notthis 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 toprevent others from doing business. 

"Oh! it's impossible, " exclaimed Celeste, well pleased withthe diversion. "Madame Menoux's shop is no bigger than mypocket-handkerchief, and at the back of it there is only one little roomwhere 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, MadameMenoux would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had aservant, and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals intime for her husband's return from the museum, she never has a momentto spare. Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the littlefellow with her. "

"It is true, " said Marianne sadly; "there are some poor mothers whom Ipity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, andyet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not beable to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknownspot 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 whichshe always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied:"Oh, Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it's not far fromBayeux, 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, thelittle 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 littleangels. "

However, like Celeste, she relapsed into silence on seeing howsignificantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of herrustic ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. Besides, of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of theregion, since that lady, Madame Seguin, wished to have a nurse at herhouse? So she resumed: "Then it's understood, madame, I will bring youthe best we have, a real treasure. "

Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, foundstrength to speak out. "No, no, I won't pledge myself in advance. Iwill send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see ifthere is one to suit me. "

Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned toMarianne, and asked: "Shall you nurse your baby yourself?"

"Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions onthat 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 afruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she wouldhave earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all herspite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, wasevidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, ata sign which Celeste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in thecompany of the maid. 

A few minutes afterwards, Seguin arrived, and, repairing to thedining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxuriousmeal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red andwhite Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine andMarianne would never have met with Dr. Boutan's approval; but Seguindeclared the doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody couldever please. 

He, Seguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that dayto be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying andeven galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point attimes that tears came to the unfortunate woman's eyes. Now that hescarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was goingwrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him, entirely his wife's fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell uponearth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-placeremark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieuand Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such aharsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had toapologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of theVaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in herhaughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on himfor his treatment. 

However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at lastturned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that thegame in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in suchwise that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so thathis income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secretof the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where couldhe possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterileplains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel?

Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walksin the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. "Are youreally of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?" he asked. "It's pitifulto 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 tableMarianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kissher children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders onaccount of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitorsarrived in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre thenovelist, 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 slyglance of mocking contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and thenovelist between them soon turned the conversation on to subjects thatappealed to their vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he hadlately seen Doctor Gaude perform several operations at the MarbeufHospital. He had found there the usual set of society men who attendfirst performances at the theatres, and indeed there were also somewomen present. 

And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and mostprecise particulars, much to the delight of Seguin, who every now andagain interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Mariannegrew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking withamazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, tothe evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his lastbook, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, withits theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she atlast glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all thesemi-society and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she wouldlike to go off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along thesunlit quays. He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanityrife amid those wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that itwas indeed time to take leave. 

"What! are you going already!" Valentine then exclaimed. "Well, I darenot detain you if you feel tired. " However, when Marianne begged her tokiss the children for her, she added: "Why, yes, it's true you have notseen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself. "

But when Celeste appeared in answer to the bell, she announcedthat Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with theirgoverness. And this made Seguin explode once more. All his rancoragainst his wife revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. Shespent her days lying on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leaveto go out with the children without saying anything? One could noteven see the children now in order to kiss them. It was a nice state ofthings. They were left to the servants; in fact, it was the servants nowwho controlled the house. 

Thereupon Valentine began to cry. 

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself outof doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaningon his arm; "why, they are quite mad, the people in that house. "

"Yes, " Mathieu responded, "they are mad, no doubt; but we must pitythem, for they know not what happiness is. "

VI

ABOUT nine o'clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, asMathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingerednear his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separatedthe 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, whowas accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy andvictorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife:

"Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all thefresh air he can. There's nothing like that and good food to make aman. "

Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. "Has Maurice been poorlyagain?" he inquired. 

"Oh, no!" hastily replied the boy's mother, with an appearance of greatgayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certaincovert fears. "Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is sofine this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition. "

"Don't go along the quays, " said Beauchene again. "Go up towards theInvalides. He'll have much stiffer marching to do when he's a soldier. "

Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he wentback into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: "Thatyoungster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always sonervous. 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 brokeout between old Moineaud's daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw thefactory into a state of commotion. Norine's intrigue with Beauchenehad ended in the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betakenhimself to some other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, hershame, and all the consequences of her fault; for although it hadhitherto been possible for her to conceal her condition from herparents, she was unable to deceive her sister, who was her constantcompanion. The two girls were always bickering, and Norine had for sometime lived in dread of scandal and exposure. And that day the troublecame to a climax, beginning with a trivial dispute about a bit ofglass-paper in the workroom, then developing into a furious exchange ofcoarse, insulting language, and culminating in a frantic outburst fromEuphrasie, who shrieked to the assembled work-girls all that she knewabout her sister. 

There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing andscratching one another desperately, and could not be separated untilBeauchene, Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, rushed into the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately forBeauchene, Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, aftergiving her employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but oldMoineaud was present, and the public revelation of his daughter's shamesent him into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, andthreatened to throw her out of window should he find her at home whenhe returned there in the evening. And Beauchene, both annoyed at thescandal and ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture tointerfere. It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbingthat he found strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, andassert his authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one andall of the girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, shouldever occur there again. 

Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. Whatmost astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchene regained hisself-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with whichhe withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoringorder. Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whomMathieu, to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, as if indeed he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappybusiness. But Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed forother reasons. The scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine'scondition, the fate awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, icy streets, had revived all his own poignant worries with respect toValerie. Mathieu had already heard of the latter's trouble from hiswife, and he speedily grasped the accountant's meaning. It vaguelyseemed to him also that Morange was yielding to the same unreasoningdespair as Valerie, and was almost willing that she should take thedesperate course which she had hinted to Marianne. But it was a veryserious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to be in any way mixed up init. Having tried his best to pacify the cashier, he sought forgetfulnessof these painful incidents in his work. 

That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cecile Moineaud, the oldfitter's youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message fromher mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understoodthat the woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usualcompassionate way he consented to go. The interview took place in oneof the adjacent streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. LaMoineaude was there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, a child eight years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantlywhile begging Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, andwas in a position to approach Beauchene on the subject. La Moineaude wasfirmly determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for hisfuture 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 bementioned. Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would becomeof them all should the family bread-winners be turned away from thefactory? Norine certainly had no legal claim on Beauchene, the law beingperemptory on that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, andwas driven from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want inthe streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting thatshe had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchene. In any case, herlot remained a very hard one. That Beauchene was the father of her childthere 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 ofdifficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchene fumed, stormed, denied, equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too ofblackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heartthe matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother shouldgo to his wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simplysuspected things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, there would be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, shouldhe do anything for the girl, it would become known, and everybody wouldregard him as responsible. And then there would be no end to what hecalled the blackmailing. 

However, when Beauchene reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battlewas gained. He smiled and answered: "Of course, one can never tell--thegirl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyondendurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say thatshe 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 bleakweather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want myopinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board ata proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse beforeshe is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundredfrancs in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after. "

Beauchene walked nervously up and down, and then replied: "Well, Ihaven't a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less willnot inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was becausethe 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 mustbe understood, however, that I won't mix myself up in anything; I wisheven to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girlwhere you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more norless. "

Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated fromthis equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge. And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one whois certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he evenjested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions:"See that my conditions are fully understood. I don't want to knowanything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hearanother word of the matter. "

That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the eveningthere was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they wereabout to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell uponthe floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child couldbe revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted, accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking thatmorning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolishouting which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to oneanother by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held herboy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the firsttime that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced aterrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, soacute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was inher, she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princelyowner of the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. Ifshe was to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she noneother? Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feelingof desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burningher cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at lastrecovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with afair appetite. Then Beauchene immediately shrugged his shoulders, andbegan to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went byConstance herself ceased to think of the incident. 

On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission whichhe had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Celeste, themaid, had spoken on the day of his visit to the Seguins. He at firstdismissed all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spokenso strangely, but he thought of making some inquiries respecting MadameBourdieu, who accommodated boarders at the little house where sheresided in the Rue de Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that thiswoman had attended Madame Morange at the time of Reine's birth, acircumstance which induced him to question the cashier. 

At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. "Yes, alady friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife, " said he; "but whydo 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 theyoung fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though hehad been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim, haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in hismind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape atthat moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled. 

Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question ofplacing Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him. 

"My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning, " hebegan. "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 preciseinformation. It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at thehead of a first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have nodoubt you will find what you want there. "

Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had beenwarned that Madame Bourdieu's terms were rather high, he stifled hisprejudices and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order toreconnoitre Madame Rouche's establishment and make some inquiries ofher. The mere aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the blackhouses of old Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading intoa small yard which the nurse's few squalid rooms overlooked. Above thepassage entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name ofMadame 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 leadencomplexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusualprominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-likegestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous, unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at herdisposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, andthis of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have donewith her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened bywhat he had seen of the place. 

On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu's establishment, a littlethree-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boetieand the Rue de Penthievre, offered an engaging aspect, with itsbright facade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, thentwo-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant whiteface, which had greatly helped her on the road to success. Sheexpatiated to Mathieu on the preliminary training that was requiredby one of her profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to makea position, the responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of allsorts that she had to face; and she plainly told the young man that hercharge for a boarder would be two hundred francs a month. This wasfar more than he was empowered to give; however, after some furtherconversation, when Madame Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of fourmonths' board, she became more accommodating, and agreed to accept around sum of six hundred francs for the entire period, provided thatthe person for whom Mathieu was acting would consent to occupy athree-bedded room with two other boarders. 

Altogether there were about a dozen boarders' rooms in the house, someof these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms forwhich were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu couldaccommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had somefive-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with theregulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to saywho they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merelyknown by some Christian name which they chose to give. 

Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu's terms, and that sameevening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little troubleensued with Beauchene, who protested when he learnt that five hundredfrancs would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieumanaged affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only becamereconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a littlelinen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of tenfrancs a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered MadameBourdieu's establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand thegirl her first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything. 

He found her there in the boarders' refectory with some of hercompanions in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, withlifeless eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a palered-haired girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known asVictoire. Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answeringto the name of Rosine, a jeweller's daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, whose story was at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, whilewaiting to see Madame Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a timeanswering Norine's questions, and listening to the others, who conversedbefore him in a free and open way. His heart was wrung by much that heheard, and as soon as he could rid himself of Norine he returned to thewaiting-room, eager to complete his business. There, however, two womenwho wished to consult Madame Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by sideon a sofa, told him that she was still engaged, so that he was compelledto tarry a little longer. He ensconced himself in a large armchair, andtaking a newspaper from his pocket, began to read it. But he had notbeen thus occupied for many minutes before the door opened and a servantentered, ushering in a lady dressed in black and thickly veiled, whomshe asked to be good enough to wait her turn. Mathieu was on the pointof 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'swife, Valerie. After a moment's hesitation, however, the sight of herblack gown and thick veil, which seemed to indicate that she desired toescape recognition, induced him to dive back into his armchair and feignextreme attention to his newspaper. She, on her side, had certainlynot noticed him, but by glancing slantwise towards the looking-glass hecould 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 storiesseemed to have a powerful fascination for Valerie, who sat in a corner, never stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her headtowards the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect herbig eyes glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one ofthe others inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Roucheresided, and the other replied, "At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher. "

Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made herappearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchangedonly a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in hisarmchair, the high back of which concealed him from view, Valerie rosefrom her seat and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room. 

As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon hisknees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he hadheard, both there and in Norine's company, and shuddering at the thoughtof the dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long aninterval elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly rousedby a sound of voices. 

Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door. She had the sameplump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but theother was quivering, as with distress and grief. "You are not sensible, my dear child, " said Madame Bourdieu to her. "It is simply foolish ofyou. Come, go home and be good. "

Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieuwas greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. Andshe suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spokenin his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrivalof Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptlysettled his business and went off, after promising Norine that he wouldreturn some day to see her. 

To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue LaBoetie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner ofthat street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none otherthan her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for herin the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they bothstood 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, thenhalted once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At onemoment the young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the RueLa Boetie, they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, inthe direction of Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more andexchanged a few words; and then Mathieu's heart contracted as he sawthem retrace their steps along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue dela Pepiniere as far as the Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whitherthey were going, but some irresistible force impelled him to followthem; and before long, from an open doorway, in which he prudentlyconcealed himself, he saw them look round to ascertain whether they wereobserved, and then slink, first the wife and afterwards the husband, into the dark passage of La Rouche's house. For a moment Mathieulingered in his hiding-place, quivering, full of dread and horror; andwhen at last he turned his steps homeward it was with a heavy heartindeed. 

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 thatday--things which he had vainly striven to forget--was revived in themost startling fashion. One morning at eight o'clock Morange abruptlycalled at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompaniedby his daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, andas soon as Reine had joined Mathieu's children, and could not hear whathe said, he implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he toldthe dreadful truth--Valerie was dying. Her daughter believed her tobe 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 waitingbelow, but lacked the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant washis grief, so great his dread. 

Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first toldthe cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he hadinformed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happenedto the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And thenthe two men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, andthere found the hapless Valerie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icycold. Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell uponhis knees at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also feltdeath'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 friendson many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valerie's death atthe municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify thedemise, would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usualpractice!

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 avery faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunatewoman who had fallen asleep forever. "I know what I have done; I shallnever forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. YetI adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her toomuch, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madnesscame upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned anddissuaded her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but asfor me, it is all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself. "

All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in thisconfession 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, andhappy, " he continued. "It was so legitimate a wish on her part, shewas so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, tocontent 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 CreditNational and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when thetrouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounceall her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do herwill. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penuryand drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there. "

Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising toviolence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rentMathieu'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 hermother. 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 dreadfulmisfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promiseyou 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 phrasesas he sank into a dream of his wrecked life. 

Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave himthere, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it wasindeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, andto breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle. Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vastsky, all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arosebefore him like a consolatory promise of life's coming victory, anatonement for every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlastinghope kept full of health and courage, and through whom, even amid herpangs, love would triumph, while they both held themselves in readinessfor to-morrow's allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly thatMathieu almost despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright littlehouse, that he might once more take part in life's poem, that augustfestival instinct with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity'severlasting 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 thehouse with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, andhad to lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part inthe play of the others. "He has pains in his legs, " said his father toMathieu, when he came round to inquire after Marianne; "he's growing sofast, and getting such a big fellow, you know. "

Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his faceremained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had feltthe passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening hadmade Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy inher arms. 

But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne's room to answerBeauchene's inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now foundthe sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to newlife. While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said tohim: "It is a boy. "

Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautifuleyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was alreadysmiling with happiness. 

"Dear, dear wife, " said Mathieu, "how good and brave you are, and how Ilove you!"

"Yes, yes, I am very happy, " she faltered, "and I must try to give youback all the love that you give me. "

Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphantglory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holysuffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the comingfuture. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising thefaint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life's immense treasure wasincreased and eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy springnight when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful naturehad streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now aroundhim amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chantingthe 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, " exclaimedMathieu half in anger. "Stay in bed, and rest yourself!"

"But the servant must get the bath ready, " replied Marianne, "and bringyou 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 littlepavilion on the verge of the woods near Janville which they rented fromthe Seguins. So impatient, indeed, were they to find themselves oncemore among the fields that in spite of the doctor's advice Marianne hadmade the journey but fifteen days after giving birth to her little boy. However, a precocious springtide brought with it that March such balmywarmth and sunshine that the only ill-effect she experienced was alittle fatigue. And so, on the day after their arrival--Sunday--Mathieu, glad at being able to remain with her, insisted that she should rest inbed, 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 youonly knew how pleased I am to be here again with you and the dear littlefellow. "

He approached her to kiss her gently, and with a fresh laugh shereturned his kiss. It was quite true: they were both delighted to beback at Chantebled, which recalled to them such loving memories. Thatroom, looking towards the far expanse of sky and all the countryside, renascent, quivering with sap, was gilded with gayety by the earlyspringtide. 

Marianne leant over the cradle which was near her, beside the bed. "Thefact 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 theirsleeping child. Marianne had passed her arm round her husband's neckand was clinging to him, as they laughed delightedly over the cradlein which the little one slumbered. He was a fine child, pink and whitealready; but only a father and mother could thus contemplate theiroffspring. As the baby opened his eyes, which were still full of all themystery 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 andsilent, told them so many things which none other would have heard! Theyfound themselves repeated in the child, mingled as it were together;and detected extraordinary likenesses, which for hours and for dayskept them discussing the question as to which of them he most resembled. Moreover, each proved very obstinate, declaring that he was the livingportrait of the other. 

As a matter of course, Master Gervais had no sooner opened his eyes thanhe began to shriek. But Marianne was pitiless: her rule was the bathfirst 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. AndMathieu, all obstinacy, bathed the child, washing him with a soft spongefor some three minutes, while Marianne, from her bed, watched over theoperation, jesting about the delicacy of touch that he displayed, as ifthe child were some fragile new-born divinity whom he feared to bruisewith his big hands. At the same time they continued marvelling at thedelightful scene. How pretty he looked in the water, his pink skinshining in the sunlight! And how well-behaved he was, for it waswonderful to see how quickly he ceased wailing and gave signs ofsatisfaction 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 afine cloth, "and now we will weigh Master Gervais. "

This was a complicated operation, which was rendered the more difficultby the extreme repugnance that the child displayed. He struggled andwriggled on the platform of the weighing scales to such a degree thatit was impossible to arrive at his correct weight, in order to ascertainhow much this had increased since the previous occasion. As a rule, theincrease varied from six to seven ounces a week. The father generallylost patience over the operation, and the mother had to intervene. 

"Here! put the scales on the table near my bed, and give me the littleone in his napkin. We will see what the napkin weighs afterwards. "

At this moment, however, the customary morning invasion took place. Theother 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. Havingthrown themselves on papa's neck and rushed upon mamma's bed to saygood-morning, the boys stopped short, full of admiration and interestat the sight of Gervais in the scales. Rose, however, still ratheruncertain on her legs, caught hold of the scales in her impatientefforts to climb upon the bed, and almost toppled everything over. "Iwant to see! I want to see!" she cried in her shrill voice. 

At this the others likewise wished to meddle, and already stretchedout their little hands, so that it became necessary to turn them out ofdoors. 

"Now kindly oblige me by going to play outside, " said Mathieu. "Takeyour hats and remain under the window, so that we may hear you. "

Then, in spite of the complaints and leaps of Master Gervais, Mariannewas at last able to obtain his correct weight. And what delight therewas, for he had gained more than seven ounces during the week. Afterlosing 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 withher deft, nimble hands, jesting the while and answering each of hisplaintive wails. 

"Yes, yes, I know, we are very, very hungry. But it is all right; thesoup is on the fire, and will be served to Monsieur smoking hot. "

On awakening that morning she had made a real Sunday toilette: hersuperb hair was caught up in a huge chignon which disclosed thewhiteness of her neck, and she wore a white flannel lace-trimmeddressing-jacket, which allowed but a little of her bare arms to be seen. Propped up by two pillows, she laughingly offered her breast to thechild, 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, thenwent to draw one of the curtains, but Marianne exclaimed: "No, no, leaveus the sun; it doesn't inconvenience us at all, it fills our veins withspringtide. "

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 nomore glorious blossoming, no more sacred symbol of living eternitythan an infant at its mother's breast. It is like a prolongation ofmaternity's travail, when the mother continues giving herself to herbabe, 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 himto her bosom, that he may there again have warmth and nourishment. Andnothing could be more simple or more necessary. Marianne, both for herown sake and that of her boy, in order that beauty and health mightremain their portion, was naturally his nurse. 

Little Gervais was still sucking when Zoe, after tidying the room, cameup again with a big bunch of lilac, and announced that Monsieur andMadame Angelin had called, on their way back from an early walk, toinquire after Madame. 

"Show them up, " said Marianne gayly; "I can well receive them. "

The Angelins were the young couple who, having installed themselves ina little house at Janville, ever roamed the lonely paths, absorbed intheir mutual passion. She was delicious--dark, tall, admirably formed, always joyous and fond of pleasure. He, a handsome fellow, fairand square shouldered, had the gallant mien of a musketeer with hisstreaming moustache. In addition to their ten thousand francs a year, which enabled them to live as they liked, he earned a little moneyby painting pretty fans, flowery with roses and little women deftlypostured. And so their life had hitherto been a game of love, aneverlasting billing and cooing. Towards the close of the previous summerthey had become quite intimate with the Froments, through meeting themwell-nigh every day. 

"Can we come in? Are we not intruding?" called Angelin, in his sonorousvoice, from the landing. 

Then Claire, his wife, as soon as she had kissed Marianne, apologizedfor having called so early. 

"We only learnt last night, my dear, " said she, "that you had arrivedthe day before. We didn't expect you for another eight or ten days. Andso, as we passed the house just now, we couldn't resist calling. Youwill forgive us, won't you?" Then, never waiting for an answer, sheadded with the petulant vivacity of a tom-tit whom the open air hadintoxicated: "Oh! so there is the new little gentleman--a boy, am Inot right? And your health is good? But really I need not ask it. _MonDieu_, what a pretty little fellow he is! Look at him, Robert; howpretty he is! A real little doll! Isn't he funny now, isn't he funny! Heis quite amusing. "

Her husband, observing her gayety, drew near and began to admire thechild by way of following her example. "Ah yes, he is really a prettybaby. But I have seen so many frightful ones--thin, puny, bluish littlethings, looking like little plucked chickens. When they are white andplump they are quite nice. "

Mathieu began to laugh, and twitted the Angelins on having no childof their own. But on this point they held very decided opinions. Theywished to enjoy life, unburdened by offspring, while they were young. Asfor what might happen in five or six years' time, that, of course, wasanother matter. Nevertheless, Madame Angelin could not help being struckby the delightful picture which Marianne, so fresh and gay, presentedwith her plump little babe at her breast in that white bed amid thebright sunshine. 

At last she remarked: "There's one thing. I certainly could not feed achild. 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 andapologized to Marianne, explaining that no mother possessed of means wasnowadays willing to face the trouble and worry of nursing. 

"Oh! for my part, " Marianne responded, with her quiet smile, "if I had ahundred thousand francs a year I should nurse all my children, even werethere a dozen of them. To begin with, it is so healthful, you know, bothfor mother and child: and if I didn't do my duty to the little oneI should look on myself as a criminal, as a mother who grudged heroffspring health and life. "

Lowering her beautiful soft eyes towards her boy, she watched him with alook of infinite love, while he continued nursing gluttonously. And in adreamy 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 entirelymy own. And it isn't merely a question of a child's physical health. Ispeak of his whole being, of the intelligence and heart that will cometo him, and which he ought to derive from me alone. If I should findhim foolish or malicious later on, I should think that his nurse hadpoisoned him. Dear little fellow! when he pulls like that it is as if hewere drinking me up entirely. "

Then Mathieu, deeply moved, turned towards the others, saying: "Ah! sheis quite right. I only wish that every mother could hear her, and makeit the fashion in France once more to suckle their infants. It would besufficient if it became an ideal of beauty. And, indeed, is it not ofthe loftiest and brightest beauty?"

The Angelins complaisantly began to laugh, but they did not seemconvinced. Just as they rose to take their leave an extraordinary uproarburst forth beneath the window, the piercing clamor of little wildings, freely romping in the fields. And it was all caused by Ambroise throwinga ball, which had lodged itself on a tree. Blaise and Denis wereflinging stones at it to bring it down, and Rose called and jumped andstretched out her arms as if she hoped to be able to reach the ball. TheAngelins stopped short, surprised and almost nervous. 

"Good heavens!" murmured Claire, "what will it be when you have adozen?"

"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 whenI can get about. "

The months of March and April proved superb, and all went well withMarianne. Thus the lonely little house, nestling amid foliage, was everjoyous. Each Sunday in particular proved a joy, for the father did notthen have to go to his office. On the other days he started off earlyin the morning, and returned about seven o'clock, ever busily laden withwork in the interval. And if his constant perambulations did not affecthis good-humor, he was nevertheless often haunted by thoughts of thefuture. Formerly he had never been alarmed by the penury of his littlehome. 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 tolive there in very simple fashion, leading a brave life of health, peacefulness, and love. But while he did not desire the power procuredby a high position and the enjoyment offered by a large fortune, hecould not help asking himself how he was to provide, were it ever somodestly, for his increasing family. What would he be able to do, shouldhe have other children; how would he procure the necessaries of lifeeach time that a fresh birth might impose fresh requirements upon him?One situated as he was must create resources, draw food from the earthstep by step, each time a little mouth opened and cried its hungeraloud. Otherwise he would be guilty of criminal improvidence. And suchreflections as these came upon him the more strongly as his penury hadincreased since the birth of Gervais--to such a point, indeed, thatMarianne, despite prodigies of economy, no longer knew how to make hermoney last her till the end of the month. The slightest expenditure hadto be debated; the very butter had to be spread thinly on the children'sbread; and they had to continue wearing their blouses till they werewell-nigh threadbare. To increase the embarrassment they grew everyyear, and cost more money. It had been necessary to send the three boysto 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 acollege, 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 somewhatspoilt that charming spring whose advent was flowering the countryside. 

The worst was that Mathieu deemed himself immured, as it were, in hisposition as designer at the Beauchene works. Even admitting that hissalary should some day be doubled, it was not seven or eight thousandfrancs a year which would enable him to realize his dream of a numerousfamily freely and proudly growing and spreading like some happy forest, indebted solely for strength, health, and beauty to the good commonmother 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 butever-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 onthe margin of a river whose waters glistened in the sunshine, and nowamid the nettles of some stony moorland. All sorts of vague plansthen rose within him, uncertain reveries of such vast scope, suchsingularity, that he had as yet spoken of them to nobody, not even hiswife. Others would doubtless have mocked at him, for he had as yet butreached that dim, quivering hour when inventors feel the gust of theirdiscovery sweep over them, before the idea that they are revolvingpresents itself with full precision to their minds. Yet why did he notaddress himself to the soil, man's everlasting provider and nurse? Whydid he not clear and fertilize those far-spreading lands, those woods, those heaths, those stretches of stony ground which were leftsterile around him? Since it was just that each man should bring hiscontribution to the common weal, create subsistence for himself and hisoffspring, why should not he, at the advent of each new child, supplya new field of fertile earth which would give that child food, withoutcost to the community? That was his sole idea; it took no more preciseshape; at the thought of realizing it he was carried off into splendiddreams. 

The Froments had been in the country fully a month when one eveningMarianne, wheeling Gervais's little carriage in front of her, came asfar as the bridge over the Yeuse to await Mathieu, who had promisedto return early. Indeed, he got there before six o'clock. And asthe evening was fine, it occurred to Marianne to go as far as theLepailleurs' 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 anotherone 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 theLepailleurs, the man tall, dry, and carroty, the woman as carroty andas dry as himself, but both of them young and hardy. Their child Antoninwas sitting on the ground, digging a hole with his little hands. 

"Eggs?" La Lepailleur exclaimed; "yes, certainly, madame, there must besome. "

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, " sheremarked. 

But Lepailleur raised a derisive laugh, and with the familiarity whichthe 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 bea deal too many for poor folks like us. "

"Why?" Mathieu quietly inquired. "Haven't you got this mill, and don'tyou own fields, to give labor to the arms that would come and whoselabor would double and treble your produce?"

These simple words were like a whipstroke that made Lepailleur rear. Andonce again he poured forth all his spite. Ah! surely now, it wasn't histumble-down old mill that would ever enrich him, since it had enrichedneither his father nor his grandfather. And as for his fields, well, that was a pretty dowry that his wife had brought him, land in whichnothing more would grow, and which, however much one might water it withone's sweat, did not even pay for manuring and sowing. 

"But in the first place, " resumed Mathieu, "your mill ought to berepaired and its old mechanism replaced, or, better still, you shouldbuy a good steam-engine. "

"Repair the mill! Buy an engine! Why, that's madness, " the otherreplied. "What would be the use of it? As it is, people hereabouts havealmost renounced growing corn, and I remain idle every other month. "

"And then, " continued Mathieu, "if your fields yield less, it is becauseyou cultivate them badly, following the old routine, without proper careor appliances or artificial manure. "

"Appliances! Artificial manure! All that humbug which has only sentpoor folks to rack and ruin! Ah! I should just like to see you trying tocultivate the land better, and make it yield what it'll never yield anymore. "

Thereupon he quite lost his temper, became violent and brutal, launchingagainst the ungrateful earth all the charges which his love of idlenessand his obstinacy suggested. He had travelled, he had fought in Africaas a soldier, folks could not say that he had always lived in his holelike an ignorant beast. But, none the less, on leaving his regiment hehad lost all taste for work and come to the conclusion that agriculturewas doomed, and would never give him aught but dry bread to eat. Theland 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 oforder nowadays; they had snow in July and thunderstorms in December, aperfect upsetting of seasons, which wrecked the crops almost before theywere out of the ground. 

"No, monsieur, " said Lepailleur, "what you say is impossible; it's allpast. The soil and work, there's nothing left of either. It's barefacedrobbery, and though the peasant may kill himself with labor, he willsoon 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 hiswill! If he takes to schooling and wishes to go to Paris, I shall tellhim that he's quite right, for Paris is nowadays the only chance forsturdy chaps who want to make a fortune. So he will be at liberty tosell everything, if he chooses, and try his luck there. The only thingthat I regret is that I didn't make the venture myself when there wasstill time. "

Mathieu began to laugh. Was it not singular that he, a bourgeois witha bachelor's degree and scientific attainments, should dream of comingback to the soil, to the common mother of all labor and wealth, whenthis peasant, sprung from peasants, cursed and insulted the earth, andhoped that his son would altogether renounce it? Never had anythingstruck him as more significant. It symbolized that disastrous exodusfrom the rural districts towards the towns, an exodus which year by yearincreased, unhinging the nation and reducing it to anaemia. 

"You are wrong, " he said in a jovial way so as to drive all bitternessfrom the discussion. "Don't be unfaithful to the earth; she's an oldmistress who would revenge herself. In your place I would lay myself outto obtain from her, by increase of care, all that I might want. As inthe world's early days, she is still the great fruitful spouse, and sheyields abundantly when she is loved in proper fashion. "

But Lepailleur, raising his fists, retorted: "No, no; I've had enough ofher!"

"And, by the way, " continued Mathieu, "one thing which astonishes meis that no courageous, intelligent man has ever yet come forward todo something with all that vast abandoned estate yonder--thatChantebled--which old Seguin, formerly, dreamt of turning into aprincely domain. There are great stretches of waste land, woods whichone might partly fell, heaths and moorland which might easily berestored to cultivation. What a splendid task! What a work of creationfor a bold man to undertake!"

This so amazed Lepailleur that he stood there openmouthed. Then hisjeering spirit asserted itself: "But, my dear sir--excuse my sayingit--you must be mad! Cultivate Chantebled, clear those stony tracts, wade about in those marshes! Why, one might bury millions therewithout reaping a single bushel of oats! It's a cursed spot, which mygrandfather's father saw such as it is now, and which my grandson'sson will see just the same. Ah! well, I'm not inquisitive, but it wouldreally amuse me to meet the fool who might attempt such madness. "

"_Mon Dieu_, who knows?" Mathieu quietly concluded. "When one only lovesstrongly one may work miracles. "

La Lepailleur, after going to fetch a dozen eggs, now stood erectbefore her husband in admiration at hearing him talk so eloquently toa bourgeois. They agreed very well together in their avaricious rage atbeing unable to amass money by the handful without any great exertion, and in their ambition to make their son a gentleman, since only agentleman could become wealthy. And thus, as Marianne was going offafter placing the eggs under a cushion in Gervais' little carriage, theother complacently called her attention to Antonin, who, having made ahole in the ground, was now spitting into it. 

"Oh! he's smart, " said she; "he knows his alphabet already, and we aregoing to put him to school. If he takes after his father he will be nofool, 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 thosehe loved, fell suddenly upon Mathieu during a walk he took with his wifeand the children. They had gone out for the whole afternoon, taking alittle snack with them in order that they might share it amid the longgrass in the fields. And after scouring the paths, crossing the copses, rambling over the moorland, they came back to the verge of the woods andsat down under an oak. Thence the whole expanse spread out before them, from the little pavilion where they dwelt to the distant village ofJanville. On their right was the great marshy plateau, from which broad, dry, sterile slopes descended; while lower ground stretched away ontheir left. Then, behind them, spread the woods with deep thicketsparted 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 wildNature, grandly quiescent under the bright sun of that splendid Aprilday. 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 vigoroustrees, the spreading plants, and the impetuous growth of brambles andnettles which stretched invadingly over the soil. And on all sides apowerful, pungent odor was diffused. 

"Don't go too far, " Marianne called to the children; "we shall stayunder this oak. We will have something to eat by and by. "

Blaise and Denis were already bounding along, followed by Ambroise, tosee who could run the fastest; but Rose pettishly called them back, forshe preferred to play at gathering wild flowers. The open air fairlyintoxicated the youngsters; the herbage rose, here and there, to theirvery shoulders. But they came back and gathered flowers; and aftera time they set off at a wild run once more, one of the big brotherscarrying the little sister on his back. 

Mathieu, however, had remained absent-minded, with his eyes wanderinghither and thither, throughout their walk. At times he did not hearMarianne when she spoke to him; he lapsed into reverie before someuncultivated tract, some copse overrun with brushwood, some spring whichsuddenly bubbled up and was then lost in mire. Nevertheless, she feltthat there was no sadness nor feeling of indifference in his heart; foras soon as he returned to her he laughed once more with his soft, lovinglaugh. It was she who often sent him roaming about the country, evenalone, for she felt that it would do him good; and although she hadguessed that something very serious was passing through his mind, sheretained full confidence, waiting till it should please him to speak toher. 

Now, however, just as he had sunk once more into his reverie, his glancewandering afar, studying the great varied expanse of land, she raised alight cry: "Oh! look, look!"

Under the big oak tree she had placed Master Gervais in his littlecarriage, among wild weeds which hid its wheels. And while she handeda little silver mug, from which it was intended they should drink whiletaking their snack, she had noticed that the child raised his head andfollowed the movement of her hand, in which the silver sparkled beneaththe sun-rays. Forthwith she repeated the experiment, and again thechild's eyes followed the starry gleam. 

"Ah! it can't be said that I'm mistaken, and am simply fancying it!" sheexclaimed. "It is certain that he can see quite plainly now. My prettypet, my little darling!"

She darted to the child to kiss him in celebration of that first clearglance. And then, too, came the delight of the first smile. 

"Why, look!" in his turn said Mathieu, who was leaning over the childbeside her, yielding to the same feeling of rapture, "there he issmiling at you now. But of course, as soon as these little fellows seeclearly they begin to laugh. "

She herself burst into a laugh. "You are right, he is laughing! Ah! howfunny he looks, and how happy I am!"

Both father and mother laughed together with content at the sight ofthat infantile smile, vague and fleeting, like a faint ripple on thepure water of some spring. 

Amid this joy Marianne called the four others, who were bounding underthe young foliage around them: "Come, Rose! come, Ambroise! come, Blaiseand 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 littlevehicle; and Marianne, having drawn some slices of bread-and-butter fromit, proceeded to distribute them. Perfect silence ensued while all fourchildren began biting with hearty appetite, which it was a pleasure tosee. But all at once a scream arose. It came from Master Gervais, whowas vexed at not having been served first. 

"Ah! yes, it's true I was forgetting you, " said Marianne gayly; "youshall have your share. There, open your mouth, you darling;" and, withan easy, simple gesture, she unfastened her dress-body; and then, underthe sunlight which steeped her in golden radiance, in full view of thefar-spreading countryside, where all likewise was bare--the soil, thetrees, the plants, streaming with sap--having seated herself in the longgrass, where she almost disappeared amid the swarming growth of April'sgerms, the babe on her breast eagerly sucked in her warm milk, even asall the encompassing verdure was sucking life from the soil. 

"How hungry you are!" she exclaimed. "Don't pinch me so hard, you littleglutton!"

Meantime Mathieu had remained standing amid the enchantment of thechild'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 voiceto those plans for the future which haunted him, and of which he had sofar spoken to nobody: "Ah, well, it is high time that I should set towork and found a kingdom, if these children are to have enough soup tomake 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 yoursecret if the time has come. Oh! I could guess that you had some greathope 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 hisfeelings rebelled. "That Lepailleur, " said he, "is simply a lazy fellowand a fool in spite of all his cunning airs. Can there be any moresacrilegious folly than to imagine that the earth has lost herfruitfulness and is becoming bankrupt--she, the eternal mother, eternal life? She only shows herself a bad mother to her bad sons, themalicious, the obstinate, and the dull-witted, who do not know how tolove and cultivate her. But if an intelligent son comes and devoteshimself to her, and works her with the help of experience and allthe new systems of science, you will soon see her quicken and yieldtremendous harvests unceasingly. Ah! folks say in the district that thisestate of Chantebled has never yielded and never will yield anything butnettles. Well, nevertheless, a man will come who will transform it andmake it a new land of joy and abundance. "

Then, suddenly turning round, with outstretched arm, and pointing tothe spots to which he referred in turn, he went on: "Yonder in the rearthere are nearly five hundred acres of little woods, stretching as faras the farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. They are separated by clearingsof excellent soil which broad gaps unite, and which could easily beturned into good pastures, for there are numerous springs. And, indeed, the springs become so abundant on the right, that they have changed thatbig plateau into a kind of marshland, dotted with ponds, and plantedwith reeds and rushes. But picture a man of bold mind, a clearer, aconqueror, who should drain those lands and rid them of superfluouswater by means of a few canals which might easily be dug! Why, then ahuge stretch of land would be reclaimed, handed over to cultivation, andwheat would grow there with extraordinary vigor. But that is not all. There is the expanse before us, those gentle slopes from Janville toVieux-Bourg, that is another five hundred acres, which are left almostuncultivated on account of their dryness, the stony poverty of theirsoil. So it is all very simple. One would merely have to take thesources up yonder, the waters, now stagnant, and carry them acrossthose sterile slopes, which, when irrigated, would gradually developextraordinary fertility. I have seen everything, I have studiedeverything. I feel that there are at least twelve hundred acres of landwhich a bold creator might turn into a most productive estate. Yonderlies 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, thesource 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 frightenedby the vastness of such hopes, and could not restrain a cry ofdisquietude and prudence. 

"No, no, that is too much; you desire the impossible. How can you thinkthat we shall ever possess so much--that our fortune will spread overthe entire region? Think of the capital, the arms that would be neededfor such a conquest!"

For a moment Mathieu remained silent on thus suddenly being brought backto reality. Then with his affectionate, sensible air, he began to laugh. "You are right; I have been dreaming and talking wildly, " he replied. "Iam not yet so ambitious as to wish to be King of Chantebled. But thereis truth in what I have said to you; and, besides, what harm canthere be in dreaming of great plans to give oneself faith and courage?Meantime I intend to try cultivating just a few acres, which Seguin willno doubt sell me cheaply enough, together with the little pavilion inwhich we live. I know that the unproductiveness of the estate weighs onhim. And, later on, we shall see if the earth is disposed to love us andcome to us as we go to her. Ah well, my dear, give that little gluttonplenty of life, and you, my darlings, eat and drink and grow instrength, for the earth belongs to those who are healthy and numerous. "

Blaise and Denis made answer by taking some fresh slices ofbread-and-butter, while Rose drained the mug of wine and waterwhich Ambroise handed her. And Marianne sat there like the symbol ofblossoming Fruitfulness, the source of vigor and conquest, while Gervaisheartily nursed on. He pulled so hard, indeed, that one could hear thesound of his lips. It was like the faint noise which attends the riseof 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 onall sides. She was not nourishing alone: the sap of April was dilatingthe land, sending a quiver through the woods, raising the long herbagewhich embowered her. And beneath her, from the bosom of the earth, which was ever in travail, she felt that flood of sap reaching and everpervading her. And it was like a stream of milk flowing through theworld, a stream of eternal life for humanity's eternal crop. And onthat gay day of spring the dazzling, singing, fragrant countryside wassteeped in it all, triumphal with that beauty of the mother, who, in thefull light of the sun, in view of the vast horizon, sat there nursingher 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 seeNorine at Madame Bourdieu's. He knew that she had given birth to a childa fortnight previously, and he wished to ascertain the exact state ofaffairs, in order to carry to an end the mission with which Beauchenehad intrusted him. As the other, however, had never again spoken tohim on the subject, he simply told him that he was going out in theafternoon, without indicating the motive of his absence. At the sametime he knew what secret relief Beauchene would experience when he atlast learnt that the whole business was at an end--the child cast adriftand the mother following her own course. 

On reaching the Rue de Miromesnil, Mathieu had to go up to Norine'sroom, 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 acradle, he was surprised to see the infant, of which, he thought, shehad 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 wouldhave 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, hadsent them to make inquiries, and give Norine three big oranges, whichglistened on the table beside the bed. The little girls had made thejourney on foot, greatly interested by all the sights of the streets andthe displays in the shop-windows. And now they were enraptured with thefine house in which they found their big sister sojourning, and full ofcuriosity with respect to the baby which slept under the cradle's muslincurtains. 

Mathieu made the usual inquiries of Norine, who answered him gayly, butpouted 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 waspresent, a pale little creature with wavy red hair, tip-tilted nose, andlong mouth, whom he had already seen there on the occasion of a previousvisit. 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 onthe morrow, having already sent her child to the Foundling Hospital; andin the meantime she was mending some things for Rosine, the well-to-doyoung person of great beauty whom Mathieu had previously espied, andwhose story, according to Norine, was so sadly pathetic. 

Victoire ceased sewing and raised her head. She was a servant girl bycalling, one of those unlucky creatures who are overtaken by troublewhen they have scarce arrived in the great city from their nativevillage. "Well, " said she, "it's quite certain that one won't be ableto dawdle in bed, and that one won't have warm milk given one to drinkbefore getting up. But, all the same, it isn't lively to see nothing butthat big gray wall yonder from the window. And, besides, one can't go onforever 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 ofthem. 

"And so, my pussies, " said she, "you say that papa's still angry withme, and that I'm not to go back home. "

"Oh!" cried Cecile, "it's not so much that he's angry, but he says thatall the neighbors would point their fingers at him if he let you comehome. Besides, Euphrasie keeps his anger up, particularly since she'sarranged to get married. "

"What! Euphrasie going to be married? You didn't tell me that. "

Norine looked very vexed, particularly when her sisters, speaking bothtogether, told her that the future husband was Auguste Benard, a jovialyoung mason who lived on the floor above them. He had taken a fancy toEuphrasie, though she had no good looks, and was as thin, at eighteen, as a grasshopper. Doubtless, however, he considered her strong andhard-working. 

"Much good may it do them!" said Norine spitefully. "Why, with her eviltemper, she'll be beating him before six months are over. You can justtell mamma that I don't care a rap for any of you, and that I neednobody. 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 byyou 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 calledthe girls her "little pussies, " kissed them tenderly, and told them thatalthough they must run away now they might come back another day to seeher if it amused them. "Thank mamma from me for her oranges. And as forthe baby, well, you may look at it, but you mustn't touch it, for if itwoke up we shouldn't be able to hear ourselves. "

Then, as the two children leant inquisitively over the cradle, Mathieualso glanced at it, and saw a healthy, sturdy-looking child, with asquare face and strong features. And it seemed to him that the infantwas singularly like Beauchene. 

At that moment, however, Madame Bourdieu came in, accompanied bya woman, whom he recognized as Sophie Couteau, "La Couteau, " thatnurse-agent whom he had seen at the Seguins' one day when she had gonethither to offer to procure them a nurse. She also certainly recognizedthis gentleman, whose wife, proud of being able to suckle her ownchildren, had evinced such little inclination to help others to dobusiness. She pretended, however, that she saw him for the first time;for she was discreet by profession and not even inquisitive, since somany matters were ever coming to her knowledge without the asking. 

Little Cecile and little Irma went off at once; and then MadameBourdieu, addressing Norine, inquired: "Well, my child, have youthought it over; have you quite made up your mind about that poor littledarling, who is sleeping there so prettily? Here is the person I spoketo you about. She comes from Normandy every fortnight, bringing nursesto Paris; and each time she takes babies away with her to put them outto nurse in the country. Though you say you won't feed it, you surelyneed not cast off your child altogether; you might confide it to thisperson until you are in a position to take it back. Or else, if you havemade up your mind to abandon it altogether, she will kindly take it tothe Foundling Hospital at once. "

Great perturbation had come over Norine, who let her head fall back onher pillow, over which streamed her thick fair hair, whilst her facedarkened and she stammered: "_Mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_! you are going toworry me again!"

Then she pressed her hands to her eyes as if anxious to see nothingmore. 

"This is what the regulations require of me, monsieur, " said MadameBourdieu to Mathieu in an undertone, while leaving the young mother fora moment to her reflections. "We are recommended to do all we can topersuade our boarders, especially when they are situated like this one, to nurse their infants. You are aware that this often saves not only thechild, 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 nearher as long as possible, and feed it with the bottle, in the hope thatthe sight of the poor little creature may touch her heart and awakenfeelings of motherliness in her. Nine times out of ten, as soon as shegives the child the breast, she is vanquished, and she keeps it. That iswhy you still see this baby here. "

Mathieu, feeling greatly moved, drew near to Norine, who still lay backamid 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 notyourself keep that dear little fellow?"

Then she uncovered her burning, tearless face: "Did the father even cometo see me?" she asked bitterly. "I can't love the child of a man whohas 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 mightprove a great consolation. "

"No, I tell you no, I won't. I can't keep a child like that with nobodyto help me. We all know what we can do, don't we? Well, it is of no usemy questioning myself. I'm not brave enough, I'm not stupid enough to dosuch a thing. No, no, and no. "

He said no more, for he realized that nothing would prevail over thatthirst for liberty which she felt in the depths of her being. With agesture he expressed his sadness, but he was neither indignant nor angrywith her, for others had made her what she was. 

"Well, it's understood, you won't be forced to feed it, " resumed MadameBourdieu, attempting a final effort. "But it isn't praiseworthy toabandon the child. Why not trust it to Madame here, who would put it outto nurse, so that you would be able to take it back some day, when youhave found work? It wouldn't cost much, and no doubt the father wouldpay. "

This time Norine flew into a passion. "He! pay? Ah! you don't knowhim. It's not that the money would inconvenience him, for he's amillionnaire. But all he wants is to see the little one disappear. If hehad dared he would have told me to kill it! Just ask that gentleman if Ispeak the truth. You see that he keeps silent! And how am I to paywhen 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, Ican'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 beentorturing me with that child, by keeping him near me, with the ideathat I should end by nursing him. You bring him to me, and set him on myknees, so that I may look at him and kiss him. You are always worryingme with him, and making him cry with the hope that I shall pity him andtake him to my breast. But, _mon Dieu_! can't you understand that if Iturn my head away, if I don't want to kiss him or even to see him, it isbecause 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 farhappier by himself! So, I beg you, let him be taken away at once, anddon't torture me any more. "

Sobbing violently, she again sank back in bed, and buried herdishevelled head in the pillows. 

La Couteau had remained waiting, mute and motionless, at the foot of thebedstead. In her gown of dark woollen stuff and her black cap trimmedwith yellow ribbons she retained the air of a peasant woman in herSunday best. And she strove to impart an expression of compassionategood-nature to her long, avaricious, false face. Although it seemed toher unlikely that business would ensue, she risked a repetition of hercustomary speech. 

"At Rougemont, you know, madame, your little one would be just the sameas at home. There's no better air in the Department; people come therefrom Bayeux to recruit their health. And if you only knew how well thelittle ones are cared for! It's the only occupation of the district, to have little Parisians to coddle and love! And, besides, I wouldn'tcharge 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 puther out to take a fourth for almost next to nothing. Come, doesn't thatsuit you--doesn't that tempt you?"

When, however, she saw that tears were Norine's only answer, she madean impatient gesture like an active woman who cannot afford to loseher time. At each of her fortnightly journeys, as soon as she had ridherself of her batch of nurses at the different offices, she hastenedround the nurses' establishments to pick up infants, so as to take thetrain homewards the same evening together with two or three women who, as she put it, helped her "to cart the little ones about. " On thisoccasion she was in a greater hurry, as Madame Bourdieu, who employedher in a variety of ways, had asked her to take Norine's child to theFoundling Hospital if she did not take it to Rougemont. 

"And so, " said La Couteau, turning to Madame Bourdieu, "I shall haveonly the other lady's child to take back with me. Well, I had bettersee her at once to make final arrangements. Then I'll take this oneand carry it yonder as fast as possible, for my train starts at sixo'clock. "

When La Couteau and Madame Bourdieu had gone off to speak to Rosine, whowas the "other lady" referred to, the room sank into silence save forthe wailing and sobbing of Norine. Mathieu had seated himself near thecradle, gazing compassionately at the poor little babe, who was stillpeacefully sleeping. Soon, however, Victoire, the little servant girl, who had hitherto remained silent, as if absorbed in her sewing, brokethe heavy silence and talked on slowly and interminably without raisingher 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 bebetter off there than in her hands. At least he will have a chance tolive. And that's why I insisted, like you, on having mine taken thereat once. You know I belong in that woman's region--yes, I come fromBerville, which is barely four miles from Rougemont, and I can't helpknowing 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 sheplies, selling other people's milk. She was no better than she shouldbe 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 hehelps her. Yes, he also brings nurses to Paris and takes babies backwith him, at busy times. But between them they have more murderson their consciences than all the assassins that have ever beenguillotined. The mayor of Berville, a bourgeois who's retired frombusiness and a worthy man, said that Rougemont was the curse of theDepartment. I know well enough that there's always been some rivalrybetween Rougemont and Berville; but, the folks of Rougemont ply a wickedtrade with the babies they get from Paris. All the inhabitants haveended 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 beas many funerals as possible. Ah! yes, people don't keep theirstock-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 asmany babies as possible at each journey she makes. "

Victoire recounted these dreadful things in her simple way, as onewhom 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 haveheard my father say that, in his time, the agents would bring back fouror five children at one journey--perfect parcels of babies, which theytied together and carried under their arms. They set them out in rowson the seats in the waiting-rooms at the station; and one day, indeed, aRougemont agent forgot one child in a waiting-room, and there was quitea 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 littlethings there was, all crying with hunger. It became pitiable in wintertime, when there was snow and frost, for they were all shivering andblue with cold in their scanty, ragged swaddling-clothes. One or anotheroften died on the way, and then it was removed at the next station andburied in the nearest cemetery. And you can picture what a state thosewho didn't die were in. At our place we care better for our pigs, for wecertainly wouldn't send them travelling in that fashion. My fatherused to say that it was enough to make the very stones weep. Nowadays, however, there's more supervision; the regulations allow the agentsto take only one nursling back at a time. But they know all sorts oftricks, and often take a couple. And then, too, they make arrangements;they have women who help them, and they avail themselves of those whomay be going back into the country alone. Yes, La Couteau has all sortsof tricks to evade the law. And, besides, all the folks of Rougemontclose their eyes--they are too much interested in keeping businessbrisk; and all they fear is that the police may poke their noses intotheir affairs. Ah! it is all very well for the Government to sendinspectors every month, and insist on registers, and the Mayor'ssignature and the stamp of the Commune; why, it's just as if it didnothing. It doesn't prevent these women from quietly plying their tradeand sending as many little ones as they can to kingdom-come. We've gota cousin at Rougemont who said to us one day: 'La Malivoire's preciouslucky, she got rid of four more during last month. '"

Victoire paused for a moment to thread her needle. Norine was stillweeping, while Mathieu listened, mute with horror, and with his eyesfixed 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 knowthree or four baby-farmers who are not worth their salt. The rule isto bring the little ones up with the bottle, you know; and you'd behorrified if you saw what bottles they are--never cleaned, alwaysfilthy, with the milk inside them icy cold in the winter and sour in thesummer. La Vimeux, for her part, thinks that the bottle system costs toomuch, and so she feeds her children on soup. That clears them off allthe quicker. At La Loiseau's you have to hold your nose when you go nearthe corner where the little ones sleep--their rags are so filthy. As forLa Gavette, she's always working in the fields with her man, so that thethree or four nurslings that she generally has are left in charge of thegrandfather, an old cripple of seventy, who can't even prevent the fowlsfrom coming to peck at the little ones. * And things are worse even at LaCauchois', for, as she has nobody at all to mind the children when shegoes out working, she leaves them tied in their cradles, for fear lestthey should tumble out and crack their skulls. You might visit all thehouses 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 partthere 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 thiefwho once did six months in prison, and who now lives a little way outof the village on the verge of the wood. No live child has ever leftLa Couillard's. That's her specialty. When you see an agent, like LaCouteau, for instance, taking her a child, you know at once what's inthe 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 orfour hundred francs on condition that the little one shall be kept tillhis first communion, and you may be quite certain that he dies withina week. It's only necessary to leave a window open near him, as a nurseused to do whom my father knew. At winter time, when she had half adozen babies in her house, she would set the door wide open and thengo 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 herthe other day to give her a sum of four hundred francs down on theunderstanding that she should have nothing more to do in the matter. "

At this point Victoire ceased speaking, for La Couteau came in to fetchNorine's child. Norine, who had emerged from her distress during theservant girl's stories, had ended by listening to them with greatinterest. But directly she perceived the agent she once more hid herface in her pillows, as though she feared to see what was about tohappen. Mathieu, on his side, had risen from his chair and stood therequivering. 

"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 thebirth and the address. Only I ought to have some Christian names. Whatdo you wish the child to be called?"

Norine did not at first answer. Then, in a faint distressful voice, shesaid: "Alexandre. "

"Alexandre, very well. But you would do better to give the boy a secondChristian name, so as to identify him the more readily, if some day youtake 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?* Andthe first is the father's? That is settled; and now I've everything Ineed. Only it's four o'clock already, and I shall never get back in timefor the six o'clock train if I don't take a cab. It's such a long wayoff--the other side of the Luxembourg. And a cab costs money. How shallwe 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 fewfrancs from the distressed girl, it suddenly occurred to Mathieu tocarry out his mission to the very end by driving with her himself tothe Foundling Hospital, so that he might be in a position to informBeauchene that the child had really been deposited there, in hispresence. So he told La Couteau that he would go down with her, take acab, and bring her back. 

"All right; that will suit me. Let us be off! It's a pity to wake thelittle one, since he's so sound asleep; but all the same, we must packhim off, since it's decided. "

With her dry hands, which were used to handling goods of thisdescription, she caught up the child, perhaps, however, a littleroughly, forgetting her assumed wheedling good nature now that she wassimply charged with conveying it to hospital. And the child awoke andbegan 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 underher sheets, carrying her hands to her ears, distracted as she was bythe sound of those cries. "No, no, " she gasped, "take him away; take himaway at once. Don't begin torturing me again!"

Then she closed her eyes, and with one arm repulsed the child who seemedto be pursuing her. But when she felt that the agent was laying him onthe bed, she suddenly shuddered, sat up, and gave a wild hasty kiss, which lighted on the little fellow's cap. She had scarcely opened hertear-dimmed eyes, and could have seen but a vague phantom of that poorfeeble creature, wailing and struggling at the decisive moment when hewas 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 ofthe vehicle calmed him, or the creaking of the wheels filled him withemotion. La Couteau, who kept him on her knees, at first remainedsilent, as if interested in the people on the footwalks, where thebright 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 upfinely at Rougemont. But there! they all imagine that we simply worrythem because we want to do business. But I just ask you, if she hadgiven me five francs for myself and paid my return journey, would thathave ruined her? A pretty girl like her oughtn't to be hard up formoney. I know very well that in our calling there are some people whoare hardly honest, who speculate and ask for commissions, and then putout 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 weregoods--poultry or vegetables. When folks do that I can understand thattheir hearts get hardened, and that they pass the little ones on fromhand to hand without any more care than if they were stock-in-trade. Butthen, monsieur, I'm an honest woman; I'm authorized by the mayor of ourvillage; I hold a certificate of morality, which I can show to anybody. If ever you should come to Rougemont, just ask after Sophie Couteauthere. Folks will tell you that I'm a hard-working woman, and don't owea copper to a soul!"

Mathieu could not help looking at her to see how unblushingly she thuspraised herself. And her speech struck him as if it were a premeditatedreply to all that Victoire had related of her, for, with the keen scentof a shrewd peasant woman, she must have guessed that charges had beenbrought against her. When she felt that his piercing glance was divingto her very soul, she doubtless feared that she had not lied withsufficient assurance, and had somehow negligently betrayed herself; forshe did not insist, but put on more gentleness of manner, and contentedherself with praising Rougemont in a general way, saying what a perfectparadise it was, where the little ones were received, fed, cared for, and coddled as if they were all sons of princes. Then, seeing that thegentleman uttered never a word, she became silent once more. It wasevidently useless to try to win him over. And meantime the cab rolledand rolled along; streets followed streets, ever noisy and crowded; andthey crossed the Seine and at last drew near to the Luxembourg. It wasonly after passing the palace gardens that La Couteau again began:

"Well, it's that young person's own affair if she imagines that herchild will be better off for passing through the Foundling. I don'tattack the Administration, but you know, monsieur, there's a good dealto be said on the matter. At Rougemont we have a number of nurslingsthat it sends us, and they don't grow any better or die less frequentlythan the others. Well, well, people are free to act as they fancy; butall the same I should like you to know, as I do, all that goes on inthere. "

The cab had stopped at the top of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau, at a shortdistance 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 LaCouteau went in with the child. Mathieu followed her, but he did notenter the office where a woman received the children. He felt too muchemotion, and feared lest he should be questioned; it was, indeed, as ifhe considered himself an accomplice in a crime. Though La Couteau toldhim that the woman would ask him nothing, and the strictest secrecywas always observed, he preferred to wait in an anteroom, which ledto several closed compartments, where the persons who came to depositchildren were placed to wait their turn. And he watched the woman gooff, 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 twentyminutes, it seemed terribly long to Mathieu. Lifeless quietude reignedin that stern, sad-looking anteroom, wainscoted with oak, and pervadedwith the smell peculiar to hospitals. All he heard was the occasionalfaint wail of some infant, above which now and then rose a heavy, restrained sob, coming perhaps from some mother who was waiting in oneof the adjoining compartments. And he recalled the "slide" of otherdays, the box which turned within the wall. The mother crept up, concealing herself much as possible from view, thrust her baby intothe cavity as into an oven, gave a tug at the bell-chain, and thenprecipitately fled. Mathieu was too young to have seen the real thing;he had only seen it represented in a melodrama at the Port St. MartinTheatre. * But how many stories it recalled--hampers of poor littlecreatures brought up from the provinces and deposited at the hospitalby carriers; the stolen babes of Duchesses, here cast into oblivion bysuspicious-looking men; the hundreds of wretched work-girls too who hadhere rid themselves of their unfortunate children. Now, however, thechildren had to be deposited openly, and there was a staff which tookdown names and dates, while giving a pledge of inviolable secrecy. Mathieu was aware that some few people imputed to the suppression ofthe slide system the great increase in criminal offences. But each daypublic opinion condemns more and more the attitude of society in formertimes, and discards the idea that one must accept evil, dam it in, andhide it as if it were some necessary sewer; for the only course for afree community to pursue is to foresee evil and grapple with it, anddestroy it in the bud. To diminish the number of cast-off children onemust seek out the mothers, encourage them, succor them, and give themthe 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 thatanteroom in which he stood. What terrible confessions must have beenheard, what a procession of suffering, ignominy, and wretchedness musthave been witnessed by that woman who received the children in hermysterious little office! To her all the wreckage of the slums, all thewoe lying beneath gilded life, all the abominations, all the torturesthat remain unknown, were carried. There in her office was the port forthe shipwrecked, there the black hole that swallowed up the offspring offrailty and shame. And while Mathieu's spell of waiting continued he sawthree poor creatures arrive at the hospital. One was surely a work-girl, delicate and pretty though she looked, so thin, so pale too, and withso wild an air that he remembered a paragraph he had lately read in anewspaper, recounting how another such girl, after forsaking her child, had thrown herself into the river. The second seemed to him to be amarried woman, some workman's wife, no doubt, overburdened with childrenand unable to provide food for another mouth; while the third was tall, strong, and insolent, --one of those who bring three or four children tothe hospital one after the other. And all three women plunged in, and heheard them being penned in separate compartments by an attendant, whilehe, with stricken heart, realizing how heavily fate fell on some, stillstood 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 aword, and Mathieu put no question to her. Still in silence, they tooktheir seats in the cab; and only some ten minutes afterwards, when thevehicle was already rolling through bustling, populous streets, did thewoman begin to laugh. Then, as her companion, still silent and distant, did not condescend to ask her the cause of her sudden gayety, she endedby saying aloud:

"Do you know why I am laughing? If I kept you waiting a bit longer, itwas because I met a friend of mine, an attendant in the house, just asI left the office. She's one of those who put the babies out to nurse inthe provinces. * Well, my friend told me that she was going to Rougemontto-morrow with two other attendants, and that among others they wouldcertainly have with them the little fellow I had just left at thehospital. "

 * 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 wheedlingface. And she continued: "How comical, eh? The mother wouldn't let metake 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. Itwas true, fate pitilessly took its own course. What would become ofthat poor little fellow? To what early death, what life of suffering orwretchedness, or even crime, had he been thus brutally cast?

But the cab continued rolling on, and for a long while neither Mathieunor La Couteau spoke again. It was only when the latter alighted inthe Rue de Miromesnil that she began to lament, on seeing that it wasalready half-past five o'clock, for she felt certain that she would missher train, particularly as she still had some accounts to settle andthat other child upstairs to fetch. Mathieu, who had intended to keepthe cab and drive to the Northern terminus, then experienced afeeling of curiosity, and thought of witnessing the departure of thenurse-agents. So he calmed La Couteau by telling her that if she wouldmake haste he would wait for her. And as she asked for a quarter of anhour, it occurred to him to speak to Norine again, and so he also wentupstairs. 

When he entered Norine's room he found her sitting up in bed, eating oneof the oranges which her little sisters had brought her. She had all thegreedy instincts of a plump, pretty girl; she carefully detached eachsection of the orange, and, her eyes half closed the while, her fleshquivering under her streaming outspread hair, she sucked one afteranother 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 recognizedhim she smiled faintly in an embarrassed way. 

"It's done, " he simply said. 

She did not immediately reply, but wiped her fingers on herhandkerchief. However, it was necessary that she should say something, and so she began: "You did not tell me you would come back--I was notexpecting you. Well, it's done, and it's all for the best. I assure youthere was no means of doing otherwise. "

Then she spoke of her departure, asked the young man if he thought shemight regain admittance to the works, and declared that in any case sheshould go there to see if the master would have the audacity to turnher away. Thus she continued while the minutes went slowly by. Theconversation had dropped, Mathieu scarcely replying to her, when LaCouteau, carrying the other child in her arms, at last darted in likea gust of wind. "Let's make haste, let's make haste!" she cried. "Theynever end with their figures; they try all they can to leave me withouta copper for myself!"

But Norine detained her, asking: "Oh! is that Rosine's baby? Pray doshow it me. " Then she uncovered the infant's face, and exclaimed: "Oh!how plump and pretty he is!" And she began another sentence: "What apity! Can one have the heart--" But then she remembered, paused, andchanged her words: "Yes, how heartrending it is when one has to forsakesuch little angels. "

"Good-by! Take care of yourself!" cried La Couteau; "you will make memiss my train. And I've got the return tickets, too; the five others arewaiting for me at the station! Ah! what a fuss they would make if I gotthere 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 herselfback 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 ownaccount, and yet she reproaches that good Mademoiselle Rosine, who hasjust given me four hundred francs to have her little one taken care oftill 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 werevery white, of fine texture, trimmed with lace, as if he were somelittle condemned prince being taken in all luxury to execution. And theyoung man remembered that Norine had told him that the child was theoffspring 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 simplyleaving some door or window wide open. Young though the boy was, healready 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 ashudder swept through Mathieu. How abominable!

La Couteau quickly sprang from the cab as soon as they reached thecourtyard of the St. Lazare Station. "Thank you, monsieur, you have beenvery kind, " said she. "And if you will kindly recommend me to any ladiesyou may know, I shall be quite at their disposal. "

Then Mathieu, having alighted on the pavement in his turn, saw a scenewhich detained him there a few moments longer. Amid all the scramble ofpassengers and luggage, five women of peasant aspect, each carrying aninfant, were darting in a scared, uneasy way hither and thither, likecrows in trouble, with big yellow beaks quivering and black wingsflapping with anxiety. Then, on perceiving La Couteau, there was onegeneral caw, and all five swooped down upon her with angry, voraciousmien. And, after a furious exchange of cries and explanations, the sixbanded themselves together, and, with cap-strings waving and skirtsflying, rushed towards the train, carrying the little ones, like birdsof prey who feared delay in returning to the charnel-house. 

And Mathieu remained alone in the great crowd. Thus every year did thesecrows of ill omen carry off from Paris no fewer than 20, 000 children, who were never, never seen again! Ah! that great question of thedepopulation of France! Not merely were there those who were resolvedto have no children, not only were infanticide and crime of other kindsrife upon all sides, but one-half of the babes saved from those dangerswere killed. Thieves and murderesses, eager for lucre, flocked to thegreat city from the four points of the compass, and bore away all thebudding Life that their arms could carry in order that they might turnit to Death! They beat down the game, they watched in the doorways, theysniffed from afar the innocent flesh on which they preyed. And the babeswere carted to the railway stations; the cradles, the wards of hospitalsand refuges, the wretched garrets of poor mothers, without fires andwithout bread--all, all were emptied! And the packages were heapedup, moved carelessly hither and thither, sent off, distributed to bemurdered either by foul deed or by neglect. The raids swept on liketempest blasts; Death's scythe never knew dead season, at every hour itmowed down budding life. Children who might well have lived were takenfrom their mothers, the only nurses whose milk would have nourishedthem, 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 thoughtof Marianne, so strong and healthy, who would be waiting for him on thebridge over the Yeuse, in the open country, with their little Gervais ather breast. Figures that he had seen in print came back to his mind. Incertain regions which devoted themselves to baby-farming the mortalityamong the nurslings was fifty per cent; in the best of them it wasforty, and seventy in the worst. It was calculated that in one centuryseventeen millions of nurslings had died. Over a long period themortality had remained at from one hundred to one hundred and twentythousand per annum. The most deadly reigns, the greatest butcheries ofthe most terrible conquerors, had never resulted in such massacre. Itwas a giant battle that France lost every year, the abyss into which herwhole 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 seekconsolation 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 roomswhere the latter had resided for more than ten years, in the Rue del'Universite, behind the Palais-Bourbon. By a contradiction, at whichhe himself often laughed, this impassioned apostle of fruitfulness hadremained a bachelor. His extensive practice kept him in a perpetualhurry, and he had little time free beyond his dejeuner hour. Accordingly, whenever a friend wished to have any serious conversationwith him, he preferred to invite him to his modest table, to partakemore 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 acouple 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 notdaring to come to a decision. The imperious desire to create, to producelife, health, strength, and wealth grew within him day by day. Yetwhat fine courage and what a fund of hope he needed to venture upon anenterprise which outwardly seemed so wild and rash, and the wisdom ofwhich was apparent to himself alone. With whom could he discuss sucha matter, to whom could he confide his doubts and hesitation? When theidea of consulting Boutan occurred to him, he at once asked the doctorfor an appointment. Here was such a confidant as he desired, a manof broad, brave mind, one who worshipped life, who was endowed withfar-seeing intelligence, and who would therefore at once look beyond thefirst difficulties of execution. 

As soon as they were face to face on either side of the table, Mathieubegan to pour forth his confession, recounting his dream--his poem, ashe called it. And the doctor listened without interrupting, evidentlywon over by the young man's growing, creative emotion. When at lastBoutan had to express an opinion he replied: "_Mon Dieu_, my friend, Ican tell you nothing from a practical point of view, for I have nevereven planted a lettuce. I will even add that your project seems to meso hazardous that any one versed in these matters whom you might consultwould assuredly bring forward substantial and convincing arguments todissuade you. But you speak of this affair with such superb confidenceand ardor and affection, that I feel convinced you would succeed. Moreover, you flatter my own views, for I have long endeavored to showthat, if numerous families are ever to flourish again in France, peoplemust again love and worship the soil, and desert the towns, and lead afruitful fortifying country life. So how can I disapprove your plans?Moreover, I suspect that, like all people who ask advice, you simplycame here in the hope that you would find in me a brother ready, inprinciple at all events, to wage the same battle. "

At this they both laughed heartily. Then, on Boutan inquiring with whatcapital he would start operations, Mathieu quietly explained that hedid 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 theconquering power of labor. His would be the head, and he would assuredlyfind the necessary arms. His only worry was whether he would be able toinduce Seguin to sell him the old hunting-box and the few acres round iton a system of yearly payments, without preliminary disbursement. Whenhe spoke to the doctor on this subject, the other replied:

"Oh! I think he is very favorably disposed. I know that he wouldbe delighted to sell that huge, unprofitable estate, for with hisincreasing pecuniary wants he is very much embarrassed by it. Youare aware, no doubt, that things are going from bad to worse in hishousehold. "

Then the doctor broke off to inquire: "And our friend Beauchene, haveyou warned him of your intention to leave the works?"

"Why, no, not yet, " said Mathieu; "and I would ask you to keep thematter private, for I wish to have everything settled before informinghim. "

Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctoroffered to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going therehimself, for Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, inorder that he might keep an eye on Maurice's health. Not only didthe lad still suffer from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate astomach that he had to be dieted severely. 

"It's the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not beenbrought up by their own mothers, " continued Boutan. "Your plucky wifedoesn't know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever theyfancy. But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such asfour cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion. Well, so it issettled, I will drive you back to the works. Only I must first make acall in the Rue Roquepine to choose a nurse. It won't take me long, Ihope. Quick! let us be off. "

When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it wasprecisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency. Therewas a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d'Antin. A few monthspreviously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husbandhad obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself, pretending that he knew all about such matters. And he had chosen abig, sturdy young woman of monumental appearance. Nevertheless, for twomonths past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor haddiscovered, by analyzing the nurse's milk, that it was deficient innutriment. Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation. To changea nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins' house was in a tempestuousstate. The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors anddeclaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything. 

"And so, " added Boutan, "I have now been instructed to choose a freshnurse. And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxiousabout 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 metoo much. But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisieundertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when sheleads the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees, and absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little MadameSeguin is simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress andsays that she would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but thatit was impossible since she had no milk. She never even tried! When herfirst child was born she could doubtless have nursed it. But to-day, with the imbecile, spoilt life she leads, it is quite certain that sheis incapable of making such an effort. The worst is, my dear fellow, as any doctor will tell you, that after three or four generations ofmothers who do not feed their children there comes a generation thatcannot 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, toa race of wretched, degenerate women, who will be absolutely powerlessto nourish their offspring. "

Mathieu then remembered what he had witnessed at Madame Bourdieu's andthe Foundling Hospital. And he imparted his impressions to Boutan, who again made a despairing gesture. There was a great work ofsocial salvation to be accomplished, said he. No doubt a number ofphilanthropists were trying their best to improve things, but privateeffort could not cope with such widespread need. There must be generalmeasures; laws must be passed to save the nation. The mother must beprotected and helped, even in secrecy, if she asked for it; she must becared for, succored, from the earliest period, and right through all thelong months during which she fed her babe. All sorts of establishmentswould have to be founded--refuges, convalescent homes, and so forth; andthere must be protective enactments, and large sums of money voted toenable 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 thefrightful hecatomb of newly-born infants, that incessant loss of lifewhich exhausted the nation and brought it nearer and nearer to deathevery 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? Sherepresents the eternity of life. She deserves a social culture, sheshould be religiously venerated. When we know how to worship motherhood, our country will be saved. And this is why, my friend, I should like amother feeding her babe to be adopted as the highest expression of humanbeauty. 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 herknees? 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 unableto change manners and customs, aware as he was that the nation could berevolutionized only by a change in its ideal of true beauty. 

"To sum up, then, I believe in a child being nursed only by its ownmother. Every mother who neglects that duty when she can perform it isa criminal. Of course, there are instances when she is physicallyincapable of accomplishing her duty, and in that case there is thefeeding-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 asfor the nurse in the house, that is a shameful transaction, a source ofincalculable evil, for both the employer's child and the nurse's childfrequently die from it. "

Just then the doctor's brougham drew up outside the nurse-agency in theRue Roquepine. 

"I dare say you have never been in such a place, although you are thefather 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 withthe best reputation in the district. It was kept by Madame Broquette, a woman of forty, with a dignified if somewhat blotched face, who wasalways very tightly laced in a faded silk gown of dead-leaf hue. But ifshe represented the dignity and fair fame of the establishment inits intercourse with clients, the soul of the place, the ever-busymanipulator, was her husband, Monsieur Broquette, a little man with apointed nose, quick eyes, and the agility of a ferret. Charged with thepolice duties of the office, the supervision and training of the nurses, he received them, made them clean themselves, taught them to smile andput on pleasant ways, besides penning them in their various rooms andpreventing them from eating too much. From morn till night he was everprowling about, scolding and terrorizing those dirty, ill-behaved, andoften lying and thieving women. The building, a dilapidated privatehouse, with a damp ground floor, to which alone clients wereadmitted, had two upper stories, each comprising six rooms arranged asdormitories, in which the nurses and their infants slept. There was noend to the arrivals and departures there: the peasant women were evergalloping through the place, dragging trunks about, carrying babes inswaddling clothes, and filling the rooms and the passages with wildcries 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 swarmof sturdy young women. 

Boutan, who knew the house well, went in, followed by Mathieu. Thecentral passage, which was fairly broad, ended in a glass door, whichadmitted one to a kind of courtyard, where a sickly conifer stood ona round patch of grass, which the dampness rotted. On the right of thepassage was the office, whither Madame Broquette, at the request of hercustomers, summoned the nurses, who waited in a neighboring room, which was simply furnished with a greasy deal table in the centre. Thefurniture of the office was some old Empire stuff, upholstered in redvelvet. There was a little mahogany centre table, and a gilt clock. Then, on the left of the passage, near the kitchen, was the generalrefectory, with two long tables, covered with oilcloth, and surroundedby straggling chairs, whose straw seats were badly damaged. Just amake-believe sweep with a broom was given there every day: one coulddivine long-amassed, tenacious dirt in every dim corner; and the placereeked with an odor of bad cookery mingled with that of sour milk. 

When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette wasbusy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses. She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret. "No matter, nomatter, " 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 armchairsnear the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother, standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the oldgentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemedunable 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 itsprospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty ofgood air there, as in the country. They opened the glass door, and ona bench near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had justarrived, pretending to clean a squealing infant. She herself lookedsordid, and had evidently not washed since her journey. In one cornerthere was an overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots andgreasy and rusty saucepans. Then, at the other end, a French window gaveaccess to the nurses' waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseousspectacle of dirt and untidiness. 

All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had comeit was hard to say. At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a clientthat needed attention. "Is my wife busy, then?" said he. "I cannot allowyou to remain waiting here, doctor. Come, come, I pray you. "

With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girlcleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should seenothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of theestablishment. "Pray, doctor, follow me, " he repeated, and understandingthat an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, "Whatbusiness have you to be here? Why haven't you gone upstairs to wash anddress? I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don't hurryoff 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 tothe office entrance and began to complain: "Ah! doctor, if you only knewwhat trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands! We whoare so clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean. If evera speck of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault. "

Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on theupper floors, whence also a vile smell descended. Some dispute, somebattle, seemed to be in progress. There were shouts and howls, followedby a furious exchange of vituperation. 

"Pray excuse me, " at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; "my wife willreceive 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 suddenlysank into death-like silence. All that could be heard was the voiceof Madame in the office, as, in a very dignified manner, she kept onpraising her goods. 

"Well, my friend, " said Boutan to Mathieu, while they walked up and downthe passage, "all this, the material side of things, is nothing. Whatyou should see and know is what goes on in the minds of all thesepeople. And note that this is a fair average place. There are otherswhich are real dens, and which the police sometimes have to close. Nodoubt there is a certain amount of supervision, and there are severeregulations which compel the nurses to bring certificates of morality, books setting forth their names, ages, parentage, the situationsthey have held, and so on, with other documents on which they haveimmediately to secure a signature from the Prefecture, where the finalauthorization is granted them. But these precautions don't preventfraud and deceit of various kinds. The women assert that they have onlyrecently begun nursing, when they have been doing it for months; theyshow you superb children which they have borrowed and which they assertto be their own. And there are many other tricks to which they resort intheir eagerness to make money. "

As the doctor and Mathieu chatted on, they paused for a moment near thedoor of the refectory, which chanced to be open, and there, among otheryoung peasant women, they espied La Couteau hastily partaking ofcold meat. Doubtless she had just arrived from Rougemont, and, afterdisposing of the batch of nurses she had brought with her, was seekingsustenance for the various visits which she would have to make beforereturning home. The refectory, with its wine-stained tables and greasywalls, cast a smell like that of a badly-kept sink. 

"Ah! so you know La Couteau!" exclaimed Boutan, when Mathieu had toldhim 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 socialorganization, she is more or less useful, and perhaps I myself shall behappy to choose one of the nurses that she has brought with her. "

At this moment Madame Broquette very amiably asked the visitors into heroffice. After long reflection, the old gentleman had gone off withoutselecting any nurse, but saying that he would return some other time. 

"There are folks who don't know their own minds, " said Madame Broquettesententiously. "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 justreceived some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you. "

Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from hernovel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, witha weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, aftersitting down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on, while Boutan stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commanderreviewing his troops. And the procession began. 

Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, MadameBroquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pickof 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, tallones suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair oneswith the whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones andothers who were pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, silly smile, all swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, theanxious mien of the bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that shemay not find a purchaser. They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, radiant with internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, butclouding over and casting black glances at their companions when thelatter seemed to have the better chance. Out of the dozen the doctorbegan by setting three aside, and finally he detained but one, in orderthat he might study her more fully. 

"One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business, " MadameBroquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile. "I don'toften have such pearls. But she has only just arrived, otherwise shewould probably have been engaged already. I can answer for her as Icould for myself, for I have put her out before. "

The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, builtstrongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-lookingjaw. Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairlywell. 

"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, tookher into Madame Broquette's private room for examination, and on hisreturn make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, somethree months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on anarmchair. The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his headto 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 youngwoman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed toembody all requirements. "And are you all quite well in your family?" heasked; "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 tocontain a page for information of that kind. And you, are you of soberhabits? 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 thegesture of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one maybe 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 awayat once, you can go this evening to the address I will give you. Let mesee, 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 highrespectability 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 stirringfrom her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had betterexecute the commission herself. A moment later she came back with LaCouteau. 

The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for thenurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency andMadame Broquette's charges. Then there was the question of her child'sreturn to the country, which meant another thirty francs, withoutcounting a gratuity to La Couteau. 

"I'm going back this evening, " said the latter; "I'm quite willing totake the little one with me. In the Avenue d'Antin, did you say? Oh! Iknow, there's a lady's maid from my district in that house. Marie cango there at once. When I've settled my business, in a couple of hours, Iwill 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 hischair silently watching the scene--first an inspection as of cattle ata market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother's milk. And bydegrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passedthrough him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-lookingchild, of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he picturedher with her five companions at the St. -Lazare railway station, each, like some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It wasthe pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolenfrom Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder wasthreatened; for, however careful one may be, the employer's child oftendies from another's milk, and the nurse's child, carried back into thecountry like a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap. 

But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companiondrove away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beaucheneworks, came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, the accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied byhis daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrowof Valerie's funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state ofprostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that hehad abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a bigfortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave hisflat, 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 remainin them. And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with allcomfort. All the affection of his weak heart was now given to thatchild, whose resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze ather for hours with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing upwithin him; his one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happinessthrough her, if indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings ofavarice had come to him; he economized with respect to everything thatwas not connected with her, and secretly sought supplementary work inorder that he might give her more luxury and increase her dower. Withouther he would have died of weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeedfast becoming his very life. 

"Why, yes, " said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question whichBoutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted tobe sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Otherwise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir. "

Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome ashe was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company ofa collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showingher at all ages, which he had hung on the walls. 

"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange, " said Boutan, "you do rightin taking a stroll. "

The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at thesun as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fineweather--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 herblack mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel boredduring 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 thegirl gayly. "Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs bea little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take meout. "

Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to thecurb. 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, andClara must have told her that I had accompanied you here. "

This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to thecarriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughterhad sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusivelythanking the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear childwas going to amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till itdisappeared, he entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, as if his grief had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelminghim that he quite forgot the others, and did not even take leave ofthem. 

"Poor fellow!" muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeingSeraphine's bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window. 

Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from oneof the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair ofthem found Constance and Maurice in the little drawing-room, whitherthe father had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutanimmediately attended to the child, who was much better with respectto his legs, but who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, theslightest departure from the prescribed diet leading to troublesomecomplications. 

Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxiousabout the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with alleagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on oneside. 

"I say, " he began, laughing, "why did you not tell me that everythingwas finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the streetyesterday. "

Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order torender an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the firstto raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenseshad proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he couldproduce receipts for his various disbursements. He was already enteringinto particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him. 

"You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask forwork, 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 theforeman told her that considerations of order and discipline preventedhim from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be marriednext 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 themantelpiece. 

Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving MadameBourdieu's, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, notcaring to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents' home. Besidesher attempt to regain admittance at Beauchene's, she had applied at twoother establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince anyparticular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months' idleness andcoddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand's life, andthe inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came backsipping his cognac, resumed: "Yes, I met her in the street. She wasquite smartly dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded youngfellow, who did nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come tothat, you know. I always thought so. "

Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he rememberedsomething else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, "Whatwas it you were telling me about the child?" And as soon as Mathieu hadrelated that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so asto 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 tookhis stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. Shewas holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with thejealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the healthof her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industryand wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, sheexclaimed: "Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say thata child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution thanothers, 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 burstinto a sonorous laugh: "Oh! don't you worry, that youngster will liveto be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as arock! But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass alaw 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 lifewould be suspended, and drawing-rooms would become deserted! Posterswould be placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: "Closed onaccount of nursing. "

"Briefly, " said Beauchene, in conclusion, "you want to have arevolution. "

"A revolution, yes, " the doctor gently replied, "and we will effect it. "

X

MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivationof Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all theaudacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warnedBeauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of themonth, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had foundhim quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acresaround it on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin's affairswere in a very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gamingtable and spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a mostdisastrous life since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomedthe transaction which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that theyoung man would end by ridding him of the whole of that unprofitableestate should his first experiment prove successful. Then came otherinterviews between them, and Seguin finally consented to sell on asystem of annual payments, spread over a term of years, the first to bemade in two years' time from that date. As things stood, the propertyseemed likely to remain unremunerative forever, and so there was nothingrisked in allowing the purchaser a couple of years' credit. However, they agreed to meet once more and settle the final details before aformal 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'Antinin order to complete the business. 

That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid received in the linenroom, where she usually remained, a visit from her friend Madame Menoux, the little haberdasher of the neighborhood, in whose tiny shop she wasso fond of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever sinceLa Couteau, at Celeste's instigation, had taken Madame Menoux's child, Pierre, to Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possibleway for the sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also verycomplaisantly promised to call each month at one or another of herjourneys in order to receive the thirty francs, thereby saving themother the trouble of sending the money by post, and also enabling herto obtain fresh news of her child. Thus, each time a payment becamedue, if La Couteau's journey happened to be delayed a single day, MadameMenoux grew terribly frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to makeinquiries of her. And, moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity ofconversing with this girl, who came from the very part where her littlePierre 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 nineo'clock. And I've come, you know, because I've had no news from overyonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received aletter. "

Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poorclerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad, expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang herpassionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could havecrushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she wasendowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would havekilled herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognacwhich he liked to sip after each repast. 

"Ah! it's hard, " she continued, "to have had to send our Pierre so faraway. As it is, I don't see my husband all day, and now I've a childwhom I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, andhow could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, wherefrom morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can'thelp 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 nothingbut talk about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, mademoiselle, that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are neverany nasty illnesses about there?"

But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another earlyvisitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight. 

"Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it wasof mine to call here!"

Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that shehad arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had startedon her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the RueRoquepine. 

"After bidding Celeste good-day in passing, " said she, "I intended tocall on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle ouraccounts here, if you are agreeable. "

Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. "And how ismy little Pierre?" she asked. 

"Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of thestrongest; one can't say that he's a big child. Only he's so pretty andnice-looking with his rather pale face. And it's quite certain that ifthere are bigger babies than he is, there are smaller ones too. "

She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words whichmight render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. Thesewere her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers' hearts, andthen extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion shemust have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe aslight illness to the child. 

"However, I must really tell you, because I don't know how to lie; andbesides, after all, it's my duty--Well, the poor little darling has beenill, and he's not quite well again yet. "

Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: "_MonDieu_! he will die of it. "

"No, no, since I tell you that he's already a little better. Andcertainly he doesn't lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseaucoddles him! When children are well behaved they soon get themselvesloved. And the whole house is at his service, and no expense is sparedThe doctor came twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costsmoney. "

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, thenurse-agent continued: "Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?"

Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning toher shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked fora slip of paper on which to set down the figures; first the month'snursing, thirty francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, withthe medicine, that would make ten francs. 

"Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you, " added La Couteau, "that so muchlinen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add threefrancs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there wereother little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to actlike a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francsaltogether, 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 ofsurprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money--thatmoney which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles hadto be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between thenecessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on theother, 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 youhave? It isn't my fault. One can't let your child die, so one must incurthe necessary expenses. And then, if you haven't confidence in me, sayso; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatlyrelieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I'malways stupid enough to be too obliging. "

When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, anotherdifficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-francpieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on thetable. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes. 

"Well, I can't give you your five francs change, " she said, "I haven'tany change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for thislady?"

She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with sucha glance that the other immediately understood her. "I have not a copperin my pocket, " she replied. 

Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruelresignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her. 

"Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have totake so much trouble. And, _mon Dieu_! may all this money bring megood luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a finehandsome 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 seeplenty 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 andsuch promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longerregretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre wouldcome 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 beganto laugh in her impudent way: "What a lot of fibs you told her! I don'tbelieve 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 atonce. The child isn't well, I assure you. "

The maid's gayety only increased at this. "Well now, you are reallycomical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I knowwhat 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'sprescriptions, and the soap and the sugar. But, you know, I don't carea button about the matter. As for that little Madame Menoux, it's hereto-day and gone to-morrow. She has her business, and I have mine. Andyou, too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out ofit as you can. "

But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she couldnot give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling didupset her stomach so. Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottlehalf-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, asthe other expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, shemade a gesture of insolent contempt. Her mistress! Why, she had her nosein her basins and perfumery pots, and wasn't at all likely to call tillshe had fixed herself up so as to look pretty. 

"There are only the children to fear, " added Celeste; "that Gaston andthat Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because theirparents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or inthe 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 theyhad both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out theirminds, soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everythingas if quite unconscious how abominable it was. While sipping her wineCeleste asked for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutaltruth, between two biscuits. It was at the Vimeux' house that theservant's last child, born in La Rouche's den, had died a fortnightafter arriving at Rougemont, and the Vimeux, who were more or less hercousins, had sent her their friendly remembrances and the news that theywere about to marry off their daughter. Then, at La Gavette's, the oldgrandfather, who looked after the nurslings while the family was atwork 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 hadbeen roasted. La Cauchois, though at heart she wasn't downcast, now hadsome fears that she might be worried, because four little ones had goneoff from her house all in a body, a window being forgetfully left openat night-time. They were all four little Parisians, it seemed--twofoundlings and two that had come from Madame Bourdieu's. Since thebeginning of the year as many had died at Rougemont as had arrivedthere, and the mayor had declared that far too many were dying, andthat the village would end by getting a bad reputation. One thing wascertain, La Couillard would be the very first to receive a visit fromthe gendarmes if she didn't so arrange matters as to keep at least onenursling alive every now and then. 

"Ah? that Couillard!" added the nurse-agent. "Just fancy, my dear, Itook her a child, a perfect little angel--the boy of a very pretty youngperson who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu's. She paid four hundredfrancs to have him brought up until his first communion, and he livedjust five days! Really now, that wasn't long enough! La Couillard neednot have been so hasty. It put me in such a temper! I asked her if shewanted to dishonor me. What will ruin me is my good heart. I don't knowhow to refuse when folks ask me to do them a service. And God in Heavenknows how fond I am of children! I've always lived among them, and infuture, if anybody who's a friend of mine gives me a child to put out tonurse, I shall say: 'We won't take the little one to La Couillard, forit would be tempting Providence. But after all, I'm an honest woman, andI wash my hands of it, for if I do take the cherubs over yonder Idon't nurse them. And when one's conscience is at ease one can sleepquietly. '"

"Of course, " chimed in Celeste, with an air of conviction. 

While they thus waxed maudlin over their malaga, there arose a horriblered vision--a vision of that terrible Rougemont, paved with littleParisians, the filthy, bloody village, the charnel-place of cowardlymurder, whose steeple pointed so peacefully to the skies in the midst ofthe far-spreading plain. 

But all at once a rush was heard in the passage, and the servanthastened to the door to rid herself of Gaston and Lucie, who wereapproaching. "Be off! I don't want you here. Your mamma has told youthat 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 alittle with the nurse?"

"Oh! by the way, " interrupted La Couteau, "did you hear that MarieLebleu's little one is dead? She must have had a letter about it. Sucha fine child it was! But what can one expect? it's a nasty windpassing. And then you know the saying, 'A nurse's child is the child ofsacrifice!'"

"Yes, she told me she had heard of it, " replied Celeste, "but she beggedme 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 muchbetter off. "

At this La Couteau pricked up her ears. "Ah! so things are notsatisfactory?"

"No, indeed. It isn't on account of her milk; that's good enough, andshe has plenty of it. Only you never saw such a creature--such a temper!always brutal and insolent, banging the doors and talking of smashingeverything at the slightest word. And besides, she drinks like a pig--asno woman ought to drink. "

La Couteau's pale eyes sparkled with gayety, and she briskly nodded herhead as if to say that she knew all this and had been expecting it. Inthat part of Normandy, in and around Rougemont, all the women drank moreor less, and the girls even carried little bottles of brandy to schoolwith them in their baskets. Marie Lebleu, however, was a woman of thekind that one picks up under the table, and, indeed, it might be saidthat since the birth of her last child she had never been quite sober. 

"I know her, my dear, " exclaimed La Couteau; "she is impossible. Butthen, that doctor who chose her didn't ask my opinion. And, besides, itisn't a matter that concerns me. I simply bring her to Paris and takeher child back to the country. I know nothing about anything else. Letthe gentlefolks get out of their trouble by themselves. "

This sentiment tickled Celeste, who burst out laughing. "You haven't anidea, " said she, "of the infernal life that Marie leads here! She fightspeople, she threw a water-bottle at the coachman, she broke a big vasein madame's apartments, she makes them all tremble with constant dreadthat something awful may happen. And, then, if you knew what tricks sheplays 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 knowwhat she devised? Well, last week she drained a whole bottle of Eau deMelisse, and was ill, quite ill, from it. Another time she was caughtsipping some Eau de Cologne from one of the bottles in madame'sdressing-room. I now really believe that she treats herself to some ofthe spirits of wine that are given her for the warmer!--it's enough tomake one die of laughing. I'm always splitting my sides over it, in mylittle corner. "

Then she laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and La Couteau, onher side highly amused, began to wriggle with a savage delight. All atonce, however, she calmed down and exclaimed, "But, I say, they willturn her out of doors?"

"Oh! that won't be long. They would have done so already if they haddared. "

But at this moment the ringing of a bell was heard, and an oath escapedCeleste. "Good! there's madame ringing for me now! One can never be atpeace for a moment. "

La Couteau, however, was already standing up, quite serious, intent onbusiness and ready to depart. 

"Come, little one, don't be foolish, you must do your work. For my partI have an idea. I'll run to fetch one of the nurses whom I brought thismorning, a girl I can answer for as for myself. In an hour's time I'llbe back here with her, and there will be a little present for you if youhelp 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 thecupboard. 

At ten o'clock that day Seguin was to take his wife and their friendSanterre to Mantes, to lunch there, by way of trying an electricmotor-car, which he had just had built at considerable expense. He hadbecome fond of this new "sport, " less from personal taste, however, thanfrom 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 wasalready in his spacious "cabinet, " arrayed in what he deemed anappropriate costume: a jacket and breeches of greenish ribbed velvet, yellow shoes, and a little leather hat. And he poked fun at Santerrewhen the latter presented himself in town attire, a light gray suit ofdelicate effect. 

Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, thenovelist had again become a constant frequenter of the house in theAvenue d'Antin. He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that hehad begun there and felt confident of victory. Valentine, on her side, after a period of terror followed by great relief, had set about makingup for lost time, throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortexof 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 goingabout, hither and thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since herhusband did the same in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, whichbroke out every now and again in the most imbecile fashion without theslightest cause. It was the collapse of all family life, with the threatof a great disaster in the future; and Santerre lived there in the midstof it, helping on the work of destruction. 

He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearancegowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on herhead. But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying thatshe 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, youare never ready. "

It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him inorder to express his regret that he could not that day go into businessmatters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, hewas willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished tostipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive rightof purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions andat fixed dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study thisproposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult--distant shouts, wildhurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors. 

"Why! what is it? what is it?" he muttered, turning towards the shakingwalls. 

The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red withfear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggledin her arms. 

"There, there, my pet, " gasped the mother, "don't cry, she shan't hurtyou any more. There, it's nothing, darling; be quiet, do. "

Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she atonce 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 herbeautiful 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 acrossthe cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. IfI had been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at teno'clock in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticedthat she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able tokeep her, since her milk is so good. But do you know what she haddrunk? Why, the methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle hadremained beside her. "

"But what did she say to you?"

"She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in adrunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escapewith 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 atthe 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 leaveAndree 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'trun the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girlout of doors, after paying her wages. "

"I! I!" cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on theanger which was rising within him, he burst forth: "I've had enough, youknow, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfecthell upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing butfighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretendedthat 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 thechild. And now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vilecreature who will prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it's tooexasperating, I won't have it. "

Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. "What won't youhave? There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must havea nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would havetold me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitablethan ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. ButI won't nurse--I can't. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it'ssimple enough, and we'll do so at once and risk it. "

Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sightof his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, heperhaps 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 theyremained there, and saw and heard everything. 

"The carriage is waiting, " resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove torender calm. "Let us make haste, let us go. "

Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. "Come, be reasonable, " saidshe. "How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trusther?"

"The carriage is waiting for us, " he repeated, quivering; "let us go atonce. "

And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging hershoulders, he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness whichimpelled him to the greatest violence, even when people were present, and made him openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurdjealousy which had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailingchild, he would have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty ofeverything, and indeed it was she who was now the obstacle to thatexcursion he had planned, that pleasure trip which he had promisedhimself, 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 thevilest language he began to upbraid his wife, not only reproaching herfor 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!" hefinished 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 toSanterre, who had remained silent, and without even rememberingthat Mathieu still stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, inconsternation at hearing all these things, had not dared to withdrawlest by doing so he should seem to be passing judgment on the scene. Standing there motionless, he turned his head aside, looked at littleAndree who was still crying, and at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent withfright, pressed one against the other behind the armchair in which theirsister was wailing. 

Valentine had sunk upon a chair, stifling with sobs, her limbstrembling. "The wretch! Ah, how he treats me! To accuse me thus, whenhe knows how false it is! Ah! never more; no, never more! I would ratherkill myself; yes, kill myself!"

Then Santerre, who had hitherto stood on one side, gently drew nearto her and ventured to take her hand with a gesture of affectionatecompassion, while saying in an undertone: "Come, calm yourself. You knowvery well that you are not alone, that you are not forsaken. There aresome things which cannot touch you. Calm yourself, cease weeping, I begyou. You distress me dreadfully. "

He made himself the more gentle since the husband had been the morebrutal; and he leant over her yet the more closely, and again loweredhis 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 shesmiled vaguely amid her drying tears, in her turn murmuring: "You arekind, you are. Thank you. And you are quite right.... Ah! if I couldonly be a little happy!"

Then Mathieu distinctly saw her press Santerre's hand as if inacceptance of his consolation. It was the logical, fatal outcome of thesituation--given a wife whom her husband had perverted, a mother whorefused to nurse her babe. And yet a cry from Andree suddenly setValentine erect, awaking to the reality of her position. If that poorcreature were so puny, dying for lack of her mother's milk, the motheralso was in danger from her refusal to nurse her and clasp her to herbreast like a buckler of invincible defence. Life and salvation onethrough the other, or disaster for both, such was the law. And doubtlessValentine became clearly conscious of her peril, for she hastened totake up the child and cover her with caresses, as if to make of her aprotecting rampart against the supreme madness to which she had feltprompted. And great was the distress that came over her. Her otherchildren were there, looking and listening, and Mathieu also was stillwaiting. When she perceived him her tears gushed forth again, and shestrove 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 istoo late. It is frightful to be in such a position without knowing whatto do. Ah! what will become of me, good Lord?"

Santerre again attempted to console her, but she no longer listened tohim, and he was about to defer all further efforts till another timewhen unexpected intervention helped on his designs. 

Celeste, who had entered noiselessly, stood there waiting for hermistress to allow her to speak. "It is my friend who has come to seeme, madame, " said she; "you know, the person from my village, SophieCouteau, 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 thisrelief, she showed herself zealous: "Madame must not tire herself byholding the little one. Madame hasn't the habit. If madame will allowme, I will bring the nurse to her. "

Heaving a sigh of happy deliverance, Valentine had allowed the servantto 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 nursebrought there. She somehow feared that if the other one, who was drunkin her room, should come out and meet the new arrival, she would setabout beating them all and breaking everything. At last she insisted ontaking Santerre and Mathieu into the linen-room, saying that thelatter must certainly have some knowledge of these matters, although hedeclared the contrary. Only Gaston and Lucie were formally forbidden tofollow. 

"You are not wanted, " said their mother, "so stay here and play. Butwe others will all go, and as softly as possible, please, so that thatdrunken creature may not suspect anything. "

Once in the linen-room, Valentine ordered all the doors to be carefullysecured. La Couteau was standing there with a sturdy young person offive-and-twenty, who carried a superb-looking infant in her arms. She had dark hair, a low forehead, and a broad face, and was veryrespectably dressed. And she made a little courtesy like a well-trainednurse, who has already served with gentlefolks and knows how to behave. But Valentine's embarrassment remained extreme; she looked at the nurseand at the babe like an ignorant woman who, though her elder childrenhad been brought up in a room adjoining her own, had never troubled orconcerned herself about anything. In her despair, seeing that Santerrekept to himself, she again appealed to Mathieu, who once more excusedhimself. And it was only then that La Couteau, after glancing askance atthe gentleman who, somehow or other, always turned up whenever she hadbusiness to transact, ventured to intervene:

"Will madame rely on me? If madame will kindly remember, I once beforeventured to offer her my services, and if she had accepted themshe would have saved herself no end of worry. That Marie Lebleu isimpossible, and I certainly could have warned madame of it at the timewhen I came to fetch Marie's child. But since madame's doctor had chosenher, it was not for me to speak. Oh! she has good milk, that's quitesure; only she also has a good tongue, which is always dry. So if madamewill now place confidence in me--"

Then she rattled on interminably, expatiating on the respectability ofher calling, and praising the value of the goods she offered. 

"Well, madame, I tell you that you can take La Catiche with your eyesshut. She's exactly what you want, there's no better in Paris. Just lookhow she's built, how sturdy and how healthy she is! And her child, justlook at it! She's married, she even has a little girl of four at thevillage with her husband. She's a respectable woman, which is more thancan be said for a good many nurses. In a word, madame, I know her andcan answer for her. If you are not pleased with her I myself will giveyou your money back. "

In her haste to get it all over Valentine made a great gesture ofsurrender. She even consented to pay one hundred francs a month, sinceLa Catiche was a married woman. Moreover, La Couteau explained that shewould not have to pay the office charges, which would mean a savingof forty-five francs, though, perhaps, madame would not forget allthe trouble which she, La Couteau, had taken. On the other hand, therewould, of course, be the expense of taking La Catiche's child back tothe village, a matter of thirty francs. Valentine liberally promised todouble that sum; and all seemed to be settled, and she felt delivered, when she suddenly bethought herself of the other nurse, who hadbarricaded herself in her room. How could they get her out in order toinstall La Catiche in her place?

"What!" exclaimed La Couteau, "does Marie Lebleu frighten you? She hadbetter not give me any of her nonsense if she wants me ever to find heranother 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 amoment previously, and undertook to conduct La Couteau to Marie Lebleu'sroom. Deathlike silence now reigned there, but the nurse-agent onlyhad to give her name to secure admittance. She went in, and for a fewmoments one only heard her dry curt voice. Then, on coming out, shetranquillized Valentine, who had gone to listen, trembling. 

"I've sobered her, I can tell you, " said she. "Pay her her month'swages. She's packing her box and going off. "

Then, as they went back into the linen-room, Valentine settled pecuniarymatters and added five francs for this new service. But a finaldifficulty arose. La Couteau could not come back to fetch La Catiche'schild in the evening, and what was she to do with it during the restof the day? "Well, no matter, " she said at last, "I'll take it; I'lldeposit it at the office, before I go my round. They'll give it a bottlethere, 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 bowsand thanks, turned round to take the little one, she made a gesture ofhesitation 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 thechild with her long claw-like hands and carried it away. Yet anothergone, 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 conversationwith Boutan respecting the demoralizing effects of that nurse trade, theshameful bargaining, the common crime of two mothers, who each riskedthe 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 onechild carried off still full of life, and the other remain there alreadyso 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 thespacious salon again; and she was so delighted, so fully relieved, thatshe had recovered all her cavalier carelessness, her passion for noiseand pleasure. And as Mathieu was about to take his leave, he heard thetriumphant Santerre saying to her, while for a moment he retained herhand in his clasp: "Till to-morrow, then. " And she, who had cast herbuckler of defence aside, made answer: "Yes--yes, to-morrow. "

A week later La Catiche was the acknowledged queen of the house. Andreehad recovered a little color, and was increasing in weight daily. Andin presence of this result the others bowed low indeed. There was everydisposition to overlook all possible faults on the nurse's part. She wasthe third, and a fourth would mean the child's death; so that she wasan indispensable, a providential helper, one whose services must beretained at all costs. Moreover, she seemed to have no defects, forshe was a calm, cunning, peasant woman, one who knew how to rule heremployers and extract from them all that was to be extracted. Herconquest of the Seguins was effected with extraordinary skill. At firstsome unpleasantness seemed likely, because Celeste was, on her own side, pursuing a similar course; but they were both too intelligent to dootherwise than come to an understanding. As their departments weredistinct, they agreed that they could prosecute parallel invasions. Andfrom that moment they even helped one another, divided the empire, andpreyed upon the house in company. 

La Catiche sat upon a throne, served by the other domestics, with heremployers at her feet. The finest dishes were for her; she had herspecial wine, her special bread, she had everything most delicate andmost nourishing that could be found. Gluttonous, slothful, and proud, she strutted about, bending one and all to her fancies. The others gaveway to her in everything to avoid sending her into a temper which mighthave spoilt her milk. At her slightest indisposition everybody wasdistracted. One night she had an attack of indigestion, and all thedoctors in the neighborhood were rung up to attend on her. Her onlyreal defect, perhaps, was a slight inclination for pilfering; sheappropriated some linen that was lying about, but madame would not hearof the matter being mentioned. 

There was also the chapter of the presents which were heaped on her inorder to keep her in good temper. Apart from the regulation presentwhen the child cut its first tooth, advantage was taken of various otheroccasions, and a ring, a brooch, and a pair of earrings were given her. Naturally she was the most adorned nurse in the Champs-Elysees, withsuperb cloaks and the richest of caps, trimmed with long ribbons whichflared in the sunlight. Never did lady lead a life of more sumptuousidleness. There were also the presents which she extracted for herhusband and her little girl at the village. Parcels were sent them byexpress train every week. And on the morning when news came that herown baby, carried back by La Couteau, had died from the effects of a badcold, she was presented with fifty francs as if in payment for the lossof her child. Little Andree, meanwhile, grew ever stronger, and thus LaCatiche rose higher and higher, with the whole house bending low beneathher tyrannical sway. 

On the day when Mathieu called to sign the deed which was to insurehim the possession of the little pavilion of Chantebled with some fiftyacres around it, and the privilege of acquiring other parts of theestate on certain conditions, he found Seguin on the point of startingfor Le Havre, where a friend, a wealthy Englishman, was waiting for himwith his yacht, in order that they might have a month's trip round thecoast of Spain. 

"Yes, " said Seguin feverishly, alluding to some recent heavy losses atthe gaming table, "I'm leaving Paris for a time--I have no luck herejust 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 decisivestep he had taken, yet quivering also with faith and hope, when in adeserted avenue he espied a cab waiting, and recognized Santerre insideit. Then, as a veiled lady furtively sprang into the vehicle, he turnedround wondering: Was that not Valentine? And as the cab drove off hefelt convinced it was. 

There came other meetings when he reached the main avenue; first Gastonand Lucie, already tired of play, and dragging about their puny limbsunder the careless supervision of Celeste, who was busy laughing with agrocer's man; while farther off La Catiche, superb and royal, decked outlike 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, withGervais in her arms, came and sat down close by, full of happy emotionat 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, broadsky that encouraged confidence. And as the children had been given aholiday, they played about in the surrounding grass, and one could hearthe shrill cries of little Rose while she amused herself with runningafter 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 himselfto undertake part of the hard manual toil in order to help on therealization of his long thought of, ripening scheme. With great prudenceand wisdom he had assured himself a modest livelihood for a year ofeffort, by an intelligent scheme of association and advances repayableout 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 earthrefuse his worship and his labor. But he was a faithful believer, onewho felt certain of conquering, since love and determination were his. 

"Well then, here goes!" he gallantly cried. "May the earth prove a goodmother 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 thatextensive marshy tableland, where little streams coursed on all sidesthrough the reeds which sprang up everywhere. It was at first simply aquestion of draining a few acres by capturing these streams and turningthem into canals, in order to direct them afterwards over the dry sandyslopes which descended towards the railway line. After an attentiveexamination Mathieu had discovered that the work might easily beexecuted, and that water-furrows would suffice, such was the dispositionand nature of the ground. This, indeed, was his real discovery, not tomention the layer of humus which he felt certain would be found amassedon the plateau, and the wondrous fertility which it would display assoon as a ploughshare had passed through it. And so with his pick henow began to open the trench which was to drain the damp soil above, andfertilize the dry, sterile, thirsty ground below. 

The open air, however, had doubtless given Gervais an appetite, for hebegan to cry. He was now a strong little fellow, three months and a halfold, and never neglected mealtime. He was growing like one of the youngtrees in the neighboring wood, with hands which did not easily releasewhat they grasped, with eyes too full of light, now all laughter and nowall tears, and with the ever open beak of a greedy bird, that raised atempest whenever his mother kept him waiting. 

"Yes, yes, I know you are there, " said she; "come, don't deafen us anylonger. "

Then she gave him the breast and he became quiet, simply purring like ahappy 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 thetwo men whose apprenticeship was long since past. 

He rose up at last, wiped his brow, and with his air of quiet certaintyexclaimed: "It's only a trade to learn. In a few months' time I shallbe nothing but a peasant. Look at that stagnant pond there, green withwater-plants. The spring which feeds it is yonder in that big tuft ofherbage. 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 itscourse, carrying the beneficent water away. "

"Ah!" said Marianne, "may it fertilize all that stony expanse, fornothing can be sadder than dead land. How happy it will be to quench itsthirst and live again!"

Then she broke off to scold Gervais: "Come, young gentleman, don't pullso hard, " said she. "Wait till it comes; you know very well that it'sall for you. "

Meantime the blows of the pickaxes rang out, the trench rapidly made itsway through the fat, moist soil, and soon the water would flow intothe parched veins of the neighboring sandy tracts to endow themwith fruitfulness. And the light trickling of the mother's milk alsocontinued with the faint murmur of an inexhaustible source, flowing fromher breast into the mouth of her babe, like a fountain of eternal life. It ever and ever flowed, it created flesh, intelligence, and labor, andstrength. And soon its whispering would mingle with the babble of thedelivered spring as it descended along the trenches to the dry hotlands. And at last there would be but one and the same stream, oneand the same river, gradually overflowing and carrying life to all theearth, a mighty river of nourishing milk flowing through the world'sveins, creating without a pause, and producing yet more youth and morehealth at each return of springtide. 

Four months later, when Mathieu and his men had finished the autumnploughing, there came the sowing on the same spot. Marianne was thereagain, and it was such a very mild gray day that she was still able tosit down, and once more gayly give the breast to little Gervais. He wasalready eight months old and had become quite a personage. He grew alittle more every day, always in his mother's arms, on that warm breastwhence he sucked life. He was like the seed which clings to the seed-podso long as it is not ripe. And at that first quiver of November, thatapproach 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 deepbeneath the soil. 

"Ah!" said Marianne, laughing, "you are not warm, young gentleman, areyou? It is time for you to take up your winter quarters. "

Just then Mathieu, with his sower's bag at his waist, was returningtowards them, scattering the seed with broad rhythmical gestures. He hadheard his wife, and he paused to say to her: "Let him nurse and sleeptill 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, headded: "All this will grow and ripen when our Gervais has begun to walkand talk--just look, see our conquest!"

He was proud of it. From ten to fifteen acres of the plateau were nowrid of the stagnant pools, cleared and levelled; and they spread outin a brown expanse, rich with humus, while the water-furrows whichintersected them carried the streams to the neighboring slopes. Beforecultivating those dry lands one must yet wait until the moisture shouldhave penetrated and fertilized them. That would be the work of thefuture, and thus, by degrees, life would be diffused through the wholeestate. 

"Evening is coming on, " resumed Mathieu, "I must make haste. "

Then he set off again, throwing the seed with his broad rhythmicalgesture. And while Marianne, gravely smiling, watched him go, itoccurred to little Rose to follow in his track, and take up handfuls ofearth, which she scattered to the wind. The three boys perceivedher, and Blaise and Denis then hastened up, followed by Ambroise, allgleefully imitating their father's gesture, and darting hither andthither around him. And for a moment it was almost as if Mathieu withthe sweep of his arm not only cast the seed of expected corn into thefurrows, but also sowed those dear children, casting them here and therewithout cessation, so that a whole nation of little sowers should springup 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 andBeauchene, who had come to try their luck at wild-duck shooting, amongsuch of the ponds on the plateau as had not yet been drained. It was aSunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheeredby a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreadingcountryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystalcasing, like some venerated saint awaiting April's resurrection. And, that day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also wasslumbering in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, butplump 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 ofhis acquired strength. 

The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, the four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbedin a playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, thetwins, Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces ofcardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, a church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch thescissors, presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself evento her hair. In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang atintervals, their father and mother had remained seated side by side infront of the blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace afterthe 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 kitchenwas redolent of that easy primitive life, lived so near the earth, whichfrees one from fictitious wants, ambition, and the longing for pleasure. And no fortune, no power could have brought such quiet delight as thatafternoon of happy intimacy, while the last-born slept so soundly andquietly 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 theexclamations of surprise which greeted them, they complained of thefolly that had possessed them to venture out of Paris in such bleakweather. 

"Just fancy, my dear fellow, " said Beauchene, "we haven't seen a singleduck! It's no doubt too cold. And you can't imagine what a bitterwind blows on the plateau, amid those ponds and bushes bristling withicicles. So we gave up the idea of any shooting. You must give us each aglass of hot wine, and then we'll get back to Paris. "

Seguin, who was in even a worse humor, stood before the fire trying tothaw himself; and while Marianne made haste to warm some wine, he beganto speak of the cleared fields which he had skirted. Under the icycovering, however, beneath which they stiffly slumbered, hiding theseed within them, he had guessed nothing of the truth, and already feltanxious about this business of Mathieu's, which looked anything butencouraging. Indeed, he already feared that he would not be paid hispurchase 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 howcan you hope to reap anything from rotten soil in which only reeds havebeen growing for centuries?"

"One must wait, " Mathieu quietly answered. "You must come back and seeit all next June. "

But Beauchene interrupted them. "There is a train at four o'clock, Ithink, " said he; "let us make haste, for it would annoy us tremendouslyto miss it, would it not, Seguin?"

So saying, he gave him a gay, meaning glance. They had doubtless plannedsome little spree together, like husbands bent on availing themselves tothe utmost of the convenient pretext of a day's shooting. Then, havingdrunk some wine and feeling warmed and livelier, they began to expressastonishment at their surroundings. 

"It stupefies me, my dear fellow, " declared Beauchene, "that you canlive in this awful solitude in the depth of winter. It is enough to killanybody. I am all in favor of work, you know; but, dash it! one musthave some amusement too. "

"But we do amuse ourselves, " said Mathieu, waving his hand round thatrustic kitchen in which centred all their pleasant family life. 

The two visitors followed his gesture, and gazed in amazement at thewalls covered with utensils, at the rough furniture, and at the tableon which the children were still building their village after offeringtheir cheeks to be kissed. No doubt they were unable to understandwhat pleasure there could possibly be there, for, suppressing a jeeringlaugh, they shook their heads. To them it was really an extraordinarylife, 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 expressedsurprise at finding a child but ten months old so big. He was verygood, too. Only, as soon as he should wake, he would no doubt deafeneverybody. And then, too, if a fine child like that sufficed to makelife happy, how many people must be guilty of spoiling their lives! Thevisitors came back to the fireside, anxious only to be gone now thatthey 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 tojest, and accepted the invitation for a later date when the warm weathershould have arrived. 

"On my word of honor, we have business in Paris, " he declared. "ButI promise you that when it's fine we will all come and spend a dayhere--yes, with our wives and children. And you will then show us yourwork, and we shall see if you have succeeded. So good-by! All my goodwishes, my dear fellow! Au revoir, cousin! Au revoir, children; begood!"

Then came more kisses and hand-shakes, and the two men disappeared. Andwhen the gentle silence had fallen once more Mathieu and Marianneagain found themselves in front of the bright fire, while the childrencompleted the building of their village with a great consumption ofpaste, and Gervais continued sleeping soundly. Had they been dreaming?Mathieu wondered. What sudden blast from all the shame and suffering ofParis had blown into their far-away quiet? Outside, the country retainedits icy rigidity. The fire alone sang the song of hope in life's futurerevival. And, all at once, after a few minutes' reverie the young manbegan to speak aloud, as if he had at last just found the answer to allsorts 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 theirmistresses. They have never glowed with the supreme desire, the divinedesire which is the world's very soul, the brazier of eternal life. Andthat explains everything. Without desire there is no love, no courage, and no hope. By love alone can one create. And if love be restrictedin its mission there is but failure. Yes, they lie and deceive, becausethey do not love. Then they suffer and lapse into moral and physicaldegradation. And at the end lies the collapse of our rotten society, which breaks up more and more each day before our eyes. That, then, isthe truth I was seeking. It is desire and love that save. Whoever lovesand creates is the revolutionary saviour, the maker of men for the newworld which will shortly dawn. "

Never before had Mathieu so plainly understood that he and his wife weredifferent from others. This now struck him with extraordinary force. Comparisons ensued, and he realized that their simple life, free fromthe lust of wealth, their contempt for luxury and worldly vanities, alltheir common participation in toil which made them accept and glorifylife and its duties, all that mode of existence of theirs which wasat once their joy and their strength, sprang solely from the source ofeternal energy: the love with which they glowed. If, later on, victoryshould remain with them, if they should some day leave behind them workof value and health and happiness, it would be solely because they hadpossessed the power of love and the courage to love freely, harvesting, in an ever-increasing family, both the means of support and the meansof conquest. And this sudden conviction filled Mathieu with such a glowthat he leant towards his wife, who sat there deeply moved by what hesaid, and kissed her ardently upon the lips. It was divine love passinglike 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 fingersamid the silence. Evening was coming on, and at last the children, theirvillage finished, raised cries of rapture at seeing it standing thereamong bits of wood, which figured trees. And then the softened glancesof the parents strayed now through the window towards the crops sleepingbeneath 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 firstyear, and fine weather, setting in early, was hastening the awakingof the earth. One morning, when Marianne and the children went to joinMathieu on the plateau, they raised shouts of wonder, so completely hadthe sun transformed the expanse in a single week. It was now all greenvelvet, a thick endless carpet of sprouting corn, of tender, delicateemerald hue. Never had such a marvellous crop been seen. And thus, asthe family walked on through the mild, radiant April morning, amid thecountry now roused from winter's sleep, and quivering with freshyouth, they all waxed merry at the sight of that healthfulness, thatprogressing fruitfulness, which promised the fulfilment of all theirhopes. And their rapture yet increased when, all at once, they noticedthat little Gervais also was awaking to life, acquiring decisivestrength. As he struggled in his little carriage and his mother removedhim from it, behold! he took his flight, and, staggering, made foursteps; then hung to his father's legs with his little fists. A cry ofextraordinary delight burst forth. 

"Why! he walks, he walks!"

Ah! those first lispings of life, those successive flights of the dearlittle ones; the first glance, the first smile, the first step--what joydo they not bring to parents' hearts! They are the rapturous _etapes_of infancy, for which father and mother watch, which they awaitimpatiently, which they hail with exclamations of victory, as if eachwere a conquest, a fresh triumphal entry into life. The child grows, thechild becomes a man. And there is yet the first tooth, forcing itsway like a needle-point through rosy gums; and there is also the firststammered word, the "pa-pa, " the "mam-ma, " which one is quite readyto detect amid the vaguest babble, though it be but the purring of akitten, the chirping of a bird. Life does its work, and the father andthe mother are ever wonderstruck with admiration and emotion at thesight 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 indeedreturn, taking the four steps afresh, with arms extended and beating theair as if they were balancing-poles. 

"Gervais! Gervais!" called Mathieu in his turn. And the child went backto 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 roughlywith 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. Andagain did the stream of milk trickle forth. 

Close by that spot, skirting the new field, there passed a crossroad, inrather bad condition, leading to a neighboring village. And on this roada cart suddenly came into sight, jolting amid the ruts, and driven bya peasant--who was so absorbed in his contemplation of the land whichMathieu had cleared, that he would have let his horse climb upon a heapof 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: "Sothis, then, is your work, Monsieur Froment?"

Mathieu and Marianne thereupon recognized the Lepailleurs, the people ofthe mill. They were well aware that folks laughed at Janville over thefolly of their attempt--that mad idea of growing wheat among the marshesof the plateau. Lepailleur, in particular, distinguished himself by theviolent raillery he levelled at this Parisian, a gentleman born, witha good berth, who was so stupid as to make himself a peasant, and flingwhat money he had to that rascally earth, which would assuredly swallowhim and his children and his money all together, without yielding evenenough wheat to keep them in bread. And thus the sight of the field hadstupefied him. It was a long while since he had passed that way, andhe had never thought that the seed would sprout so thickly, for he hadrepeated a hundred times that nothing would germinate, so rotten wasall the land. Although he almost choked with covert anger at seeing hispredictions thus falsified, he was unwilling to admit his error, and puton an air of ironical doubt. 

"So you think it will grow, eh? Well, one can't say that it hasn't comeup. Only one must see if it can stand and ripen. " And as Mathieu quietlysmiled 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 seenplenty of crops coming on magnificently, and then a storm, a gust ofwind, a mere trifle, has reduced them to nothing! But you are young atthe trade as yet; you'll get your experience in misfortune. "

His wife, who nodded approval on hearing him talk so finely, thenaddressed herself to Marianne: "Oh! my man doesn't say that todiscourage 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 alwaysbestows more on them than one gets back, and in the end one findsoneself 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 momentirritated by all the ignorance, envy, and imbecile ambition which hefelt were before him, contented himself with jesting. "That's it, we'llsee. When your son Antoine becomes a prefect, and I have twelve peasantdaughters ready, I'll invite you to their weddings, for it's your millthat 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 themiller, who did not like to be derided, almost lost his temper. Helashed his horse with his whip, and the cart jolted on again through theruts. 

"Wheat in the ear is not wheat in the mill, " said he. "Au revoir, andgood luck to you, all the same. "

"Thanks, au revoir. "

Then, while the children still ran about, seeking early primroses amongthe mosses, Mathieu came and sat down beside Marianne, who, he saw, was quivering. He said nothing to her, for he knew that she possessedsufficient strength and confidence to surmount, unaided, such fears forthe future as threats might kindle in her womanly heart. But he simplyset himself there, so near her that he touched her, looking and smilingat her the while. And she immediately became calm again and likewisesmiled, while little Gervais, whom the words of the malicious could notas yet disturb, nursed more eagerly than ever, with a purr of rapturoussatisfaction. The milk was ever trickling, bringing flesh to littlelimbs which grew stronger day by day, spreading through the earth, filling the whole world, nourishing the life which increased hour byhour. And was not this the answer which faith and hope returned to allthreats of death?--the certainty of life's victory, with fine childrenever growing in the sunlight, and fine crops ever rising from the soilat each returning spring! To-morrow, yet once again, on the glorious dayof harvest, the corn will have ripened, the children will be men!

And it was thus, indeed, three months later, when the Beauchenes and theSeguins, keeping their promise, came--husbands, wives, and children--tospend a Sunday afternoon at Chantebled. The Froments had even prevailedon Morange to be of the party with Reine, in their desire to draw himfor 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 wasdecided to go up to the plateau to see the famous fields, for everybodywas curious about them, so extravagant and inexplicable did the idea ofMathieu's return to the soil, and transformation into a peasant, seemto them. He laughed gayly, and at least he succeeded in surprising themwhen he waved his hand towards the great expanse under the broad bluesky, that sea of tall green stalks whose ears were already heavy andundulated at the faintest breeze. That warm splendid afternoon, thefar-spreading fields looked like the very triumph of fruitfulness, agrowth of germs which the humus amassed through centuries had nourishedwith prodigious sap, thus producing this first formidable crop, as if toglorify the eternal source of life which sleeps in the earth'sflanks. The milk had streamed, and the corn now grew on all sides withoverflowing energy, creating health and strength, bespeaking man'slabor and the kindliness, the solidarity of the world. It was like abeneficent, nourishing ocean, in which all hunger would be appeased, andin which to-morrow might arise, amid that tide of wheat whose waves wereever carrying good news to the horizon. 

True, neither Constance nor Valentine was greatly touched by thesight of the waving wheat, for other ambitions filled their minds: andMorange, though he stared with his vague dim eyes, did not even seem tosee it. But Beauchene and Seguin marvelled, for they remembered theirvisit in the month of January, when the frozen ground had been wraptin sleep and mystery. They had then guessed nothing, and now they wereamazed at this miraculous awakening, this conquering fertility, whichhad changed a part of the marshy tableland into a field of livingwealth. And Seguin, in particular, did not cease praising and admiring, certain as he now felt that he would be paid, and already hoping thatMathieu would soon take a further portion of the estate off his hands. 

Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformedinto a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pendingdinner-time, the conversation fell upon children. Marianne, as ithappened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among theladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going fromone to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or hisnose. He was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtlessbecause 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, verypink, and very sturdy--quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen anda half months old. Constance and Valentine admired him, while Mariannejested and turned him away each time that he greedily put out his littlehands towards her. 

"No, no, monsieur, it's over now. You will have nothing but soup infuture. "

"Weaning is such a terrible business, " then remarked Constance. "Did helet 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, heis fairly well behaved already. Besides, I never had more trouble thanthis 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 Mauriceled us when his nurse went away. For three whole nights we were unableto sleep. "

"But just look how your Maurice is playing!" exclaimed Beauchene. "Yetyou'll be telling me again that he is ill. "

"Oh! I no longer say that, my friend; he is quite well now. Besides, Iwas never anxious; I know that he is very strong. "

A great game of hide-and-seek was going on in the garden, along thepaths and even over the flower-beds, among the eight children who wereassembled there. Besides the four of the house--Blaise, Denis, Ambroise, and Rose--there were Gaston and Lucie, the two elder children ofthe Seguins, who had abstained, however, from bringing their otherdaughter--little Andree. Then, too, both Reine and Maurice were present. And the latter now, indeed, seemed to be all right upon his legs, thoughhis square face with its heavy jaw still remained somewhat pale. Hismother watched him running about, and felt so happy and so vain at therealization of her dream that she became quite amiable even towardsthese poor relatives the Froments, whose retirement into the countryseemed to her like an incomprehensible downfall, which forever thrustthem out of her social sphere. 

"Ah! well, " resumed Beauchene, "I've only one boy, but he's a sturdyfellow, I warrant it; isn't he, Mathieu?"

These words had scarcely passed his lips when he must have regrettedthem. His eyelids quivered and a little chill came over him as hisglance met that of his former designer. For in the latter's clear eyeshe beheld, as it were, a vision of that other son, Norine's ill-fatedchild, who had been cast into the unknown. Then there came a pause, andamid the shrill cries of the boys and girls playing at hide-and-seeka number of little shadows flitted through the sunlight: they were theshadows of the poor doomed babes who scarce saw the light before theywere 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 increasedwhen he noticed Morange huddled up on a chair, and gazing with blurred, tearful eyes at little Gervais, who was laughingly toddling hither andthither. Had a vision come to him also? Had the phantom of his deadwife, shrinking from the duties of motherhood and murdered in a hatefulden, risen before him in that sunlit garden, amid all the turbulentmirth of happy, playful children?

"What a pretty girl your daughter Reine is!" said Mathieu, in the hopeof drawing the accountant from his haunting remorse. "Just look at herrunning about!--so girlish still, as if she were not almost old enoughto be married. "

Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter. And a smilereturned to his eyes, still moist with tears. Day by day his adorationincreased. 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 thatshe might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich. That would be a signthat he was forgiven--that would be the only joy for which he couldyet hope. And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at thethought that a husband would some day take her from him, and that hewould remain alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his deadwife. 

"Married?" he murmured; "oh! not yet. She is only fourteen. "

At this the others expressed surprise: they would have taken her to bequite eighteen, so womanly was her precocious beauty already. 

"As a matter of fact, " resumed her father, feeling flattered, "she hasalready been asked in marriage. You know that the Baroness de Lowiczis kind enough to take her out now and then. Well, she told me that anarch-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 sixyears at least!"

He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction, without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine'sname; for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companionfor 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 havebeen so pleased to kiss her. And she would have been able to playwith this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment'speace. "

But Seguin did not give his wife time to reply. "Ah! no, indeed!" heexclaimed; "in that case I should not have come. It is quite enough tohave to drag the two others about. That fearful child has not ceaseddeafening us ever since her nurse went away. "

Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved. Shehad been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, after terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged itby her departure into anarchy. Ah! that Catiche, she might complimentherself on all the money she had cost! Sent away almost by force, likea queen who is bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded withpresents for herself and her husband, and her little girl at thevillage! And now it had been of little use to take a dry-nurse in herplace, for Andree did not cease shrieking from morning till night. Theyhad discovered, too, that La Catiche had not only carried off with hera 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 arewell one can overlook other worries. "

"Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?" cried Seguin, giving way toone 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 skinand 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 twoothers yonder: they have papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that youdon't look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre hasof them!"

For him Santerre's opinion remained authoritative. However, Valentinecontented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others, feeling slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid theromping of their companions, soon lost breath and lagged behind, sulkyand distrustful. 

"But, my dear friend, " said Constance to Valentine, "didn't our goodDoctor Boutan tell you that all the trouble came from your not nursingyour children yourself? At all events, that was the compliment that hepaid me. "

At the mention of Boutan a friendly shout arose. Oh! Boutan, Boutan! hewas like all other specialists. Seguin sneered; Beauchene jested aboutthe legislature decreeing compulsory nursing by mothers; and onlyMathieu and Marianne remained silent. 

"Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you, " saidConstance, turning towards the latter. "Your children are superb, andnobody says the contrary. "

Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free tomake fun of her if they pleased. But at this moment she perceived thatGervais, profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his "paradiselost. " 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 thatpeople would laugh at us?"

Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking ather with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning tohim, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her sobeautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant withthe triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of somethingdivine had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamedfrom her bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source oflife, glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travailo'er. For there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, responsible for incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, inthat glory, amid her vigorous children, like the good goddess ofFruitfulness, Mathieu felt that he adored her. Divine passion sweptby--the glow which makes the fields palpitate, which rolls on throughthe waters, and floats in the wind, begetting millions and millions ofexistences. And 'twas delightful the ecstasy into which they both sank, forgetfulness of all else, of all those others who were there. They sawthem no longer; they felt but one desire, to say that they loved eachother, and that the season had come when love blossoms afresh. His lipsprotruded, she offered hers, and then they kissed. 

"Oh! don't disturb yourselves!" cried Beauchene merrily. "Why, what isthe 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, Mathieuand Marianne remained for a moment speechless, looking at one another inconsternation. And then they burst into a hearty laugh, gayly excusingthemselves. To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies allhealth, all will, and all power. 

XII

FOUR years went by. And during those four years Mathieu and Marianne hadtwo more children, a daughter at the end of the first year and a sonat the expiration of the third. And each time that the family thusincreased, the estate at Chantebled was increased also--on the firstoccasion by fifty more acres of rich soil reclaimed among the marshesof the plateau, and the second time by an extensive expanse of woodand moorland which the springs were beginning to fertilize. It wasthe resistless conquest of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in thesunlight, it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creationamid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at eachsucceeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in theveins of the world. 

On the day when Mathieu called on Seguin to purchase the wood andmoorland, he lunched with Dr. Boutan, whom he found in an execrablehumor. The doctor had just heard that three of his former patients hadlately passed through the hands of his colleague Gaude, the notorioussurgeon to whose clinic at the Marbeuf Hospital society Paris flocked asto a theatre. One of these patients was none other than Euphrasie, oldMoineaud's eldest daughter, now married to Auguste Benard, a mason, and already the mother of three children. She had doubtless resumed herusual avocations too soon after the birth of her last child, as oftenhappens in working-class families where the mother is unable to remainidle. At all events, she had for some time been ailing, and had finallybeen removed to the hospital. Mathieu had for a while employed her youngsister Cecile, now seventeen, as a servant in the house at Chantebled, but she was of poor health and had returned to Paris, where, curiouslyenough, she also entered Doctor Gaude's clinic. And Boutan waxedindignant at the methods which Gaude employed. The two sisters, themarried 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, wouldbring 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 newspapershad widely extolled, had actually sought out the Benards and theMoineauds to interview Euphrasie and Cecile on the subject. And in theresult she likewise had placed herself in Gaude's hands. She certainlywas of little account, and, whatever might become of her, the worldwould be none the poorer by her death. But Boutan pointed out thatduring the fifteen years that Gaude's theories and practices hadprevailed in France, no fewer than half a million women had been treatedaccordingly, and, in the vast majority of cases, without any suchtreatment being really necessary. Moreover, Boutan spoke feelingly ofthe after results of such treatment--comparative health for a few briefyears, followed in some cases by a total loss of muscular energy, and inothers by insanity of a most violent form; so that the padded cells ofthe madhouses were filling year by year with the unhappy women who hadpassed through the hands of Gaude and his colleagues. From a socialpoint of view also the effects were disastrous. They ran counter to allBoutan's own theories, and blasted all his hopes of living to see Franceagain holding a foremost place among the nations of the earth. 

"Ah!" said he to Mathieu, "if people were only like you and your goodwife!"

During those four years at Chantebled the Froments had been everfounding, creating, increasing, and multiplying, again and again provingvictorious in the eternal battle which life wages against death, thanksto that continual increase both of offspring and of fertile land whichwas like their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desirepassed like a gust of flame--desire divine and fruitful, since theypossessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energydid the rest--that will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence ofthe labor that is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulatesthe earth. But during the first two years they had to struggleincessantly. There were two disastrous winters with snow and ice, andMarch brought hail-storms and hurricanes which left the crops lying low. Even as Lepailleur had threateningly predicted with a laugh of impotentenvy, it seemed as if the earth meant to prove a bad mother, ungratefulto them for their toil, indifferent to their losses. During those twoyears they only extricated themselves from trouble thanks to the secondfifty acres that they purchased from Seguin, to the west of the plateau, a fresh expanse of rich soil which they reclaimed amid the marshes, andwhich, in spite of frost and hail, yielded a prodigious first harvest. As the estate gradually expanded, it also grew stronger, better able tobear ill-luck. 

But Mathieu and Marianne also had great family worries. Their five elderchildren gave them much anxiety, much fatigue. As with the soil, hereagain there was a daily battle, endless cares and endless fears. LittleGervais was stricken with fever and narrowly escaped death. Rose, too, one day filled them with the direst alarm, for she fell from a tree intheir 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 whenMarianne gave birth to her sixth child, on whom they bestowed the gayname of Claire, Mathieu celebrated the new pledge of their affection byfurther acquisitions. 

Then, during the two ensuing years, their battles and sadness and joyall resulted in victory once more. Marianne gave birth, and Mathieuconquered new lands. There was ever much labor, much life expended, and much life realized and harvested. This time it was a question ofenlarging the estate on the side of the moorlands, the sandy, gravellyslopes where nothing had grown for centuries. The captured sources ofthe tableland, directed towards those uncultivated tracts, graduallyfertilized them, covered them with increasing vegetation. There werepartial failures at first, and defeat even seemed possible, so great wasthe patient determination which the creative effort demanded. But here, too, the crops at last overflowed, while the intelligent felling of apart of the purchased woods resulted in a large profit, and gave Mathieuan idea of cultivating some of the spacious clearings hitherto overgrownwith brambles. 

And while the estate spread the children grew. It had been necessary tosend the three elder ones--Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise--to a schoolin Paris, whither they gallantly repaired each day by the first train, returning only in the evening. But the three others, little Gervais andthe girls Rose and Claire, were still allowed all freedom in the midstof Nature. Marianne, however, gave birth to a seventh child, amidcircumstances which caused Mathieu keen anxiety. For a moment, indeed, he feared that he might lose her. But her healthful temperamenttriumphed over all, and the child--a boy, named Gregoire--soon dranklife 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 herarms, he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over everysorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the world, another field ready forto-morrow's harvest. 

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulnessspreading, thanks to the earth and to woman, both victorious overdestruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh childwas 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 andMarianne had yet another child, a girl. And again, at the same time asthe family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased also--onone side by five-and-seventy acres of woodland stretching overthe plateau as far as the fields of Mareuil, and on the other byfive-and-seventy acres of sloping moorland, extending to the village ofMonval, alongside the railway line. But the principal change was that, as the old hunting-box, the little dilapidated pavilion, no longeroffered sufficient accommodation, a whole farmstead had to beerected--stone buildings, and barns, and sheds, and stables, andcowhouses--for farm hands and crops and animals, whose number increasedat each enlargement of the estate. 

It was the resistless conquest of life; it was fruitfulness spreadingin the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work ofcreation amid obstacles and suffering, ever making good all losses, andat each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joyin the veins of the world. 

But during those two years, while Chantebled grew, while labor and worryand victory alternated, Mathieu suddenly found himself mixed up in aterribly tragedy. He was obliged to come to Paris at times--more oftenindeed than he cared--now through his business relations with Seguin, now to sell, now to buy, now to order one thing or another. He oftenpurchased implements and appliances at the Beauchene works, and had thuskept up intercourse with Morange, who once more seemed a changed man. Time had largely healed the wound left by his wife's death, particularlyas she seemed to live again in Reine, to whom he was more attached thanever. Reine was no longer a child; she had become a woman. Still herfather hoped to keep her with him some years yet, while working with alldiligence, saving and saving every penny that he could spare, in orderto increase her dowry. 

But the inevitable was on the march, for the girl had become theconstant companion of Seraphine. The latter, however depraved shemight be, had certainly in the first instance entertained no idea ofcorrupting the child whom she patronized. She had at first takenher solely to such places of amusement as were fit for her years andunderstanding. But little by little the descent had come. Reine, too, as she grew into a woman, amid the hours of idleness when she wasleft alone by her father--who, perforce, had to spend his days at theBeauchene works--developed an ardent temperament and a thirst for everyfrivolous pleasure. And by degrees the once simply petted child became aparticipator in Seraphine's own reckless and dissolute life. 

When the end came, and Reine found herself in dire trouble because ofa high State functionary, a married man, a friend of Seraphine's--bothwomen quite lost their heads. Such a blow might kill Morange. Everythingmust be hidden from him; but how? Thereupon Seraphine devised a plan. She obtained permission for Reine to accompany her on a visit intothe country; but while the fond father imagined that his daughter wasenjoying herself among society folk at a chateau in the Loiret, shewas really hiding in Paris. It was indeed a repetition of her mother'stragic story, with this difference--that Seraphine addressed herself tono 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 PassageTivoli. 

It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris tomake some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone withMorange at the latter's flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathlessand in consternation. Reine, she said, had been taken ill in thecountry, and she had brought her back to Paris to her own flat. But itwas not thither; it was to Sarraille's den that she drove Morange andMathieu. And there the frightful scene which had been enacted at LaRouche's at the time of Valerie's death was repeated. Reine, too, wasdead--dead like her mother! And Morange, in a first outburst of furythreatened both Seraphine and Sarraille with the scaffold. For half anhour there was no mastering him, but all at once he broke down. To losehis daughter as he had lost his wife, it was too appalling; the blowwas too great; he had strength left only to weep. Sarraille, moreover, defended himself; he swore that he had known nothing of the truth, thatthe deceased had simply come to him for legitimate treatment, and thatboth she and the Baroness had deceived him. Then Seraphine on her sidetook hold of Morange's hands, protesting her devotion, her frightfulgrief, her fear, too, lest the reputation of the poor dear girl shouldbe dragged through the mire, if he (the father) did not keep theterrible 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, mightthere be none but pure flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who laytherein be regretted by all who had known her, as one snatched away inall innocence of youth and beauty!

And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while withsobs, and scarce repeating that word "Murderers!" which had sprung fromhis lips so impulsively a little while before. He thought, too, ofthe scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting thecrime, his daughter's memory covered with mire, and--No! no! he couldhave 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; everyone of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart coldand scarce able to beat. And he sank into a sort of second childhood, clasping his hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseechingcompassion, 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. Thefirst time it was I who lied to Reine, telling her that her mother wastravelling; and then she in her turn lied to me the other day with thatstory of an invitation to a chateau in the country. Ah! if eight yearsago I had only opposed my poor Valerie's madness, my poor Reine wouldstill be alive to-day.... Yes, it is all my fault; I alone killed themby my weakness. I am their murderer. "

Shivering, deathly cold, he went on amid his sobs: "And, wretched foolthat I have been, I have killed them through loving them too much. Theywere so beautiful, and it was so excusable for them to be rich and gayand happy. One after the other they took my heart from me, and I livedonly in them and by them and for them. When one had left me, the otherbecame my all in all, and for her, my daughter, I again indulged in thedream of ambition which had originated with her mother. And yet I killedthem both, and my mad desire to rise and conquer fortune led me to thattwofold crime. Ah! when I think that even this morning I still daredto esteem myself happy at having but that one child, that daughter tocherish! What foolish blasphemy against love and life! She is dead now, dead like her mother, and I am alone, with nobody to love and nobodyto love me--neither wife nor daughter, neither desire nor will, butalone--ah! all alone, forever!"

It was the cry of supreme abandonment that he raised, while sinking tothe floor strengthless, with a great void within him; and all he coulddo 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 nowtaken everything from me. "

Mathieu, in tears himself, kissed him and lingered yet a few momentslonger in that tragic den, feeling more moved than he had ever feltbefore. And when he went off he left the unhappy Morange in the chargeof Seraphine, who now treated him like a little ailing child whosewill-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 wagesagainst death, thanks to that continual increase both of offspring andof fertile land which was like their very existence, their joy, andtheir strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame--desire divineand fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, andhealth. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that quietbravery in the presence of the labor that is necessary, the labor thathas made and that regulates the world. They were, however, still in thehard, trying, earlier stage of their work of conquest, and they oftenwept with grief and anxiety. Many were their cares, too, in transformingthe old pavilion into a farm. The outlay was considerable, and attimes it seemed as if the crops would never pay the building accounts. Moreover, as the enterprise grew in magnitude, and there came more andmore cattle, more and more horses, a larger staff of both men andgirls became necessary, to say nothing of additional implements andappliances, and the increase of supervision which left the Fromentslittle rest. Mathieu controlled the agricultural part of the enterprise, ever seeking improved methods for drawing from the earth all the lifethat slumbered within it. And Marianne watched over the farmyard, thedairy, the poultry, and showed herself a first-class accountant, keeping the books, and receiving and paying money. And thus, in spite ofrecurring worries, strokes of bad luck and inevitable mistakes, fortunesmiled on them athwart all worries and losses, so brave and sensible didthey prove in their incessant daily struggle. 

Apart, too, from the new buildings, the estate was increased byfive-and-seventy acres of woodland, and five-and-seventy acres ofsandy sloping soil. Mathieu's battle with those sandy slopes became yetkeener, more and more heroic as his field of action expanded; but heended by conquering, by fertilizing them yet more each season, thanks tothe fructifying springs which he directed through them upon every side. And in the same way he cut broad roads through the new woods whichhe purchased on the plateau, in order to increase the means ofcommunication and carry into effect his idea of using the clearings aspasture for his cattle, pending the time when he might largely devotehimself to stock-raising. In this wise, then, the battle went on, and spread incessantly in all directions; and the chances of decisivevictory likewise increased, compensation for possible loss on one sidebeing found on another where the harvest proved prodigious. 

And, like the estate, the children also grew. Blaise and Denis, thetwins, now already fourteen years of age, reaped prize after prize atschool, putting their younger brother, Ambroise, slightly to shame, forhis quick and ingenious mind was often busy with other matters than hislessons. Gervais, the girls Rose and Claire, as well as the last-bornboy, little Gregoire, were yet too young to be trusted alone in Paris, and so they continued growing in the open air of the country, withoutany great mishap befalling them. And at the end of those two yearsMarianne 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 sorrowand every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yetan additional force born into the world, another field ready forto-morrow's harvest. 

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulnessspreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious overdestruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh childwas 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 andMarianne had yet another child, another daughter, whom they calledMadeleine. And once again the estate of Chantebled was increased; thistime by all the marshland whose ponds and whose springs remained to bedrained and captured on the west of the plateau. The whole of this partof the property was now acquired by the Froments--two hundred acres ofland where, hitherto, only water plants had grown, but which now wasgiven over to cultivation, and yielded abundant crops. And the newsprings, turned into canals on every side, again carried beneficentlife to the sandy slopes, and fertilized them. It was life's resistlessconquest; it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was laborever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles andsuffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour settingmore energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. 

This time it was Seguin himself who asked Mathieu to purchase a freshpart of the estate, pressing him even to take all that was left of it, woods and moorland--extending over some five hundred acres. NowadaysSeguin was often in need of money, and in order to do business heoffered Mathieu lower terms and all sorts of advantages; but the otherprudently declined the proposals, keeping steadfastly to his originalintentions, which were that he would proceed with his work of creationstep by step, in accordance with his exact means and requirements. Moreover, a certain difficulty arose with regard to the purchase of theremaining moors, for enclosed by this land, eastward, near the railwayline, were a few acres belonging to Lepailleur, the miller, who hadnever done anything with them. And so Mathieu preferred to select whatremained of the marshy plateau, adding, however, that he would enterinto negotiations respecting the moorland later on, when the millershould have consented to sell his enclosure. He knew that, ever sincehis property had been increasing, Lepailleur had regarded him with thegreatest jealousy and hatred, and he did not think it advisable toapply to him personally, certain as he felt that he would fail in hisendeavor. Seguin, however, pretended that if he took up the matterhe would know how to bring the miller to reason, and even secure theenclosure for next to nothing. And indeed, thinking that he might yetinduce Mathieu to purchase all the remaining property, he determined tosee Lepailleur and negotiate with him before even signing the deed whichwas to convey to Mathieu the selected marshland on the plateau. 

But the outcome proved as Mathieu had foreseen. Lepailleur asked sucha monstrous price for his few acres enclosed within the estate thatnothing 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 hadtold the young man that he would never succeed in reaping an earof wheat from that uncultivated expanse, given over to brambles forcenturies past; and yet now it was covered with abundant crops! And thishad increased the miller's rancor against the soil; he hated it yet morethan ever for its harshness to him, a peasant's son, and its kindlinesstowards that bourgeois, who seemed to have fallen from heaven expresslyto revolutionize the region. Thus, in answer to Seguin, he declared witha sneer that since sorcerers had sprung up who were able to make wheatsprout from stones, his patch of ground was now worth its weight ingold. Several years previously, no doubt, he had offered Seguin theenclosure for a trifle; but times had changed, and he now crowed loudlyover the other's folly in not entertaining his previous offer. 

On the other hand, there seemed little likelihood of his turning theenclosure to account himself, for he was more disgusted than ever withthe tilling of the soil. His disposition had been further embittered bythe 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 thefolks of Janville as a little prodigy. Mathieu had mortally offendedthe father and mother by suggesting that Antonin should be sent toan agricultural college--a very sensible suggestion, but one whichexasperated 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 theselected marshland on the plateau. A deed of conveyance having beenprepared, they exchanged signatures. And then, on Seguin's hands, there still remained nearly two hundred and fifty acres of woods inthe direction of Lillebonne, together with the moorlands stretching toVieux-Bourg, in which Lepailleur's few acres were enclosed. 

It was on the occasion of the visits which he paid Seguin in referenceto these matters that Mathieu became acquainted with the terriblebreak-up of the other's home. The very rooms of the house in the Avenued'Antin, particularly the once sumptuous "cabinet, " spoke of neglectand abandonment. The desire to cut a figure in society, and to carry the"fad" of the moment to extremes, ever possessed Seguin; and thus hehad for a while renounced his pretended artistic tastes for certain newforms of sport--the motor-car craze, and so forth. But his only realpassion was horseflesh, and to this he at last returned. A racing stablewhich he set up quickly helped on his ruin. Women and gaming had beenresponsible for the loss of part of his large fortune, and now horseswere devouring the remainder. It was said, too, that he gambled at thebourse, in the hope of recouping himself for his losses on the turf, andby way, too, of affecting an air of power and influence, for he allowedit to be supposed that he obtained information direct from members ofthe Government. And as his losses increased and downfall threatened him, all that remained of the _bel esprit_ and moralist, once so proneto discuss literature and social philosophy with Santerre, was anembittered, impotent individual--one who had proclaimed himself apessimist for fashion's sake, and was now caught in his own trap; havingso spoilt his existence that he was now but an artisan of corruption anddeath. 

All was disaster in his home. Celeste the maid had long since beendismissed, and the children were now in the charge of a certain Germangoverness called Nora, who virtually ruled the house. Her position withrespect to Seguin was evident to one and all; but then, what of Seguin'swife and Santerre? The worst was, that this horrible life, which seemedto be accepted on either side, was known to the children, or, at allevents, to the elder daughter Lucie, yet scarcely in her teens. Therehad been terrible scenes with this child, who evinced a mysticaldisposition, 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 girlAndree, whom La Catiche had suckled. She had become a pretty child--soaffectionate, docile, and gay, that she scarcely complained even of herbrother'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 debtscontracted at the outset of his enterprise had at last been paid, and healone was now the master there, resolved to have no other partners thanhis wife and children. It was for each of his children that he conquereda fresh expanse of land. That estate would remain their home, theirsource of nourishment, the tie linking them together, even if theybecame dispersed through the world in a variety of social positions. Andthus how decisive was that growth of the property, the acquisitionof that last lot of marshland which allowed the whole plateau to becultivated! There might now come yet another child, for there would befood for him; wheat would grow to provide him with daily bread. And whenthe work was finished, when the last springs were captured, and theland had been drained and cleared, how prodigious was the scene atspringtide!--with the whole expanse, as far as eye could see, one massof greenery, full of the promise of harvest. Therein was compensationfor every tear, every worry and anxiety of the earlier days of labor. 

Meantime Mathieu, amid his creative work, received Marianne's gay andcourageous assistance. And she was not merely a skilful helpmate, takinga share in the general management, keeping the accounts, and watchingover the home. She remained both a loving and well-loved spouse, and amother who nursed, reared, and educated her little ones in order togive them some of her own sense and heart. As Boutan remarked, it isnot enough for a woman to have a child; she should also possess healthymoral gifts in order that she may bring it up in creditable fashion. Marianne, for her part, made it her pride to obtain everything from herchildren by dint of gentleness and grace. She was listened to, obeyed, and worshipped by them, because she was so beautiful, so kind, andso greatly beloved. Her task was scarcely easy, since she had eightchildren already; but in all things she proceeded in a very orderlyfashion, utilizing the elder to watch over the younger ones, giving eacha little share of loving authority, and extricating herself from everyembarrassment by setting truth and justice above one and all. Blaiseand Denis, the twins, who were now sixteen, and Ambroise, who was nearlyfourteen, did in a measure escape her authority, being largely in theirfather's hands. But around her she had the five others--from Rose, whowas eleven, to Louise, who was two years old; between them, at intervalsof a couple of years, coming Gervais, Claire, and Gregoire. And eachtime that one flew away, as it were, feeling his wings strong enough forflight, there appeared another to nestle beside her. And it was again adaughter, Madeleine, who came at the expiration of those two years. Andwhen Mathieu saw his wife erect and smiling again, with the dear littlegirl at her breast, he embraced her passionately and triumphed onceagain over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child, yet morewealth and power, yet an additional force born into the world, anotherfield ready for to-morrow's harvest. 

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulnessspreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious overdestruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh childwas 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 Mariannehad yet another daughter; and this time, as the family increased, Chantebled also was increased by all the woodland extending eastwardof the plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. All thenorthern part of the property was thus acquired: more than five hundredacres of woods, intersected by clearings which roads soon connectedtogether. And those clearings, transformed into pasture-land, wateredby the neighboring springs, enabled Mathieu to treble his live-stock andattempt cattle-raising on a large scale. It was the resistless conquestof life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was laborever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles andsuffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour settingmore energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world. 

Since the Froments had become conquerors, busily founding a littlekingdom and building up a substantial fortune in land, the Beauchenesno longer derided them respecting what they had once deemed theirextravagant idea in establishing themselves in the country. Astonishedand anticipating now the fullest success, they treated them aswell-to-do relatives, and occasionally visited them, delighted with theaspect of that big, bustling farm, so full of life and prosperity. Itwas in the course of these visits that Constance renewed her intercoursewith her former schoolfellow, Madame Angelin, the Froments' neighbor. Agreat change had come over the Angelins; they had ended by purchasing alittle house at the end of the village, where they invariably spent thesummer, but their buoyant happiness seemed to have departed. They hadlong desired to remain unburdened by children, and now they eagerlylonged to have a child, and none came, though Claire, the wife, was asyet 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 hisprofession as a fan-painter. 

When Madame Angelin went to Paris she often called on Constance, towhom, before long, she confided all her worries. She had been in adoctor's hands for three years, but all to no avail, and now duringthe last six months she had been consulting a person in the Rue deMiromesnil, a certain Madame Bourdieu, said she. 

Constance at first made light of her friend's statements, and in partdeclined to believe her. But when she found herself alone she feltdisquieted by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated thematter as mere idle tittle-tattle, if she had not already regretted thatshe herself had no second child. On the day when the unhappy Morange hadlost his only daughter, and had remained stricken down, utterly alone inlife, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish. Since that supremeloss the wretched accountant had been living on in a state of imbecilestupefaction, simply discharging his duties in a mechanical sort of wayfrom force of habit. Scarcely speaking, but showing great gentlenessof manner, he lived as one who was stranded, fated to remain foreverat Beauchene's works, where his salary had now risen to eight thousandfrancs a year. It was not known what he did with this amount, which wasconsiderable for a man who led such a narrow regular life, free fromexpenses and fancies outside his home--that flat which was much too bigfor him, but which he had, nevertheless, obstinately retained, shuttinghimself up therein, and leading a most misanthropic life in fiercesolitude. 

It was his grievous prostration which had at one moment quite upsetand affected Constance, so that she had even sobbed with the desolateman--she whose tears flowed so seldom! No doubt a thought that she mighthave had other children than Maurice came back to her in certain bitterhours of unconscious self-examination, when from the depths of herbeing, in which feelings of motherliness awakened, there rose vaguefear, sudden dread, such as she had never known before. 

Yet Maurice, her son, after a delicate youth which had necessitatedgreat care, was now a handsome fellow of nineteen, still somewhat pale, but vigorous in appearance. He had completed his studies in a fairlysatisfactory manner, and was already helping his father in themanagement of the works. And his adoring mother had never set higherhopes upon his head. She already pictured him as the master of thatgreat establishment, whose prosperity he would yet increase, therebyrising to royal wealth and power. 

Constance's worship for that only son, to-morrow's hero; increased themore since his father day by day declined in her estimation, till sheregarded him in fact with naught but contempt and disgust. It was alogical downfall, which she could not stop, and the successive phases ofwhich she herself fatally precipitated. At the outset she had overlookedhis infidelity; then from a spirit of duty and to save him fromirreparable folly she had sought to retain him near her; and finally, failing in her endeavor, she had begun to feel loathing and disgust. Hewas now two-and-forty, he drank too much, he ate too much, he smoked toomuch. He was growing corpulent and scant of breath, with hanging lipsand heavy eyelids; he no longer took care of his person as formerly, butwent about slipshod, and indulged in the coarsest pleasantries. But itwas more particularly away from his home that he sank into degradation, indulging in the low debauchery which had ever attracted him. Every nowand again he disappeared from the house and slept elsewhere; then heconcocted such ridiculous falsehoods that he could not be believed, or else did not take the trouble to lie at all. Constance, who feltpowerless to influence him, ended by allowing him complete freedom. 

The worst was, that the dissolute life he led grievously affected thebusiness. He who had been such a great and energetic worker had lostboth mental and bodily vigor; he could no longer plan remunerativestrokes of business; he no longer had the strength to undertakeimportant contracts. He lingered in bed in the morning, and remained forthree or four days without once going round the works, letting disorderand waste accumulate there, so that his once triumphal stock-takingsnow year by year showed a falling-off. And what an end it was for thategotist, that enjoyer, so gayly and noisily active, who had alwaysprofessed that money--capital increased tenfold by the labor ofothers--was the only desirable source of power, and whom excess of moneyand 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 ofher husband. Some anonymous letters, the low, treacherous revenge ofa dismissed servant, apprised her of Beauchene's former intrigue withNorine, that work-girl who had given birth to a boy, spirited awaynone knew whither. Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence, Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt. Whither hadthat child been sent? Was he still alive? What ignominious existencewas he leading? She was vaguely jealous of the boy. The thought that herhusband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now thatall her motherly nature was aroused. But she devoted herself yet moreardently to her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, andfor his sake even sacrificed her just rancor. She indeed came to theconclusion that he must not suffer from his father's indignity, andso it was for him that, with extraordinary strength of will, sheever preserved a proud demeanor, feigning that she was ignorant ofeverything, 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 avoidedexplanations and quarrels. Never even thinking of the possibility ofrevenge, she seemed, in the presence of her husband's profligacy, to attach herself more firmly to her home, clinging to her son, andprotected by him from thought of evil as much as by her own sternnessof heart and principles. And thus sorely wounded, full of repugnancebut hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of that son who wouldpurify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith in his strength, and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once, withoutreasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a chill, affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which sheno longer remembered. 

That little quiver came back while she listened to all that MadameAngelin confided to her. And at last she became quite interested in herfriend's case, and offered to accompany her some day when she mightbe calling on Madame Bourdieu. In the end they arranged to meet oneThursday afternoon for the purpose of going together to the Rue deMiromesnil. 

As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o'clock, Mathieu, who hadcome to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchene's works, wasquietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile Moineaud, whowas carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string. She wasnow nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, sincepassing through the hands of Dr. Gaude. Mathieu had taken a great likingto her during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled;and later, knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he hadregarded her with deep compassion. He had busied himself to find hereasy work, and a friend of his had given her some cardboard boxes topaste together, the only employment that did not tire her thin weakhands. So childish had she remained that one would have taken her for ayoung girl suddenly arrested in her growth. Yet her slender fingers wereskilful, and she contrived to earn some two francs a day in making thelittle boxes. And as she suffered greatly at her parents' home, torturedby her brutal surroundings there, and robbed of her earnings week byweek, her dream was to secure a home of her own, to find a little moneythat would enable her to install herself in a room where she mightlive in peace and quietness. It had occurred to Mathieu to give hera pleasant surprise some day by supplying her with the small sum sheneeded. 

"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 haveto make. "

Noticing his kindly air, however, she soon told him the truth. Hersister, that poor creature Norine, had just given birth to anotherchild, her third, at Madame Bourdieu's establishment. A gentleman whohad been protecting her had cast her adrift, and she had been obligedto sell her few sticks of furniture in order to get together a couple ofhundred francs, and thus secure admittance to Madame Bourdieu's house, for the mere idea of having to go to a hospital terrified her. Whenevershe might be able to get about again, however, she would find herselfin the streets, with the task of beginning life anew at one-and-thirtyyears of age. 

"She never behaved unkindly to me, " resumed Cecile. "I pity her with allmy heart, and I have been to see her. I am taking her a little chocolatenow. 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 witha smile. The instinct of maternity remained keen within her, though shecould never be a mother. 

"What a pity it is, " she continued, "that Norine is so obstinatelydetermined on getting rid of the baby, just as she got rid of theothers. This little fellow, it's true, cries so much that she has had togive him the breast. But it's only for the time being; she says that shecan't see him starve while he remains near her. But it quite upsetsme to think that one can get rid of one's children; I had an idea ofarranging things very differently. You know that I want to leave myparents, don't you? Well, I thought of renting a room and of taking mysister and her little boy with me. I would show Norine how to cut outand paste up those little boxes, and we might live, all three, happilytogether. "

"And won't she consent?" asked Mathieu. 

"Oh! she told me that I was mad; and there's some truth in that, forI have no money even to rent a room. Ah! if you only knew how itdistresses 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 keepher child, for I fancy that I know her ideas on that subject. A miraclewould be needed to change them. "

Quick-witted as she was, Cecile darted a glance at him. The friend hespoke of was himself. Good heavens would her dream come true? She endedby bravely saying: "Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you reallyought to do me a last favor. It would be to come with me and see Norineat once. You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps. But letus walk slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy. "

Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her. They turned the corner ofthe Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbedthe stairs of Madame Bourdieu's establishment. Ten years ago! Was itpossible? He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in thathouse. And it all seemed to date from yesterday, for the buildinghad not changed; indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the verygrease-spots on the doors on the various landings. 

Following Cecile to Norine's room, he found Norine up and dressed, butseated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe. 

"What! is it you, monsieur?" she exclaimed, as soon as she recognizedher visitor. "It is very kind of Cecile to have brought you. Ah! _monDieu_ what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you! We arenone of us any the younger. "

He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged. She wasone of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year. Still, if her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remainedpleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever. 

Cecile wished to bring matters to the point at once. "Here is yourchocolate, " she began. "I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he isso kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help mein carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and workwith me. So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevailon you to keep that poor little fellow of yours. You see, I don't wantto take you unawares; I warn you in advance. "

Norine started with emotion, and began to protest. "What is all thisagain?" said she. "No, no, I don't want to be worried. I'm too unhappyas it is. "

But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if shereverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lowerand lower. She herself had no illusions on that point; she spokebitterly enough of her experiences. Her youth had flown, her good-lookswere departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough. But then whatcould 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 lifewhich 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 insome corner and carried off to die at a hospital. "

She spoke these words with the fierce energy of one who all at onceclearly perceives the fate which she cannot escape. Then she glanced ather infant, who was still nursing. "He had better go his way and I'll gomine, " she added. "Then we shan't inconvenience one another. "

This time her voice softened, and an expression of infinite tendernesspassed over her desolate face. And Mathieu, in astonishment, diviningthe new emotion that possessed her, though she did not express it, madehaste to rejoin: "To let him go his way would be the shortest way tokill 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 tohim; you know what my ideas were. And I flew into a passion and almostfought Madame Bourdieu when she put him in my arms. But then how couldI hold out? He cried so dreadfully with hunger, poor little mite, andseemed to suffer so much, that I was weak enough to let him nurse justa 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 shownme; 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 theothers. "

Tears appeared in her eyes. It was the oft-recurring story of thegirl-mother who is prevailed upon to nurse her child for a few days, inthe hope that she will grow attached to the babe and be unable to partfrom it. The chief object in view is to save the child, because itsbest nurse is its natural nurse, the mother. And Norine, instinctivelydivining 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 meantto throw it up in a few days' time. As soon as she yielded she wascertain to be caught; her egotism was bound to be vanquished by the waveof pity, love, and hope that would sweep through her heart. The poor, pale, puny infant had weighed but little the first time he took thebreast. But every morning afterwards he had been weighed afresh, and onthe wall at the foot of the bed had been hung the diagram indicating thedaily difference of weight. At first Norine had taken little interest inthe matter, but as the line gradually ascended, plainly indicating howmuch the child was profiting, she gave it more and more attention. Allat once, as the result of an indisposition, the line had dipped down;and since then she had always feverishly awaited the weighing, eager tosee if the line would once more ascend. Then, a continuous rise havingset in, she laughed with delight. That little line, which ever ascended, told her that her child was saved, and that all the weight and strengthhe acquired was derived from her--from her milk, her blood, her flesh. She was completing the appointed work; and motherliness, at lastawakened within her, was blossoming in a florescence of love. 

"If you want to kill him, " continued Mathieu, "you need only take himfrom your breast. See how eagerly the poor little fellow is nursing!"

This was indeed true. And Norine burst into big sobs: "_Mon Dieu_! youare beginning to torture me again. Do you think that I shall take anypleasure in getting rid of him now? You force me to say things whichmake me weep at night when I think of them. I shall feel as if my veryvitals were being torn out when this child is taken from me! There, areyou both pleased that you have made me say it? But what good does it doto put me in such a state, since nobody can remedy things, and he mustneeds go to the foundlings, while I return to the gutter, to wait forthe broom that's to sweep me away?"

But Cecile, who likewise was weeping, kissed and kissed the child, andagain reverted to her dream, explaining how happy they would be, allthree 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 upthe little boxes. As soon as Norine should know the work, she, who wasstrong, might perhaps earn three francs a day at it. And five francs aday 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 itwill be great happiness to keep this dear little fellow with me. "

Cecile, enraptured, clapped her hands; while Mathieu, who was greatlymoved, gave utterance to these deeply significant words: "You have savedhim, and now he saves you. "

Then Norine at last smiled. She felt happy now; a great weight had beenlifted from her heart. And carrying her child in her arms she insistedon accompanying her sister and their friend to the first floor. 

During the last half-hour Constance and Madame Angelin had been deep inconsultation with Madame Bourdieu. The former had not given her name, but had simply played the part of an obliging friend accompanyinganother on an occasion of some delicacy. Madame Bourdieu, with the keenscent characteristic of her profession, divined a possible customer inthat inquisitive lady who put such strange questions to her. However, a rather painful scene took place, for realizing that she could notforever deceive Madame Angelin with false hopes, Madame Bourdieu decidedto tell the truth--her case was hopeless. Constance, however, at lastmade a sign to entreat her to continue deceiving her friend, if only forcharity's sake. The other, therefore, while conducting her visitors tothe landing, spoke a few hopeful words to Madame Angelin: "After all, dear madame, " said she, "one must never despair. I did wrong to speak asI 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 inconversation with Norine, whose infant had fallen asleep in her arms. Constance and Madame Angelin were so surprised at finding the farmerof Chantebled in the company of the two young women that they pretendedthey did not see him. All at once, however, Constance, with the help ofmemory, recognized Norine, the more readily perhaps as she was nowaware that Mathieu had, ten years previously, acted as her husband'sintermediary. And a feeling of revolt and the wildest fancies instantlyarose within her. What was Mathieu doing in that house? whose child wasit that the young woman carried in her arms? At that moment the otherchild seemed to peer forth from the past; she saw it in swaddlingclothes, like the infant there; indeed, she almost confounded one withthe other, and imagined that it was indeed her husband's illegitimateson that was sleeping in his mother's arms before her. Then all thesatisfaction she had derived from what she had heard Madame Bourdieusay departed, and she went off furious and ashamed, as if soiled andthreatened by all the vague abominations which she had for some timefelt around her, without knowing, however, whence came the little chillwhich made her shudder as with dread. 

As for Mathieu, he saw that neither Norine nor Cecile had recognizedMadame Beauchene under her veil, and so he quietly continued explainingto the former that he would take steps to secure for her from theAssistance Publique--the official organization for the relief ofthe poor--a cradle and a supply of baby linen, as well as immediatepecuniary succor, since she undertook to keep and nurse her child. Afterwards he would obtain for her an allowance of thirty francs a monthfor at least one year. This would greatly help the sisters, particularlyin the earlier stages of their life together in the room which they hadsettled to rent. When Mathieu added that he would take upon himself thepreliminary outlay of a little furniture and so forth, Norine insistedupon kissing him. 

"Oh! it is with a good heart, " said she. "It does one good to meet a manlike you. And come, kiss my poor little fellow, too; it will bring himgood luck. "

On reaching the Rue La Boetie it occurred to Mathieu, who was boundfor the Beauchene works, to take a cab and let Cecile alight near herparents' home, since it was in the neighborhood of the factory. But sheexplained to him that she wished, first of all, to call upon her sisterEuphrasie 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 sether down at her sister's door. 

She was so amazed, so happy at seeing her dream at last on the point ofrealization, that as she sat in the cab by the side of Mathieu she didnot know how to thank him. Her eyes were quite moist, all smiles andtears. 

"You must not think me a bad daughter, monsieur, " said she, "because I'mso pleased to leave home. Papa still works as much as he is able, thoughhe does not get much reward for it at the factory. And mamma does allshe can at home, though she hasn't much strength left her nowadays. Since Victor came back from the army, he has married and has childrenof his own, and I'm even afraid that he'll have more than he can providefor, as, while he was in the army, he seems to have lost all taste forwork. But the sharpest of the family is that lazy-bones Irma, my youngersister, who's so pretty and so delicate-looking, perhaps because she'salways ill. As you may remember, mamma used to fear that Irma might turnout badly like Norine. Well, not at all! Indeed, she's the only one ofus who is likely to do well, for she's going to marry a clerk in thepost-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 atheft the other day, and one had no end of trouble to get him out of thehands of the police commissary. But all the same, mamma has a weaknessfor him, and lets him take all my earnings. Yes, indeed, I've had quiteenough 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 eversince my illness the slightest noise throws me into a faint. And as, allconsidered, neither papa nor mamma needs me, it's quite excusable, isn'tit, that I should prefer living quietly alone. It is my right, is itnot, monsieur?"

She went on to speak of her sister Euphrasie, who had fallen into a mostwretched condition, said she, ever since passing through Dr. Gaude'shands. Her home had virtually been broken up, she had become decrepit, amere bundle of rags, unable even to handle a broom. It made one trembleto see her. Then, after a pause, just as the cab was reaching the RueCaroline, the girl continued: "Will you come up to see her? You mightsay a few kind words to her. It would please me, for I'm going on arather unpleasant errand. I thought that she would have strengthenough to make some little boxes like me, and thus earn a few pence forherself; but she has kept the work I gave her more than a month now, andif she really cannot do it I must take it back. "

Mathieu consented, and in the room upstairs he beheld one of the mostfrightful, poignant spectacles that he had ever witnessed. In the centreof that one room where the family slept and ate, Euphrasie sat on astraw-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 sowithered did she look that she resembled one of those fruits, suddenlydeprived of sap, that dry up on the tree. Her teeth had fallen, andof her hair she only retained a few white locks. But the morecharacteristic mark of this mature senility was a wonderful loss ofmuscular 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 chiefdesigner at the Beauchene works, she did not even seem to recognize him;she no longer took interest in anything. And when her sister spokeof the object of her visit, asking for the work with which she hadentrusted her, she answered with a gesture of utter weariness: "Oh! whatcan you expect! It takes me too long to stick all those little bits ofcardboard 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 threechildren, intervened with an air of quiet authority: "You ought to takethose materials away, Mademoiselle Cecile. She's incapable of doinganything with them. They will end by getting dirty, and then your peoplewon't take them back. "

This stout woman was a certain Madame Joseph, a widow of forty and acharwoman by calling, whom Benard, the husband, had at first engaged tocome two hours every morning to attend to the housework, his wife nothaving strength enough to put on a child's shoes or to set a pot onthe fire. At first Euphrasie had offered furious resistance to thisintrusion of a stranger, but, her physical decline progressing, she hadbeen obliged to yield. And then things had gone from bad to worse, tillMadame Joseph became supreme in the household. Between times there hadbeen terrible scenes over it all; but the wretched Euphrasie, stammeringand shivering, had at last resigned herself to the position, like somelittle old woman sunk into second childhood and already cut off from theworld. That Benard and Madame Joseph were not bad-hearted in realitywas shown by the fact that although Euphrasie was now but an uselessencumbrance, they kept her with them, instead of flinging her into thestreets as others would have done. 

"Why, there you are again in the middle of the room!" suddenly exclaimedthe fat woman, who each time that she went hither and thither foundit necessary to avoid the other's chair. "How funny it is that you cannever put yourself in a corner! Auguste will be coming in for his fouro'clock snack in a moment, and he won't be at all pleased if he doesn'tfind his cheese and his glass of wine on the table. "

Without replying, Euphrasie nervously staggered to her feet, and withthe greatest trouble dragged her chair towards the table. Then she satdown again limp and very weary. 

Just as Madame Joseph was bringing the cheese, Benard, whose workshopwas near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovialfellow, and began to jest with his sister-in-law while showing greatpoliteness towards Mathieu, whom he thanked for taking interest in hisunhappy wife's condition. "_Mon Dieu_, monsieur, " said he, "it isn't herfault; it is all due to those rascally doctors at the hospital. For ayear or so one might have thought her cured, but you see what has nowbecome of her. Ah! it ought not to be allowed! You are no doubt awarethat they treated Cecile just the same. And there was another, too, a baroness, whom you must know. She called here the other day to seeEuphrasie, and, upon my word, I didn't recognize her. She used to besuch a fine woman, and now she looks a hundred years old. Yes, yes, Isay that the doctors ought to be sent to prison. "

He was about to sit down to table when he stumbled against Euphrasie'schair. She sat watching him with an anxious, semi-stupefied expression. "There you are, in my way as usual!" said he; "one is always tumbling upagainst you. Come, make a little room, do. "

He did not seem to be a very terrible customer, but at the sound ofhis voice she began to tremble, full of childish fear, as if she werethreatened with a thrashing. And this time she found strength enough todrag her chair as far as a dark closet, the door of which was open. Shethere sought refuge, ensconcing herself in the gloom, amid which onecould vaguely espy her shrunken, wrinkled face, which suggested that ofsome 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 limphuman rag. And yet her case was recorded in medical annals as one of therenowned Gaude's great miracles of cure. Ah! how truly had Boutan spokenin saying that people ought to wait to see the real results of thosevictorious operations which were sapping the vitality of France. 

Cecile, however, with eager affection, kissed the three children, whosomehow continued to grow up in that wrecked household. Tears cameto her eyes, and directly Madame Joseph had given her back thework-materials entrusted to Euphrasie she hurried Mathieu away. And, asthey reached the street, she said: "Thank you, Monsieur Froment; I cango home on foot now--. How frightful, eh? Ah! as I told you, we shallbe in Paradise, Norine and I, in the quiet room which you have so kindlypromised to rent for us. "

On reaching Beauchene's establishment Mathieu immediately repaired tothe workshops, but he could obtain no precise information respecting histhreshing-machine, though he had ordered it several months previously. He was told that the master's son, Monsieur Maurice, had gone out onbusiness, and that nobody could give him an answer, particularly as themaster himself had not put in an appearance at the works that week. Helearnt, however, that Beauchene had returned from a journey that veryday, and must be indoors with his wife. Accordingly, he resolved to callat the house, less on account of the threshing-machine than to decidea matter of great interest to him, that of the entry of one of his twinsons, Blaise, into the establishment. 

This big fellow had lately left college, and although he had onlycompleted his nineteenth year, he was on the point of marrying aportionless young girl, Charlotte Desvignes, for whom he had conceiveda romantic attachment ever since childhood. His parents, seeing in thismatch 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 couldbe managed. While Denis, the other of the twins, entered a technicalschool, Beauchene, by way of showing his esteem for the increasingfortune of his good cousins, as he now called the Froments, cordiallyoffered to give Blaise a situation at his establishment. 

On being ushered into Constance's little yellow salon, Mathieu found hertaking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her fromthe Rue de Miromesnil. Beauchene's unexpected arrival on the scene haddisagreeably interrupted their private converse. He had returned fromone of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under thepretext of making a short business journey, and, still slightlyintoxicated, with feverish, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he waswearying the two women with his impudent, noisy falsehoods. 

"Ah! my dear fellow!" he exclaimed on seeing Mathieu, "I was justtelling the ladies of my return from Amiens--. What wonderful duck patesthey have there!"

Then, on Mathieu speaking to him of Blaise, he launched out intoprotestations of friendship. It was understood, the young fellow needonly present himself at the works, and in the first instance he shouldbe put with Morange, in order that he might learn something of thebusiness mechanism of the establishment. Thus talking, Beauchene puffedand coughed and spat, exhaling meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, and musk, which he always brought back from his "sprees, " while his wifesmiled affectionately before the others as was her wont, but directed athim glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turnedher head. 

As Beauchene continued talking too much, owning for instance that he didnot know how far the thresher might be from completion, Mathieunoticed Constance listening anxiously. The idea of Blaise entering theestablishment had already rendered her grave, and now her husband'sapparent ignorance of important business matters distressed her. Besides, the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she rememberedthe girl's child, and almost feared some fresh understanding betweenBeauchene and Mathieu. All at once, however, she gave a cry of greatrelief: "Ah! here is Maurice. "

Her son was entering the room--her son, the one and only god on whom shenow set her affection and pride, the crown-prince who to-morrow wouldbecome king, who would save the kingdom from perdition, and whowould exalt her on his right hand in a blaze of glory. She deemed himhandsome, tall, strong, and as invincible in his nineteenth year asall the knights of the old legends. When he explained that he had justprofitably compromised a worrying transaction in which his father hadrashly embarked, she pictured him repairing disasters and achievingvictories. And she triumphed more than ever on hearing him promise thatthe 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 yougood; you worry your mind too much. "

Maurice accepted the offer, and gayly replied: "Oh! do you know, anomnibus almost crushed me just now in the Rue de Rivoli!"

At this his mother turned livid, and the cup which she held escaped fromher hand. Ah! God, was her happiness at the mercy of an accident? Thenonce again the fearful threat sped by, that icy gust which came she knewnot whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones. 

"Why, you stupid, " said Beauchene, laughing, "it was he who crushed theomnibus, 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'mquite at ease about you. "

That day Madame Angelin returned to Janville with Mathieu. They foundthemselves alone in the railway carriage, and all at once, without anyapparent cause, tears started from the young woman's eyes. At this sheapologized, and murmured as if in a dream: "To have a child, to rearhim, 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 foryears all the joy of having him at one's side. But when one never has achild--never, never--ah! come rather suffering and mourning than such avoid as that!"

And meantime, at Chantebled, Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, increased, and multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternalbattle which life wages against death, thanks to that continual increaseboth of offspring and of fertile land, which was like their veryexistence, their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust offlame, desire divine and fruitful, since they possessed the power oflove, of kindliness, and health. And their energy did the rest--thatwill of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of the labor thatis necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates the world. Yeteven during those two years it was not without constant struggling thatthey achieved victory. True, victory was becoming more and morecertain as the estate expanded. The petty worries of earlier days haddisappeared, and the chief question was now one of ruling sensibly andequitably. All the land had been purchased northward on the plateau, from the farm of Mareuil to the farm of Lillebonne; there was not acopse that did not belong to the Froments, and thus beside the surgingsea of corn there rose a royal park of centenarian trees. Apart fromthe question of felling portions of the wood for timber, Mathieu was notdisposed to retain the remainder for mere beauty's sake; and accordinglyavenues were devised connecting the broad clearings, and cattle werethen turned into this part of the property. The ark of life, increasedby hundreds of animals, expanded, burst through the great trees. Therewas a fresh growth of fruitfulness: more and more cattle-sheds had to bebuilt, sheepcotes had to be created, and manure came in loads and loadsto endow the land with wondrous fertility. And now yet other childrenmight come, for floods of milk poured forth, and there were herds andflocks to clothe and nourish them. Beside the ripening crops the woodswaved their greenery, quivering with the eternal seeds that germinatedin their shade, under the dazzling sun. And only one more stretch ofland, the sandy slopes on the east, remained to be conquered in orderthat the kingdom might be complete. Assuredly this compensated one forall former tears, for all the bitter anxiety of the first years of toil. 

Then, while Mathieu completed his conquest, there came to Marianneduring those two years the joy of marrying one of her children evenwhile she was again _enceinte_, for, like our good mother the earth, shealso remained fruitful. 'Twas a delightful fete, full of infinitehope, that wedding of Blaise and Charlotte; he a strong young fellowof nineteen, she an adorable girl of eighteen summers, each lovingthe other with a love of nosegay freshness that had budded, even inchildhood's hour, along the flowery paths of Chantebled. The eight otherchildren were all there: first the big brothers, Denis, Ambroise, andGervais, who were now finishing their studies; next Rose, the eldestgirl, now fourteen, who promised to become a woman of healthy beautyand happy gayety of disposition; then Claire, who was still a child, andGregoire, who was only just going to college; without counting the verylittle ones, Louise and Madeleine. 

Folks came out of curiosity from the surrounding villages to see thegay troop conduct their big brother to the municipal offices. It wasa marvellous cortege, flowery like springtide, full of felicity, whichmoved every heart. Often, moreover, on ordinary holidays, when for thesake 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, whilethe girls' hair streamed in the wind and loud laughter rang out from oneand all, that people would stop to watch the charming cavalcade. "Hereare the troops passing!" folks would jestingly exclaim, implying thatnothing could resist those Froments, that the whole countrysidewas theirs by right of conquest, since every two years their numberincreased. And this time, at the expiration of those last two years itwas again to a daughter, Marguerite, that Marianne gave birth. For awhile 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 theothers. Thus, when Mathieu saw her erect once more and smiling, with herdear little Marguerite at her breast, he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet anotherchild, yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born into theworld, another field ready for to-morrow's harvest!

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulnessspreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious overdestruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh childwas 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 wasincreased also by all the heatherland extending to the east as far asthe village of Vieux-Bourg. And this time the last lot was purchased, the conquest of the estate was complete. The 1250 acres of uncultivatedsoil which Seguin's father, the old army contractor, had formerlypurchased in view of erecting a palatial residence there were now, thanks to unremitting effort, becoming fruitful from end to end. Theenclosure belonging to the Lepailleurs, who stubbornly refused to sellit, alone set a strip of dry, stony, desolate land amid the broad greenplain. And it was all life's resistless conquest; it was fruitfulnessspreading in the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing itswork of creation amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and morejoy in the veins of the world. 

Blaise, now the father of a little girl some ten months old, had beenresiding at the Beauchene works since the previous winter. He occupiedthe little pavilion where his mother had long previously given birth tohis brother Gervais. His wife Charlotte had conquered the Beauchenes byher fair grace, her charming, bouquet-like freshness, to such a point, indeed, that even Constance had desired to have her near her. Thetruth was that Madame Desvignes had made adorable creatures of hertwo daughters, Charlotte and Marthe. At the death of her husband, astockbroker's confidential clerk, who had died, leaving her at thirtyyears of age in very indifferent circumstances, she had gathered herscanty means together and withdrawn to Janville, her native place, whereshe had entirely devoted herself to her daughters' education. Knowingthat they would be almost portionless, she had brought them up extremelywell, in the hope that this might help to find them husbands, and it sochanced that she proved successful. 

Affectionate intercourse sprang up between her and the Froments; thechildren played together; and it was, indeed, from those first gamesthat came the love-romance which was to end in the marriage of Blaiseand Charlotte. By the time the latter reached her eighteenth birthdayand married, Marthe her sister, then fourteen years old, had become theinseparable companion of Rose Froment, who was of the same age and aspretty as herself, though dark instead of fair. Charlotte, who hada more delicate, and perhaps a weaker, nature than her gay, sensiblesister, had become passionately fond of drawing and painting, whichshe had learnt at first simply by way of accomplishment. She had ended, however, by painting miniatures very prettily, and, as her motherremarked, her proficiency might prove a resource to her in the event ofmisfortune. Certainly there was some of the bourgeois respect and esteemfor a good education in the fairly cordial greeting which Constanceextended to Charlotte, who had painted a miniature portrait of her, agood though a flattering likeness. 

On the other hand, Blaise, who was endowed with the creative fire of theFroments, ever striving, ever hard at work, became a valuable assistantto Maurice as soon as a brief stay in Morange's office had made himfamiliar with the business of the firm. Indeed it was Maurice who, finding that his father seconded him less and less, had insisted onBlaise and Charlotte installing themselves in the little pavilion, inorder that the former's services might at all times be available. AndConstance, ever on her knees before her son, could in this matteronly obey respectfully. She evinced boundless faith in the vastness ofMaurice's intellect. His studies had proved fairly satisfactory; if hewas somewhat slow and heavy, and had frequently been delayed by youthfulillnesses, he had, nevertheless, diligently plodded on. As he wasfar from talkative, his mother gave out that he was a reflective, concentrated genius, who would astonish the world by actions, not byspeech. Before he was even fifteen she said of him, in her adoring way:"Oh! he has a great mind. " And, naturally enough, she only acknowledgedBlaise to be a necessary lieutenant, a humble assistant, one whose handwould execute the sapient young master's orders. The latter, to herthinking, was now so strong and so handsome, and he was so quicklyreviving the business compromised by the father's slow collapse, thatsurely he must be on the high-road to prodigious wealth, to that finalgreat triumph, indeed, of which she had been dreaming so proudly, soegotistically, for so many years. 

But all at once the thunderbolt fell. It was not without some hesitationthat Blaise had agreed to make the little pavilion his home, for he knewthat there was an idea of reducing him to the status of a mere pieceof machinery. But at the birth of his little girl he bravely decidedto accept the proposal, and to engage in the battle of life even as hisfather had engaged in it, mindful of the fact that he also might in timehave a large family. But it so happened that one morning, when he wentup to the house to ask Maurice for some instructions, he heard fromConstance herself that the young man had spent a very bad night, andthat she had therefore prevailed on him to remain in bed. She did notevince any great anxiety on the subject; the indisposition could onlybe due to a little fatigue. Indeed, for a week past the two cousins hadbeen tiring themselves out over the delivery of a very important order, which had set the entire works in motion. Besides, on the previous dayMaurice, bareheaded and in perspiration, had imprudently lingered in adraught in one of the sheds while a machine was being tested. 

That evening he was seized with intense fever, and Boutan was hastilysummoned. On the morrow, alarmed, though he scarcely dared to say it, by the lightning-like progress of the illness, the doctor insisted on aconsultation, and two of his colleagues being summoned, they soon agreedtogether. The malady was an extremely infectious form of gallopingconsumption, the more violent since it had found in the patient a fieldwhere there was little to resist its onslaught. Beauchene was away fromhome, travelling as usual. Constance, for her part, in spite of thegrave mien of the doctors, who could not bring themselves to tell herthe brutal truth, remained, in spite of growing anxiety, full of astubborn hope that her son, the hero, the demi-god necessary for her ownlife, could not be seriously ill and likely to die. But only threedays 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, mediocrebeing who, despite a facade of seeming health, had been ailing sincechildhood. But what an overwhelming blow it was both for the mother andfor the father, all whose dreams and calculations it swept away! Theonly son, the one and only heir, the prince of industry, whom they haddesired with such obstinate, scheming egotism, had passed away like ashadow; their arms clasped but a void, and the frightful reality arosebefore them; a moment had sufficed, and they were childless. 

Blaise was with the parents at the bedside at the moment when Mauriceexpired. It was then about two in the morning, and as soon as possiblehe telegraphed the news of the death to Chantebled. Nine o'clock wasstriking when Marianne, very pale, quite upset, came into the yard tocall Mathieu. 

"Maurice is dead!... _Mon Dieu_! an only son; poor people!"

They stood there thunderstruck, chilled and trembling. They had simplyheard that the young man was poorly; they had not imagined him to beseriously ill. 

"Let me go to dress, " said Mathieu; "I shall take the quarter-past teno'clock train. I must go to kiss them. "

Although Marianne was expecting her eleventh child before long, shedecided to accompany her husband. It would have pained her to beunable to give this proof of affection to her cousins, who, all thingsconsidered, had treated Blaise and his young wife very kindly. Moreover, she was really grieved by the terrible catastrophe. So she and herhusband, after distributing the day's work among the servants, setout for Janville station, which they reached just in time to catch thequarter-past ten o'clock train. It was already rolling on again whenthey recognized the Lepailleurs and their son Antonin in the verycompartment where they were seated. 

Seeing the Froments thus together in full dress, the miller imaginedthat they were going to a wedding, and when he learnt that they hada visit of condolence to make, he exclaimed: "Oh! so it's justthe contrary. But no matter, it's an outing, a little diversionnevertheless. "

Since Mathieu's victory, since the whole of the estate of Chantebled hadbeen conquered and fertilized, Lepailleur had shown some respect for hisbourgeois rival. Nevertheless, although he could not deny the resultshitherto obtained, he did not altogether surrender, but continuedsneering, as if he expected that some rending of heaven or earth wouldtake place to prove him in the right. He would not confess that he hadmade a mistake; he repeated that he knew the truth, and that folks wouldsome day see plainly enough that a peasant's calling was the very worstcalling there could be, since the dirty land had gone bankrupt and wouldyield nothing more. Besides, he held his revenge--that enclosure whichhe left barren, uncultivated, by way of protest against the adjoiningestate which it intersected. The thought of this made him ironical. 

"Well, " he resumed in his ridiculously vain, scoffing way, "we are goingto 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 fellowof eighteen, with an elongated head. A few light-colored bristles werealready sprouting on his chin and cheeks, and he wore town attire, witha silk hat and gloves, and a bright blue necktie. After astonishingJanville by his success at school, he had displayed so much repugnanceto 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 afriendly way. 

"Why, yes; why should I force him to toil and moil without the leasthope of ever enriching himself? Neither my father nor I ever managedto put a copper by with that wretched old mill of ours. Why, themill-stones wear away with rot more than with grinding corn. And thewretched fields, too, yield far more pebbles than crowns. And so, ashe's now a scholar, he may as well try his fortune in Paris. There'snothing like city life to sharpen a man's wits. "

Madame Lepailleur, who never took her eyes from her son, but remained inadmiration before him as formerly before her husband, now exclaimedwith an air of rapture: "Yes, yes, he has a place as a clerk with MaitreRousselet, the attorney. We have rented a little room for him; I haveseen about the furniture and the linen, and to-day's the great day; hewill sleep there to-night, after we have dined, all three, at a goodrestaurant. 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, andaccompanied the adventurer on his way, anxious and proud to climb thesocial ladder with him. And that which brought a smile to the lips ofthe farmer of Chantebled, the bourgeois who had become a peasant, wasthe thought of the double change: the miller's son going to Paris, whereas he had gone to the earth, the mother of all strength andregeneration. 

Antonin, however, had also begun to laugh with the air of an artfulidler who was more particularly attracted by the free dissipation ofParis life. "Oh! minister?" said he, "I haven't much taste for that. Iwould much sooner win a million at once so as to rest afterwards. "

Delighted with this display of wit, the Lepailleurs burst into noisymerriment. Oh! their boy would do great things, that was quite certain!

Marianne, her heart oppressed by thought of the mourning which awaitedher, had hitherto kept silent. She now asked, however, why littleTherese did not form one of the party. Lepailleur dryly replied that hedid 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 thehouse; things would have been much better if she had never been born. Then, as Marianne began to protest, saying that she had seldom seen amore intelligent and prettier little girl, Madame Lepailleur answeredmore gently: "Oh! she's sharp; that's true enough; but one can't sendgirls to Paris. She'll have to be put somewhere, and it will mean a lotof trouble, a lot of money. However, we mustn't talk about all that thismorning, since we want to enjoy ourselves. "

At last the train reached Paris, and the Lepailleurs, leaving theNorthern terminus, were caught and carried off by the impetuouslystreaming 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 perceivedthe two girls, Lucie and Andree, waiting mute and motionless in theirlight-colored dresses. Then, as they approached the door, they sawValentine come out, in a very great hurry as usual. On recognizing them, however, she assumed an expression of deep pity, and spoke the wordsrequired 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, Isee, as I did; it is only natural. I heard of the catastrophe only bychance less than an hour ago. And you see my luck! My daughters weredressed, and I myself was dressing to take them to a wedding--a cousinof our friend Santerre is marrying a diplomatist. And, in addition, I amengaged for the whole afternoon. Well, although the wedding is fixed fora quarter-past eleven, I did not hesitate, but drove here before goingto the church. And naturally I went upstairs alone. My daughters havebeen waiting in the carriage. We shall no doubt be a little late forthe wedding. But no matter! You will see the poor parents in their emptyhouse, near the body, which, I must say, they have laid out very nicelyon the bed. Oh! it is heartrending. "

Mathieu was looking at her, surprised to see that she did not age. Thefiery flame of her wild life seemed to scorch and preserve her. He knewthat her home was now completely wrecked. Seguin openly lived with Nora, the governess, for whom he had furnished a little house. It was thereeven that he had given Mathieu an appointment to sign the final transferof the Chantebled property. And since Gaston had entered the militarycollege of St. Cyr, Valentine had only her two daughters with her in thespacious, luxurious mansion of the Avenue d'Antin, which ruin was slowlydestroying. 

"I think, " resumed Madame Seguin, "that I shall tell Gaston to obtainpermission to attend the funeral. For I am not sure whether his fatheris in Paris. It's just the same with our friend Santerre; he's startingon a tour to-morrow. Ah! not only do the dead leave us, but it isastonishing what a number of the living go off and disappear! Life isvery sad, is it not, dear madame?"

As she spoke a little quiver passed over her face; the dread of thecoming rupture, which she had felt approaching for several monthspast, amid all the skilful preparations of Santerre, who had been longmaturing some secret plan, which she did not as yet divine. However, shemade a devout ecstatic gesture, and added: "Well, we are in the hands ofGod. "

Marianne, who was still smiling at the ever-motionless girls in theclosed brougham, changed the subject. "How tall they have grown, howpretty they have become! Your Andree looks adorable. How old is yourLucie now? She will soon be of an age to marry. "

"Oh! don't let her hear you, " retorted Valentine; "you would make herburst into tears! She is seventeen, but for sense she isn't twelve. Would you believe it, she began sobbing this morning and refusing to goto the wedding, under the pretence that it would make her ill? She isalways talking of convents; we shall have to come to a decision abouther. Andree, though she is only thirteen, is already much more womanly. But she is a little stupid, just like a sheep. Her gentleness quiteupsets me at times; it jars on my nerves. "

Then Valentine, on the point of getting into her carriage, turned toshake 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 peoplewhom you are going to see, their house will be quite empty now. "

When the brougham had rolled away it occurred to Mathieu and Mariannethat before seeing the Beauchenes it might be advisable for them to callat the little pavilion, where their son or their daughter-in-law mightbe able to give them some useful information. But neither Blaise norCharlotte was there. They found only a servant who was watching overthe little girl, Berthe. This servant declared that she had not seenMonsieur Blaise since the previous day, for he had remained at theBeauchenes' near the body. And as for Madame, she also had gone thereearly that morning, and had left instructions that Berthe was to bebrought to her at noon, in order that she might not have to come backto give her the breast. Then, as Marianne in surprise began to put somequestions, the girl explained matters: "Madame took a box of drawingmaterials with her. I fancy that she is painting a portrait of the pooryoung man who is dead. "

As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they feltoppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned in that great city oflabor, usually so full of noise and bustle. Death had suddenly passedby, and all the ardent life had at once ceased, the machinery had becomecold 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 ofthe place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress of theFroments increased when they passed from the works into the house, amidabsolute solitude; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber, thestaircase quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, asin some uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servantin the antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds ofembroidered muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in acircle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, atfirst seemed to them to be empty. But at last they detected a shadowyform 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 newswith the same air as if he had been repairing to his office. He seemedto 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 hisdaughter's abominable death. His heart-wound had reopened; he was livid, all in disorder, with his long gray beard streaming down, while hestepped hither and thither without a pause, making all the surroundinggrief his own. 

As soon as he recognized the Froments he also spoke the words which camefrom every tongue: "What a frightful misfortune, an only son!"

Then he pressed their hands, and whispered and explained that MadameBeauchene, feeling quite exhausted, had withdrawn for a few moments, andthat Beauchene and Blaise were making necessary arrangements downstairs. And then, resuming his maniacal perambulations, he pointed towards anadjoining room, the folding doors of which were wide open. 

"He is there, on the bed where he died. There are flowers; it looks verynice. You may go in. "

This room was Maurice's bedchamber. The large curtains had been closelydrawn, and tapers were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on thedeceased's face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closedas if in sleep. Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, andwith the roses scattered over the sheet the bed was like a couch ofspringtide. The odor of the flowers, mingling with that of the burningwax, seemed rather oppressive amid the deep and tragic stillness. Nota breath stirred the tall, erect flames of the tapers, burning in thesemi-obscurity, amid which the bed alone showed forth. 

When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived theirdaughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door. Lighted by alittle lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, makinga drawing of Maurice's head as it rested among the roses. Hard andanguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she hadnevertheless yielded to the mother's ardent entreaties. And for threehours past, pale, looking wondrously beautiful, her face showing allthe flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine goldenhair, she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best. When Mathieu and Marianne approached her she would not speak, but simplynodded. Still a little color came to her cheeks, and her eyes smiled. And when the others, after lingering there for a moment in sorrowfulcontemplation, had quietly returned to the drawing-room, she resumed herwork alone, in the presence of the dead, among the roses and the tapers. 

Morange was still walking the drawing-room like a lost, wanderingphantom. Mathieu remained standing there, while Marianne sat down nearthe folding doors. Not another word was exchanged; the spell of waitingcontinued amid the oppressive silence of the dim, closed room. Whensome ten minutes had elapsed, two other visitors arrived, a lady and agentleman, whom the Froments could not at first recognize. Morange bowedand received them in his dazed way. Then, as the lady did not releaseher hold of the gentleman's hand, but led him along, as if he wereblind, between the articles of furniture, so that he might not knockagainst them, Marianne and Mathieu realized that the new comers were theAngelins. 

Since the previous winter they had sold their little house at Janvilleto fix themselves in Paris, for a last misfortune had befallen them--thefailure of a great banking house had carried away almost the whole oftheir modest fortune. The wife had fortunately secured a post as one ofthe delegates of the Poor Relief Board, an inspectorship with variousduties, such as watching over the mothers and children assisted by theboard, 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 aconsolation for her, since it was now certain that she would never havea child of her own. As for her husband, whose eyesight was failing moreand more, he had been obliged to relinquish painting altogether, andhe dragged out his days in morose desolation, his life wrecked, annihilated. 

With short steps, as if she were leading a child, Madame Angelin broughthim to an armchair near Marianne and seated him in it. He had retainedthe lofty mien of a musketeer, but his features had been ravaged byanxiety, and his hair was white, though he was only forty-four years ofage. And what memories arose at the sight of that sorrowful lady leadingthat infirm, aged man, for those who had known the young couple, all tenderness and good looks, rambling along the secluded paths ofJanville, amid the careless delights of their love. 

As soon as Madame Angelin had clasped Marianne's hands with her owntrembling fingers, she also uttered in low, stammering accents, thosedespairing words: "Ah! what a frightful misfortune, an only son!"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she would not sit down before goingfor a moment to see the body in the adjoining room. When she came back, sobbing in her handkerchief, she sank into an armchair between Marianneand her husband. He remained there motionless, staring fixedly with hisdim eyes. And silence fell again throughout the lifeless house, whitherthe rumble of the works, now deserted, fireless and frozen, ascended nolonger. 

But Beauchene, followed by Blaise, at last made his appearance. Theheavy 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 hisconquering egotism, his pride of strength and his pleasures, had heimagined such a downfall to be possible. Never had he been willing toadmit that Maurice might be ill--such an idea was like casting adoubt upon his own strength; he thought himself beyond the reach ofthunderbolts; misfortune would never dare to fall on him. And at thefirst overwhelming moment he had found himself weak as a woman, wearyand limp, his strength undermined by his dissolute life, the slowdisorganization of his faculties. He had sobbed like a child before hisdead son, all his vanity crushed, all his calculations destroyed. Thethunderbolt had sped by, and nothing remained. In a minute his life hadbeen swept away; the world was now all black and void. And he remainedlivid, 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 hestaggered towards them with open arms, once more stifling with sobs. 

"Ah! my dear friends, what a terrible blow! And I wasn't here! When Igot here he had lost consciousness; he did not recognize me--. Is itpossible? A lad who was in such good health! I cannot believe it. Itseems to me that I must be dreaming, and that he will get up presentlyand come down with me into the workshops!"

They kissed him, they pitied him, struck down like this upon his returnfrom some carouse or other, still intoxicated, perhaps, and tumblinginto the midst of such an awful disaster, his prostration increased bythe 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 hisarms. "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 youthfulfreshness. Yet tears coursed down his cheeks, for, working with Mauriceday by day, he had conceived real friendship for him. 

The silence fell again. Morange, as if unconscious of what went onaround him, as if he were quite alone there, continued walking softlyhither and thither like a somnambulist. Beauchene, with haggard mien, went off, and then came back carrying some little address-books. Heturned about for another moment, and finally sat down at a writing-tablewhich had been brought out of Maurice's room. Little accustomed as hewas to grief, he instinctively sought to divert his mind, and begansearching in the little address-books for the purpose of drawing up alist of the persons who must be invited to the funeral. But his eyesbecame blurred, and with a gesture he summoned Blaise, who, after goinginto the bedchamber to glance at his wife's sketch, was now returningto the drawing-room. Thereupon the young man, standing erect beside thewriting-table, began to dictate the names in a low voice; and then, amidthe deep silence sounded a low and monotonous murmur. 

The minutes slowly went by. The visitors were still waiting forConstance. At last a little door of the death-chamber slowly opened, andshe entered that chamber noiselessly, without anybody knowing that shewas there. She looked like a spectre emerging out of the darkness intothe pale light of the tapers. She had not yet wept; her face waslivid, contracted, hardened by cold rage. Her little figure, instead ofbending, 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 minutebefore the death she had stubbornly refused to believe it possible. Butthe thought of it had remained latent within her for long months, andfrightful evidence thereof now burst forth. She suddenly heard thewhispers of the unknown once more, and understood them; she knewthe meaning of those shivers which had chilled her, those vague, terror-fraught regrets at having no other child! And that which had beenthreatening her had come; irreparable destiny had willed it that heronly 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 awithered leaf. It was utter downfall; she sank into an abyss. And sheremained tearless; fury dried her tears within her. Yet, good motherthat she had always been, she suffered all the torment of motherlinessexasperated, poisoned by the loss of her child. 

She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profileof 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 lefther of that adored son--those few pencil strokes--when the earth shouldhave taken him forever. Charlotte, divining that somebody was behindher, started and raised her head. She did not speak; she had feltfrightened. But both women exchanged a glance. And what a heart pangcame to Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of thevoid, the nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other's face, all love and health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whencepromise of the future radiated through the fine gold of wavy hair. 

But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment: words which werebeing whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber, reached her distinctly. She did not move, but remained erect behindCharlotte, who had resumed her work. And eagerly lending ear, shelistened, not showing herself as yet, although she had already seenMarianne and Madame Angelin seated near the doorway, almost among thefolds of the hangings. 

"Ah!" Madame Angelin was saying, "the poor mother had a presentiment ofit, as it were. I saw that she felt very anxious when I told her my ownsad story. There is no hope for me; and now death has passed by, and nohope remains for her. "

Silence ensued once more; then, prompted by some connecting train ofthought, she went on: "And your next child will be your eleventh, willit 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 furywhich dried up her tears. By glancing sideways she could see that motherof ten children, who was now expecting yet an eleventh child. She foundher still young, still fresh, overflowing with joy and health and hope. And she was there, like the goddess of fruitfulness, nigh to the funeralbier at that hour of the supreme rending, when she, Constance, was boweddown by the irretrievable loss of her only child. 

But Marianne was answering Madame Angelin: "Oh I don't think that at alllikely. Why, I'm becoming an old woman. You forget that I am already agrandmother. Here, look at that!"

So saying, she waved her hand towards the servant of herdaughter-in-law, Charlotte, who, in accordance with the instructionsshe had received, was now bringing the little Berthe in order thather mother might give her the breast. The servant had remained atthe drawing-room door, hesitating, disliking to intrude on all thatmourning; but the child good-humoredly waved her fat little fists, and laughed lightly. And Charlotte, hearing her, immediately rose andtripped across the salon to take the little one into a neighboring room. 

"What a pretty child!" murmured Madame Angelin. "Those little ones arelike nosegays; they bring brightness and freshness wherever they come. "

Constance for her part had been dazzled. All at once, amid thesemi-obscurity, starred by the flames of the tapers, amid the deathlyatmosphere, which the odor of the roses rendered the more oppressive, that laughing child had set a semblance of budding springtime, thefresh, bright atmosphere of a long promise of life. And it typifiedthe victory of fruitfulness; it was the child's child, it was Mariannereviving in her son's daughter. A grandmother already, and she wasonly forty-one years old! Marianne had smiled at that thought. But thehatchet-stroke rang out yet more frightfully in Constance's heart. Inher case the tree was cut down to its very root, the sole scion had beenlopped off, and none would ever sprout again. 

For yet another moment she remained alone amid that nothingness, in thatroom where lay her son's remains. Then she made up her mind and passedinto the drawing-room, with the air of a frozen spectre. They all rose, kissed her, and shivered as their lips touched her cold cheeks, whichher blood was unable to warm. Profound compassion wrung them, sofrightful 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 isended, quite ended. "

Madame Angelin sobbed, Angelin himself wiped his poor fixed, blurredeyes. Marianne and Mathieu shed tears while retaining Constance's handsin theirs. And she, rigid and still unable to weep, refused consolation, repeating in monotonous accents: "It is finished; nothing can give himback 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, whosince 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 andfling 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, inhis place, dip his pen in the inkstand and begin to write with the verysame gesture that she had so often seen Maurice make. That Blaise, that son of the Froments! What! her dear boy was not yet buried, anda Froment already replaced him, even as vivacious, fast-growing plantsoverrun neighboring barren fields. That stream of life flowing aroundher, intent on universal conquest, seemed yet more threatening;grandmothers still bore children, daughters suckled already, sons laidhands upon vacant kingdoms. And she remained alone; she had but herunworthy, broken-down, worn-out husband beside her; while Morange, themaniac, incessantly walking to and fro, was like the symbolical spectreof human distress, one whose heart and strength and reason had beencarried away in the frightful death of his only daughter. And not asound came from the cold and empty works; the works themselves weredead. 

The funeral ceremony two days later was an imposing one. The fivehundred workmen of the establishment followed the hearse, notabilitiesof all sorts made up an immense cortege. It was much noticed that an oldworkman, father Moineaud, the oldest hand of the works, was one of thepall-bearers. Indeed, people thought it touching, although the worthyold man dragged his legs somewhat, and looked quite out of his elementin a frock coat, stiffened as he was by thirty years' hard toil. In thecemetery, near the grave, Mathieu felt surprised on being approached byan 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, butso fleshless, so withered that one might have thought she was a hundredyears old. Cecile had warned Mathieu of it, yet if he had not seen herhimself 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 fellowwhom they are about to lower into that grave. Come and have a chat withme 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 therecame a little thud--the last. Beauchene, supported by a relative, lookedon with dim, vacant eyes. Constance, who had had the bitter courage tocome, and had now wept all the tears in her body, almost fainted. Shewas carried away, driven back to her home, which would now forever beempty, like one of those stricken fields that remain barren, fated toperpetual sterility. Mother earth had taken back her all. 

And at Chantebled Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, increased, andmultiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal battle whichlife wages against death, thanks to that continual increase, both ofoffspring and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame, desiredivine and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, thatquiet bravery in the presence of the labor that is requisite, the laborthat has made and that regulates the world. 

Still, during those two years it was not without constant battling thatvictory remained to them. At last it was complete. Piece by piece Seguinhad sold the entire estate, of which Mathieu was now king, thanks to hisprudent system of conquest, that of increasing his empire by degreesas he gradually felt himself stronger. The fortune which the idler haddisdained and dissipated had passed into the hands of the toiler, thecreator. There were 1250 acres, spreading from horizon to horizon;there were woods intersected by broad meadows, where flocks and herdspastured; there was fat land overflowing with harvests, in the placeof marshes that had been drained; there was other land, each year ofincreasing fertility, in the place of the moors which the capturedsprings now irrigated. The Lepailleurs' uncultivated enclosure aloneremained, as if to bear witness to the prodigy, the great human effortwhich had quickened that desert of sand and mud, whose crops wouldhenceforth nourish so many happy people. Mathieu devoured no otherman's share; he had brought his share into being, increasing the commonwealth, subjugating yet another small portion of this vast world, whichis still so scantily peopled and so badly utilized for human happiness. The farm, the homestead, had sprung up and grown in the centre of theestate like a prosperous township, with inhabitants, servants, and livestock, a perfect focus of ardent triumphal life. And what sovereignpower was that of the happy fruitfulness which had never wearied ofcreating, which had yielded all these beings and things that had beenincreasing and multiplying for twelve years past, that invading townwhich was but a family's expansion, those trees, those plants, thosegrain crops, those fruits whose nourishing stream ever rose under thedazzling sun! All pain and all tears were forgotten in that joy ofcreation, the accomplishment of due labor, the conquest of the futureconducting to the infinite of Action. 

Then, while Mathieu completed his work of conquest, Marianne duringthose two years had the happiness of seeing a daughter born to her sonBlaise, even while she herself was expecting another child. The branchesof the huge tree had begun to fork, pending the time when they wouldramify endlessly, like the branches of some great royal oak spreadingafar over the soil. There would be her children's children, hergrandchildren's children, the whole posterity increasing from generationto generation. And yet how carefully and lovingly she still assembledaround her her own first brood, from Blaise and Denis the twins, nowone-and-twenty, to the last born, the wee creature who sucked in lifefrom her bosom with greedy lips. There were some of all ages in thebrood--a big fellow, who was already a father; others who went toschool; others who still had to be dressed in the morning; there wereboys, 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 themroam over the estate like a troop of colts, following one another atvaried pace, according to their growth. She knew that she could not keepthem all tied to her apron-strings; it would be sufficient happiness ifthe farm kept two or three beside her; she resigned herself to seeingthe younger ones go off some day to conquer other lands. Such was thelaw of expansion; the earth was the heritage of the most numerous race. Since they had number on their side, they would have strength also; theworld would belong to them. The parents themselves had felt stronger, more united at the advent of each fresh child. If in spite of terriblecares 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 heroeswho subjugate the world by peopling it. And this time especially, whenat the lapse of those two years Marianne gave birth to a boy, Nicolas, her eleventh child, Mathieu embraced her passionately, triumphing overevery sorrow and every pang. Yet another child; yet more wealth andpower; yet an additional force born into the world; another field readyfor to-morrow's harvest. 

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulnessspreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious overdestruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh childwas 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 Beaucheneworks. One effect of the terrible blow which had fallen on Beauchene wasthat for some weeks he remained quietly at home. Indeed, he seemed tohave profited by the terrible lesson, for he no longer coined lies, nolonger 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 foundan active and devoted lieutenant, on whom he each day cast more and moreof the heavier work. Intimates were most struck, however, by the mannerin which Beauchene and his wife drew together again. Constance was mostattentive to her husband; Beauchene no longer left her, and they seemedto agree well together, leading a very retired life in their quiethouse, where only relatives were now received. 

Constance, on the morrow of Maurice's sudden death, was like one whohas just lost a limb. It seemed to her that she was no longer whole; shefelt ashamed of being, as it were, disfigured. Mingled, too, with herloving sorrow for Maurice there was humiliation at the thought that shewas no longer a mother, that she no longer had any heir-apparent to herkingdom beside her. To think that she had been so stubbornly determinedto have but one son, one child, in order that he might become the solemaster of the family fortune, the all-powerful monarch of the future. Death had stolen him from her, and the establishment now seemed to beless her own, particularly since that fellow Blaise and his wife andhis child, representing those fruitful and all-invading Froments, wereinstalled there. She could no longer console herself for having welcomedand lodged them, and her one passionate, all-absorbing desire was tohave another son, and thereby reconquer her empire. 

This it was which led to her reconciliation with her husband, and forsix months they lived together on the best of terms. Then, however, cameanother six months, and it was evident that they no longer agreed sowell together, for Beauchene took himself off at times under the pretextof seeking fresh air, and Constance remained at home, feverish, her eyesred 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, whohad climbed upon his knees, when he was surprised by the sudden approachof Constance, who must have seen him from her windows. She invented apretext to draw him into the house, and kept him there nearly a quarterof 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 formentioning 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 childby a girl who was employed at the works. And I also know that you actedas his intermediary on that occasion, and made certain arrangements withrespect to that girl and her child--a boy, was it not?"

She paused for a reply. But Mathieu, stupefied at finding her so wellinformed, and at a loss to understand why she spoke to him of that sorryaffair after the lapse of so many years, could only make a gesture bywhich he betrayed both his surprise and his anxiety. 

"Oh!" said she, "I do not address any reproach to you; I am convincedthat your motives were quite friendly, even affectionate, and that youwished to hush up a scandal which might have been very unpleasant forme. Moreover, I do not desire to indulge in recriminations after so longa time. My desire is simply for information. For a long time I did notcare 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 wordon the subject to my husband, and indeed it is best for our tranquillitythat I should not attempt to extort a detailed confession from him. Onecircumstance which has induced me to speak to you is that on an occasionwhen 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, andhow he is situated. "

Mathieu still refrained from replying, for Constance's increasingfeverishness put him on his guard, and impelled him to seek the motiveof such a strange application on the part of one who was as a rule soproud and so discreet. What could be happening? Why did she strive toprovoke confidential revelations which might have far-reaching effects?Then, as she closely scanned him with her keen eyes, he sought to answerher with kind, evasive words. 

"You greatly embarrass me. And, besides, I know nothing likely tointerest you. What good would it do yourself or your husband to stirup all the dead past? Take my advice, forget what people may have toldyou--you are so sensible and prudent--"

But she interrupted him, caught hold of his hands, and held them in herwarm, quivering grasp. Never before had she so behaved, forgetting andsurrendering herself so passionately. "I repeat, " said she, "that nobodyhas anything to fear from me--neither my husband, nor that girl, northe child. Cannot you understand me? I am simply tormented; I suffer atknowing nothing. Yes, it seems to me that I shall feel more at ease whenI know the truth. It is for myself that I question you, for my own peaceof 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 moreexplicit. He knew that during the past year she and her husband had beenhoping for the advent of a second child, and that none had come. As awoman, Constance felt no jealousy of Norine, but as a mother she wasjealous of her son. She could not drive the thought of that child fromher mind; it ever and ever returned thither like a mocking insult nowthat her hopes of replacing Maurice were fading fast. Day by day didshe dream more and more passionately of the other woman's son, wonderingwhere he was, what had become of him, whether he were healthy, andwhether he resembled his father. 

"I assure you, my dear Mathieu, " she resumed, "that you will reallybring me relief by answering me. Is he alive? Tell me simply whether heis alive. But do not tell me a lie. If he is dead I think that I shallfeel 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, andsince it is to remain entirely between us and to have no effect on yourhome, I see no reason why I should not confide to you what I know. Butthat is very little. The child was left at the Foundling Hospital inmy presence. Since then the mother, having never asked for news, hasreceived 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 ladstill alive? Where is he? Those are things which I cannot tell you. Along inquiry would be necessary. If, however, you wish for my opinion, I think it probable that he is dead, for the mortality among these poorcast-off children is very great. "

Constance looked at him fixedly. "You are telling me the real truth? Youare 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 behappy to save one, to have one for themselves. Well, if you haven't beenable to tell me anything positive, you have at least done your best. Thank you. "

During the ensuing months Mathieu often found himself alone withConstance, but she never reverted to the subject. She seemed to sether energy on forgetting all about it, though he divined that it stillhaunted her. Meantime things went from bad to worse in the Beauchenehousehold. The husband gradually went back to his former life ofdebauchery, in spite of all the efforts of Constance to keep him nearher. She, for her part, clung to her fixed idea, and before long sheconsulted Boutan. There was a terrible scene that day between husbandand wife in the doctor's presence. Constance raked up the story ofNorine and cast it in Beauchene's teeth, while he upbraided her in avariety of ways. However, Boutan's advice, though followed for a time, proved unavailing, and she at last lost confidence in him. Then shespent months and months in consulting one and another. She placedherself in the hands of Madame Bourdieu, she even went to see La Rouche, she applied to all sorts of charlatans, exasperated to fury at findingthat there was no real succor for her. She might long ago have had afamily had she so chosen. But she had elected otherwise, setting all heregotism and pride on that only son whom death had snatched away; and nowthe motherhood she longed for was denied her. 

For nearly two years did Constance battle, and at last in despair shewas seized with the idea of consulting Dr. Gaude. He told her the brutaltruth; it was useless for her to address herself to charlatans; shewould simply be robbed by them; there was absolutely no hope for her. And Gaude uttered those decisive words in a light, jesting way, asthough surprised and amused by her profound grief. She almost faintedon the stairs as she left his flat, and for a moment indeed death seemedwelcome. 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 shefound 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 amsuffering too much now that I know there is no hope for me. I am hauntedby the thought of that illegitimate child of my husband's. Will you dome a great service? Make the inquiry you once spoke to me about, try tofind out if he is alive or dead. I feel that when I know the facts peacemay perhaps return to me. "

Mathieu was almost on the point of answering her that, even if thischild were found again, it could hardly cure her of her grief at havingno child of her own. He had divined her agony at seeing Blaise takeMaurice's place at the works now that Beauchene had resumed hisdissolute life, and daily intrusted the young man with more and moreauthority. Blaise's home was prospering too; Charlotte had now givenbirth to a second child, a boy, and thus fruitfulness was invading theplace and usurpation becoming more and more likely, since Constancecould never more have an heir to bar the road of conquest. Withoutpenetrating her singular feelings, Mathieu fancied that she perhapswished to sound him to ascertain if he were not behind Blaise, urgingon the work of spoliation. She possibly imagined that her requestwould make him anxious, and that he would refuse to make the necessaryresearches. At this idea he decided to do as she desired, if only toshow 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 thisinquiry may give you a little relief. But if the lad is alive, am I tobring 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 dreadfullythat I am scarce able to live!"

In point of fact a tempest raged within her, but she really had nosettled plan. One could hardly say that she really thought of thatboy as a possible heir. In spite of her hatred of all conquerors fromwithout, was it likely that she would accept him as a conqueror, inthe face of her outraged womanly feelings and her bourgeois horrorof illegitimacy? And yet if he were not her son, he was at least herhusband's. And perhaps an idea of saving her empire by placing the worksin the hands of that heir was dimly rising within her, above all herprejudices and her rancor. But however that might be, her feelings forthe time remained confused, and the only clear thing was her desperatetorment at being now and forever childless, a torment which goaded heron to seek another's child with the wild idea of making that child insome slight degree her own. 

Mathieu, however, asked her, "Am I to inform Beauchene of the steps Itake?"

"Do you as you please, " she answered. "Still, that would be the best. "

That same evening there came a complete rupture between herself and herhusband. She threw in Beauchene's face all the contempt and loathingthat she had felt for him for years. Hopeless as she was, she revengedherself by telling him everything that she had on her heart andmind. And her slim dark figure, upborne by bitter rage, assumed suchredoubtable proportions in his eyes that he felt frightened by her andfled. Henceforth they were husband and wife in name only. It was logicon the march, it was the inevitable disorganization of a householdreaching its climax, it was rebellion against nature's law andindulgence in vice leading to the gradual decline of a man ofintelligence, it was a hard worker sinking into the sloth of so-calledpleasure; and then, death having snatched away the only son, the homebroke to pieces--the wife--fated to childlessness, and the husbanddriven away by her, rolling through debauchery towards final ruin. 

But Mathieu, keeping his promise to Constance, discreetly began hisresearches. And before he even consulted Beauchene it occurred to him toapply at the Foundling Hospital. If, as he anticipated, the child weredead, the affair would go no further. Fortunately enough he rememberedall the particulars: the two names, Alexandre-Honore, given to thechild, the exact date of the deposit at the hospital, indeed all thelittle incidents of the day when he had driven thither with La Couteau. And when he was received by the director of the establishment, and hadexplained to him the real motives of his inquiries, at the same timegiving his name, he was surprised by the promptness and precision ofthe answer: Alexandre-Honore, put out to nurse with the woman Loiseauat Rougemont, had first kept cows, and had then tried the calling of alocksmith; but for three months past he had been in apprenticeship witha wheelwright, a certain Montoir, residing at Saint-Pierre, a hamlet inthe vicinity of Rougemont. Thus the lad lived; he was fifteen years old, and that was all. Mathieu could obtain no further information respectingeither his physical health or his morality. 

When Mathieu found himself in the street again, slightly dazed, heremembered that La Couteau had told him that the child would be sentto Rougemont. He had always pictured it dying there, carried off by thehurricane which killed so many babes, and lying in the silent villagecemetery paved with little Parisians. To find the boy alive, savedfrom the massacre, came like a surprise of destiny, and brought vagueanguish, a fear of some terrible catastrophe to Mathieu's heart. At thesame 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 furtherwithout the father's authorization. 

That same day, then, before returning to Chantebled, he repaired tothe factory, where he was lucky enough to find Beauchene, whom Blaise'sabsence on business had detained there by force. Thus he was in a verybad humor, puffing and yawning and half asleep. It was nearly threeo'clock, and he declared that he could never digest his lunch properlyunless he went out afterwards. The truth was that since his rupture withhis wife he had been devoting his afternoons to paying attentions to agirl serving at a beer-house. 

"Ah! my good fellow, " he muttered as he stretched himself. "My blood isevidently thickening. I must bestir myself, or else I shall be in a badway. "

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 himso 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 andstart a search?"

His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violentthat he could scarcely stutter. When he heard, however, of the missionwith which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded: "Sheis 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 hisnarrative: "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 whatam I to do?"

This was the final blow. Beauchene clenched his fists and raised hisarms in exasperation. "Ah! well, here's a nice state of things! But whyon earth does she want to trouble me about that boy? He isn't hers! Whycan't she leave us alone, the boy and me? It's my affair. And I ask youif 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 onearth 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: "Mydear fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead. "

But he turned pale and recoiled. Constance stood on the thresholdand had heard him. For some time past she had been in the habit ofstealthily prowling around the offices, like one on the watch forsomething. For a moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which bothmen displayed, she remained silent. Then, without even addressing herhusband, she asked: "He is alive, is he not?"

Mathieu could but tell her the truth. He answered with a nod. ThenBeauchene, in despair, made a final effort: "Come, be reasonable, my dear. As I was saying only just now, we don't even know what thisyoungster's character is. You surely don't want to upset our life forthe 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 ofthe wheelwright and the locality. "Good, you say Alexandre-Honore, withMontoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados. Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavorto procure me some precise information about this boy's habits anddisposition. Be prudent, too; don't give anybody's name. And thanks forwhat 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 hespoil 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 hisusual 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 tocontent her. Perhaps she will then leave me in peace. But I've had quiteenough of it for to-day; good-by, I'm going out. "

With the view of obtaining some information of Rougemont, Mathieu atfirst thought of applying to La Couteau, if he could find her again; forwhich purpose it occurred to him that he might call on Madame Bourdieuin the Rue de Miromesnil. But another and more certain means suggesteditself. He had been led to renew his intercourse with the Seguins, ofwhom he had for a time lost sight; and, much to his surprise, he hadfound 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 wasdue 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 hisbusiness with all the fire of youth, had conceived a growing fondnessfor Ambroise, who had great mental endowments and a real genius forcommerce. Du Hordel's own children had consisted of two daughters, oneof whom had died young, while the other had married a madman, who hadlodged a bullet in his head and had left her childless and crazy likehimself. This partially explained the deep grandfatherly interest whichDu Hordel took in young Ambroise, who was the handsomest of all theFroments, with a clear complexion, large black eyes, brown hair thatcurled naturally, and manners of much refinement and elegance. Butthe old man was further captivated by the young fellow's spirit ofenterprise, the four modern languages which he spoke so readily, andthe evident mastery which he would some day show in the management ofa business which extended over the five parts of the world. In hischildhood, among his brothers and sisters, Ambroise had always been theboldest, most captivating and self-assertive. The others might be betterthan he, but he reigned over them like a handsome, ambitious, greedyboy, a future man of gayety and conquest. And this indeed he proved tobe; by the charm of his victorious intellect he conquered old Du Hordelin a few months, even as later on he was destined to vanquish everybodyand everything much as he pleased. His strength lay in his power ofpleasing and his power of action, a blending of grace with the mostassiduous industry. 

About this time Seguin and his uncle, who had never set foot in thehouse of the Avenue d'Antin since insanity had reigned there, drewtogether again. Their apparent reconciliation was the outcome of a dramashrouded in secrecy. Seguin, hard up and in debt, cast off by Nora, who divined his approaching ruin, and preyed upon by other voraciouscreatures, had ended by committing, on the turf, one of those indelicateactions which honest people call thefts. Du Hordel, on being apprised ofthe matter, had hastened forward and had paid what was due in orderto avoid a frightful scandal. And he was so upset by the extraordinarymuddle in which he found his nephew's home, once all prosperity, thatremorse came upon him as if he were in some degree responsible for whathad happened, since he had egotistically kept away from his relativesfor his own peace's sake. But he was more particularly won over by hisgrandniece Andree, now a delicious young girl well-nigh eighteen yearsof age, and therefore marriageable. She alone sufficed to attract himto the house, and he was greatly distressed by the dangerous state ofabandonment in which he found her. 

Her father continued dragging out his worthless life away from home. Hermother, Valentine, had just emerged from a frightful crisis, her finalrupture with Santerre, who had made up his mind to marry a very wealthyold lady, which, after all, was the logical destiny of such a craftyexploiter of women, one who behind his affectation of cultured pessimismhad the vilest and greediest of natures. Valentine, distracted by thisrupture, had now thrown herself into religion, and, like her husband, disappeared from the house for whole days. She was said to be anactive helpmate of old Count de Navarede, the president of a society ofCatholic propaganda. Gaston, her son, having left Saint-Cyr three monthspreviously, was now at the Cavalry School of Saumur, so fired withpassion for a military career that he already spoke of remaining abachelor, since a soldier's sword should be his only love, his onlyspouse. Then Lucie, now nineteen years old, and full of mysticalexaltation, had already entered an Ursuline convent for her novitiate. And in the big empty home, whence father, mother, brother and sisterfled, there remained but the gentle and adorable Andree, exposed to allthe blasts of insanity which even now swept through the household, and so distressed by loneliness, that her uncle, Du Hordel, full ofcompassionate affection, conceived the idea of giving her a husband inthe 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 thiswoman for immorality; and during those eight years Celeste, weary ofservice, had tried a number of equivocal callings of which she did notspeak. She had ended by turning up at Rougemont, her native place, inbad health and such a state of wretchedness, that for the sake of aliving she went out as a charwoman there. Then she gradually recoveredher health, and accumulated a little stock of clothes, thanks to theprotection of the village priest, whom she won over by an affectationof extreme piety. It was at Rougemont, no doubt, that she planned herreturn to the Seguins, of whose vicissitudes she was informed by LaCouteau, 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 furiousdespair, when she had again dismissed all her servants, was surprised bythe arrival of Celeste, who showed herself so repentant, so devoted, andso serious-minded, that her former mistress felt touched. She made herweep on reminding her of her faults, and asking her to swear before Godthat she would never repeat them; for Celeste now went to confession andpartook of the holy communion, and carried with her a certificate fromthe Cure of Rougemont vouching for her deep piety and high morality. This certificate acted decisively on Valentine, who, unwilling to remainat home, and weary of the troubles of housekeeping, understood whatprecious help she might derive from this woman. On her side Celestecertainly relied upon power being surrendered to her. Two months later, by favoring Lucie's excessive partiality to religious practices, she hadhelped her into a convent. Gaston showed himself only when he secured afew days' leave. And so Andree alone remained at home, impeding by herpresence the great general pillage that Celeste dreamt of. The maidtherefore became a most active worker on behalf of her young mistress'smarriage. 

Andree, it should be said, was comprised in Ambroise's universalconquest. She had met him at her uncle Du Hordel's house for a yearbefore it occurred to the latter to marry them. She was a very gentlegirl, a little golden-haired sheep, as her mother sometimes said. Andthat handsome, smiling young man, who evinced so much kindness towardsher, became the subject of her thoughts and hopes whenever she sufferedfrom loneliness and abandonment. Thus, when her uncle prudentlyquestioned her, she flung herself into his arms, weeping big tearsof gratitude and confession. Valentine, on being approached, at firstmanifested some surprise. What, a son of the Froments! Those Fromentshad already taken Chantebled from them, and did they now want totake one of their daughters? Then, amid the collapse of fortune andhousehold, she could find no reasonable objection to urge. She had neverbeen attached to Andree. She accused La Catiche, the nurse, of havingmade the child her own. That gentle, docile, emotional little sheep wasnot a Seguin, she often remarked. Then, while feigning to defend thegirl, Celeste embittered her mother against her, and inspired her witha desire to see the marriage promptly concluded, in order that she mightfree herself from her last cares and live as she wished. Thus, after along chat with Mathieu, who promised his consent, it remained only forDu Hordel to assure himself of Seguin's approval before an applicationin due form was made. It was difficult, however, to find Seguin in asuitable frame of mind. So weeks were lost, and it became necessary topacify Ambroise, who was very much in love, and was doubtless warned byhis all-invading genius that this loving and simple girl would bring hima kingdom in her apron. 

One day when Mathieu was passing along the Avenue d'Antin, it occurredto him to call at the house to ascertain if Seguin had re-appearedthere, for he had suddenly taken himself off without warning, and hadgone, so it was believed, to Italy. Then, as Mathieu found himself alonewith Celeste, the opportunity seemed to him an excellent one to discoverLa Couteau's whereabouts. He asked for news of her, saying that a friendof his was in need of a good nurse. 

"Well, monsieur, you are in luck's way, " the maid replied; "La Couteauis 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 tocome. You know Madame Menoux's place, do you not? It is the third shopin the first street on the left. " Then she apologized for being unableto conduct him thither: "I am alone, " she said; "we still have no newsof the master. On Wednesdays Madame presides at the meeting of hersociety, and Mademoiselle Andree has just gone out walking with heruncle. "

Mathieu hastily repaired to Madame Menoux's shop. From a distance he sawher standing on the threshold; age had made her thinner than ever; atforty she was as slim as a young girl, with a long and pointed face. Silent labor consumed her; for twenty years she had been desperatelyselling bits of cotton and packages of needles without ever making afortune, but pleased, nevertheless, at being able to add her modestgains to her husband's monthly salary in order to provide him withsundry little comforts. His rheumatism would no doubt soon compel him torelinquish his post as a museum attendant, and how would they be able tomanage with his pension of a few hundred francs per annum if she did notkeep up her business? Moreover, they had met with no luck. Their firstchild had died, and some years had elapsed before the birth of a secondboy, whom they had greeted with delight, no doubt, though he would provea heavy burden to them, especially as they had now decided to take himback from the country. Thus Mathieu found the worthy woman in a state ofgreat emotion, waiting for the child on the threshold of her shop, andwatching the corner of the avenue. 

"Oh! it was Celeste who sent you, monsieur! No, La Couteau hasn't comeyet. I'm quite astonished at it; I expect her every moment. Will youkindly step inside, monsieur, and sit down?"

He refused the only chair which blocked up the narrow passage wherescarcely three customers could have stood in a row. Behind a glasspartition one perceived the dim back shop, which served as kitchen anddining-room and bedchamber, and which received only a little air from adamp inner yard which suggested a sewer shaft. 

"As you see, monsieur, we have scarcely any room, " continued MadameMenoux; "but then we pay only eight hundred francs rent, and where elsecould we find a shop at that price? And besides, I have been here fornearly twenty years, and have worked up a little regular custom in theneighborhood. 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 homeonly in the evening, and then sits down in his armchair to smoke hispipe, he isn't so much inconvenienced. I do all I can for him, and he isreasonable enough not to ask me to do more. But with a child I fear thatit 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'llbe bringing the other by and by. I was told so many tales; there wassuch good air at Rougemont, and the children led such healthy lives, andmy boy had such rosy cheeks, that I ended by leaving him there till hewas 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 outof me, of all the money that I paid! It was ruination! And then, all atonce, I had just time to send for the boy, and he was brought back to meas thin and pale and weak, as if he had never tasted good bread in hislife. 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 bothhave gone and drowned ourselves. "

Scarce wiping her eyes she feverishly returned to the threshold, andagain cast a passionate expectant glance towards the avenue. And whenshe came back, having seen nothing, she resumed: "So you will understandour emotion when, two years ago, though I was thirty-seven, I again hada 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 outto nurse as we let the other one, since we could not possibly keep himhere. And even after swearing that he should not go to Rougemont weended by saying that we at least knew the place, and that he would notbe worse off there than elsewhere. Only we sent him to La Vimeux, for wewouldn't hear any more of La Loiseau since she sent Pierre back in sucha fearful state. And this time, as the little fellow is now two yearsold, I was determined to have him home again, though I don't even knowwhere I shall put him. I've been waiting for an hour now, and I can'thelp 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. Allat once a deep cry came from her: "Ah! here they are!"

Leisurely, and with a sour, harassed air, La Couteau came in and placedthe 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'vebrought you this one back like a skeleton. "

Quivering, her legs sinking beneath her for very joy, the mother hadbeen 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 tolive. He had a fat and rather pale face, and seemed big, though puffy. When she had unfastened his wraps, her hands trembling the while withnervousness, she found that he was pot-bellied, with small legs andarms. 

"He is very big about the body, " she murmured, ceasing to smile, andturning gloomy with renewed fears. 

"Ah, yes! complain away!" said La Couteau. "The other was too thin; thisone will be too fat. Mothers are never satisfied!"

At the first glance Mathieu had detected that the child was one of thosewho are fed on pap, stuffed for economy's sake with bread and water, and fated to all the stomachic complaints of early childhood. And atthe sight of the poor little fellow, Rougemont, the frightfulslaughter-place, with its daily massacre of the innocents, arose in hismemory, such as it had been described to him in years long past. There was La Loiseau, whose habits were so abominably filthy that hernurslings rotted as on a manure heap; there was La Vimeux, who neverpurchased a drop of milk, but picked up all the village crusts and madebran porridge for her charges as if they had been pigs; there was LaGavette too, who, being always in the fields, left her nurslings inthe charge of a paralytic old man, who sometimes let them fall into thefire; and there was La Cauchois, who, having nobody to watch the babes, contented herself with tying them in their cradles, leaving them inthe company of fowls which came in bands to peck at their eyes. And thescythe of death swept by; there was wholesale assassination; doors wereleft wide open before rows of cradles, in order to make room for freshbundles despatched from Paris. Yet all did not die; here, for instance, was one brought home again. But even when they came back alive theycarried 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 herselfon the narrow bench behind the counter. "Ah! what a trade! And tothink that we are always received as if we were heartless criminals andthieves!"

She also had become withered, her sunburnt, tanned face suggesting morethan 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 fastenough, for she continued wailing, complaining of her calling, of theincreasing avarice of parents, of the demands of the authorities, of thewarfare which was being declared against nurse-agents on all sides. Yes, it was a lost calling, said she, and really God must have abandoned herthat she should still be compelled to carry it on at forty-five yearsof age. "It will end by killing me, " she added; "I shall always get morekicks than money at it. How unjust it is! Here have I brought you backa superb child, and yet you look anything but pleased--it's enough todisgust one of doing one's best!"

In thus complaining her object perhaps was to extract from thehaberdasher as large a present as possible. Madame Menoux was certainlydisturbed by it all. Her boy woke up and began to wail loudly, and itbecame necessary to give him a little lukewarm milk. At last, when theaccounts were settled, the nurse-agent, seeing that she would have tenfrancs for herself, grew calmer. She was about to take her leave whenMadame Menoux, pointing to Mathieu, exclaimed: "This gentleman wished tospeak 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 turnedtowards him, for she knew him to be mixed up in so many matters that hisdiscretion was a certainty. And so she contented herself with saying:"If monsieur will kindly explain to me what it is I shall be quite athis service. "

"I will accompany you, " replied Mathieu; "we can speak together as wewalk 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. Thebest course was to tell her plainly what he wanted, and then to buyher silence. At the first words he spoke she understood him. She wellremembered Norine's child, although in her time she had carried dozensof children to the Foundling Hospital. The particular circumstances ofthat case, however, the conversation which had taken place, herdrive 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 hadleft it with La Loiseau. But she had occupied herself no more about itafterwards; and she believed that it was now dead, like so many others. When she heard Mathieu speak of the hamlet of Saint-Pierre, of Montoirthe wheelwright, and of Alexandre-Honore, now fifteen, who must be inapprenticeship there, she evinced great surprise. 

"Oh, you must be mistaken, monsieur, " she said; "I know Montoir atSaint-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 LaCauchois; he is a big carroty fellow named Richard, who arrived at ourvillage some days before the other. I know who his mother was; shewas an English woman called Amy, who stopped more than once at MadameBourdieu'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 thewheelwright'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 asI haven't been to Saint-Pierre for some months now I can say nothingcertain. Well, and what do you desire of me, monsieur?"

He then gave her very clear instructions. She was to obtain the mostprecise information possible about the lad's health, disposition, andconduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him, whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth. Briefly, theinquiry was to be complete. But, above all things, she was to carry iton in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boyhimself nor the folks of the district. There must be absolute secrecy. 

"All that is easy, " replied La Couteau, "I understand perfectly, and youcan rely on me. I shall need a little time, however, and the best planwill be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I nextcome to Paris. And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, attwo o'clock, at Broquette's office in the Rue Roquepine. I am quite athome there, and the place is like a tomb. "

Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchene works with hisson Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her andquestioned him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what stepshe had taken. When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau forthe 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 bequite certain on the matter. "

In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette's nurse-office in theRue Roquepine had remained the same as formerly, except that MadameBroquette was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie. The sudden loss of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed sucha decorative presence and so ably represented the high morality andrespectability of the establishment, had at first seemed a severe one. But it so happened that Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creaturethat she was, gorged with novel-reading, also proved in her way adistinguished figurehead for the office. She was already thirty and wasstill unmarried, feeling indeed nothing but loathing for all the mothersladen with whining children by whom she was surrounded. Moreover, M. Broquette, her father, though now more than five-and-seventy, secretlyremained the all-powerful, energetic director of the place, dischargingall needful police duties, drilling new nurses like recruits, remainingever on the watch and incessantly perambulating the three floors of hissuspicious, dingy lodging-house. 

La Couteau was waiting for Mathieu in the doorway. On perceivingConstance, 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 withthe affair? However, she promptly extinguished the bright gleam ofcuriosity which for a moment lighted up her eyes; and as Herminie, withdistinguished nonchalance, was at that moment exhibiting a party ofnurses to two gentlemen in the office, she took her visitors into theempty refectory, where the atmosphere was as usual tainted by a horriblestench of cookery. 

"You must excuse me, monsieur and madame, " she exclaimed, "but there isno other room free just now. The place is full. "

Then she carried her keen glances from Mathieu to Constance, preferringto wait until she was questioned, since another person was now in thesecret. 

"You can speak out, " said Mathieu. "Did you make the inquiries I spoketo 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 thislady. "

"Oh! monsieur, it won't take me long. You were quite right: there weretwo apprentices at the wheelwright's at Saint-Pierre, and one of themwas Alexandre-Honore, the pretty blonde's child, the same that we tooktogether over yonder. He had been there, I found, barely two months, after trying three or four other callings, and that explains myignorance of the circumstance. Only he's a lad who can stay nowhere, andso three weeks ago he took himself off. "

Constance could not restrain an exclamation of anxiety: "What! tookhimself off?"

"Yes, madame, I mean that he ran away, and this time it is quite certainthat he has left the district, for he disappeared with three hundredfrancs belonging to Montoir, his master. "

La Couteau's dry voice rang as if it were an axe dealing a deadlyblow. Although she could not understand the lady's sudden pallor anddespairing emotion, she certainly seemed to derive cruel enjoyment fromit. 

"Are you quite sure of your information?" resumed Constance, strugglingagainst the facts. "That is perhaps mere village tittle-tattle. "

"Tittle-tattle, madame? Oh! when I undertake to do anything I doit properly. I spoke to the gendarmes. They have scoured the wholedistrict, and it is certain that Alexandre-Honore left no address behindhim when he went off with those three hundred francs. He is still on therun. As for that I'll stake my name on it. "

This was indeed a hard blow for Constance. That lad, whom she fanciedshe had found again, of whom she dreamt incessantly, and on whom she hadbased so many unacknowledgable plans of vengeance, escaped her, vanishedonce more into the unknown! She was distracted by it as by somepitiless stroke of fate, some fresh and irreparable defeat. However, shecontinued the interrogatory. 

"Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed toquestion everybody. "

"That is precisely what I did, madame. I saw the schoolmaster, and Ispoke to the other persons who had employed the lad. They all told methat he was a good-for-nothing. The schoolmaster remembered that he hadbeen a liar and a bully. Now he's a thief; that makes him perfect. Ican't say otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plaintruth. "

La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady'ssuffering increased. And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang ateach fresh accusation, as if her husband's illegitimate child had becomein 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 toknow. "

La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, inorder to give him his money's worth. 

"I also made the other apprentice talk a bit, " said she; "you know, thatbig carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about. He's anotherwhom I wouldn't willingly trust. But it's certain that he doesn't knowwhere his companion has gone. The gendarmes think that Alexandre is inParis. "

Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her abank-note for fifty francs--a gift which brought a smile to her faceand rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, "as discreetlysilent as the grave. " Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, and Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another's hands in thekitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her nativedirt, Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to followher companion away. Once in the street, instead of entering the cabwhich was waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau's finalwords. 

"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 tosay in a somewhat tremulous voice: "And the mother, my friend; you knowwhere she lives, don't you? Did you not tell me that you had concernedyourself about her?"

"Yes, I did. "

"Then listen--and above all, don't be astonished; pity me, for I amreally suffering. An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems tome that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother. Perhaps heis with her, or she may at least know where he lodges. Oh! don't tell methat it is impossible. On the contrary, everything is possible. "

Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmnessnow giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he wouldmake inquiries. Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, butcontinued gazing at the pavement. And when she once more raised hereyes, 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 shallnever forget. If I could only know the truth at once it might calm me alittle. Well, let us drive to that woman's now. Oh! I won't go up; youcan go alone, while I wait in the cab at the street corner. And perhapsyou 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 painfullytortured, that without a word, making indeed but a kindly gesture ofcompassion, he consented. And the cab carried them away. 

The large room in which Norine and Cecile lived together was atGrenelle, near the Champ de Mars, in a street at the end of the Rue dela Federation. They had been there for nearly six years now, and in theearlier days had experienced much worry and wretchedness. But the childwhom they had to feed and save had on his side saved them also. Themotherly feelings slumbering in Norine's heart had awakened withpassionate intensity for that poor little one as soon as she had givenhim the breast and learnt to watch over him and kiss him. And it wasalso wondrous to see how that unfortunate creature Cecile regardedthe child as in some degree her own. He had indeed two mothers, whosethoughts were for him alone. If Norine, during the first few months, hadoften wearied of spending her days in pasting little boxes together, ifeven thoughts of flight had at times come to her, she had always beenrestrained by the puny arms that were clasped around her neck. And nowshe had grown calm, sensible, diligent, and very expert at the lightwork which Cecile had taught her. It was a sight to see them both, gayand closely united in their little home, which was like a convent cell, spending their days at their little table; while between them was theirchild, 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 foundNorine among the pensioners over whom she was appointed to watch. Afeeling of affection for the two mothers, as she called the sisters, hadsprung up within her, and she had succeeded in inducing the authoritiesto prolong the child's allowance of thirty francs a month for a periodof three years. Then she had obtained scholastic assistance for him, notto mention frequent presents which she brought--clothes, linen, andeven money--for apart from official matters, charitable people oftenintrusted her with fairly large sums, which she distributed among themost meritorious of the poor mothers whom she visited. And even nowadaysshe occasionally called on the sisters, well pleased to spend an hourin that nook of quiet toil, which the laughter and the play of the childenlivened. She there felt herself to be far away from the world, andsuffered less from her own misfortunes. And Norine kissed her hands, declaring that without her the little household of the two mothers wouldnever have managed to exist. 

When Mathieu appeared there, cries of delight arose. He also was afriend, a saviour--the one who, by first taking and furnishing thelarge room, had founded the household. It was a very clean room, almostcoquettish with its white curtains, and rendered very cheerful by itstwo large windows, which admitted the golden radiance of the afternoonsun. Norine and Cecile were working at the table, cutting out cardboardand pasting it together, while the little one, who had come home fromschool, sat between them on a high chair, gravely handling a pair ofscissors and fully persuaded that he was helping them. 

"Oh! is it you? How kind of you to come to see us! Nobody has calledfor five days past. Oh! we don't complain of it. We are so happy alonetogether! Since Irma married a clerk she has treated us with disdain. Euphrasie can no longer come down her stairs. Victor and his wife liveso far away. And as for that rascal Alfred, he only comes up here to seeif he can find something to steal. Mamma called five days ago to tell usthat papa had narrowly escaped being killed at the works on the previousday. Poor mamma! she is so worn out that before long she won't be ableto take a step. "

While the sisters thus rattled on both together, one beginning asentence and the other finishing it, Mathieu looked at Norine, who, thanks to that peaceful and regular life, had regained in herthirty-sixth year a freshness of complexion that suggested a superb, mature fruit gilded by the sun. And even the slender Cecile had acquiredstrength, the strength which love's energy can impart even to a childishform. 

All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: "Oh! hehas hurt himself, the poor little fellow. " And at once she snatched thescissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood atthe tip of one of his fingers. 

"Oh! good Heavens, " murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, "Ifeared that he had slit his hand. "

For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose byfulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to himthat it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the youngwoman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of workwhich she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, onlyrevealing the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a momentwhen, after reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honore, it becamenecessary 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 assuredthat he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have foundyou, and have come to see you. "

At this she lost all self-possession. "What! Have come to see me! Nobodyhas been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don'twant him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling onme like that--a lad I don't know and don't care for! Oh! no, no; preventit, I beg of you; I couldn't--I couldn't bear it!"

With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and hadcaught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as ifto shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by hisresurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the youngerlad's place. 

"No, no!" she cried. "I have but one child; there is only one I love; Idon't want any other. "

Cecile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister toreason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turnhim out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for theabandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. It became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that heregarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exacttruth, he spoke of the elder lad's disappearance, adding, however, thathe must be ignorant even of his mother's name. Thus, when he left thesisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their littleboxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrustedthe scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men. 

Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, waslooking 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 foregoneconclusion. "

She sank down as if from some supreme collapse, and her ashen facebecame quite distorted. "You are right, it was certain, " said she;"still one always hopes. " And with a gesture of despair she added: "Itis all ended now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead. "

Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an addressin order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to havelost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as sheasked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he repliedthat he wished to call on the Seguins. The fear of finding herself aloneagain so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave herthe idea of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for sometime past. 

"Get in, " she said to Mathieu; "we will go to the Avenue d'Antintogether. "

The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they hadnot a word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching theirdestination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: "You must give myhusband 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 Seguinsassembled there. Seguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knewwhence, a week previously, when Andree's hand had been formally askedof him; and after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evincedgreat willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediatelybeen fixed for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marryoff their daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might takeplace at Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. Thisbeing arranged, Ambroise was accepted as fiance, and to his greatdelight 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 ofthis that Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home. 

When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her thatMadame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Seguin, theman replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at homewith her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs. 

"What! are you left all alone?" exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving theyoung couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room onthe first floor, which Seguin had once called his "cabinet. "

"Why, yes, we are alone in the house, " Andree answered with a charminglaugh. "We are very pleased at it. "

They looked adorable, thus seated side by side--she so gentle, of suchtender beauty--he with all the fascinating charm that was blended withhis strength. 

"Isn't Celeste there at any rate?" again inquired Mathieu. 

"No, she has disappeared we don't know where. " And again they laughedlike free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonelyforest. 

"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, tothink of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home allwas blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destinedto increase forever! For this again was a conquest--those two childrenleft free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuousmansion which to-morrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, Constance turned towards Mathieu: "Are you not also marrying your eldestdaughter?" she asked. 

"Yes, Rose, " Mathieu gayly responded. "We shall have a grand fete atChantebled next May! You must all of you come there. "

'Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life provedvictorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Seguins, and nowtheir very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beaucheneworks themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise. 

"We will go, " she answered, quivering. "And may your good luckcontinue--that is what I wish you. "

XVI

AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was toprove, so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, it had occurred to Mathieu's daughter Rose to gather the whole familytogether one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for theceremony. She and her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were torepair to Janville station in the morning to meet the other affiancedpair, Ambroise and Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to thefarm where they would all lunch together. It would be a kind of weddingrehearsal, she exclaimed with her hearty laugh; they would be able toarrange the programme for the great day. And her idea enraptured herto such a point, she seemed to anticipate so much delight from thispreliminary 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 theprettiest of Mathieu's daughters, with dark brown hair, round gildedcheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable ofdispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeedto be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busylife. But beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing frommorning till night there was much common sense and energy of affection, as her choice of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu hadengaged the services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmerof the neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionateinterest in the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working therewith 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'spreferred assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expirationof his military service she, divining that he loved her, forced himto acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished toremain near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all herhappiness. Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeplytouched, they signified their approval of a choice in which affectionfor themselves had so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawnyet closer, and increase of joy came to the home. 

So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointedSunday Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, Madame Seguin, to Janville by the ten o'clock train. A couple of hourspreviously Rose had already begun a battle with the object of prevailingupon the whole family to repair to the railway station to meet theaffianced pair. 

"But come, my children, it is unreasonable, " Marianne gently exclaimed. "It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolashere, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouringthe roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take allthe 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 neighboringkingdom. 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 ownempire, we, Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the wholeCourt. You form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah whata fine sight it will be when we spread out through the country on ourway home again!"

Marianne, amused by her daughter's overflowing gayety, ended by laughingand giving way. 

"This will be the order of the march, " resumed Rose. "Oh! I've plannedeverything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go onour bicycles--that is the most modern style. We will also take my maidsof honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, eleven, nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very wellbehind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, andwill do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort. All therest of the Court will have to pack itself into the chariot--I meanthe big family wagon, in which there is room for eight. You, as QueenMother, may keep your last little prince, Nicolas, on your knees. Papa will only have to carry himself proudly, as befits the head of adynasty. And my brother Gervais, that young Hercules of seventeen, shalldrive, with Claire, who at fifteen is so remarkable for common sense, beside him on the box-seat. As for the illustrious twins, those high andmighty lords, Denis and Blaise, we will call for them at Janville, sincethey 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 apretty cortege this will be fine indeed. "

She was animated by such joyous haste that she made the party start muchsooner than was necessary, and they reached Janville at half-past nine. It was true, however, that they had to call for the others there. Thehouse in which Madame Desvignes had taken refuge after her husband'sdeath, and which she had now occupied for some twelve years, livingthere in a very quiet retired way on the scanty income she had managedto save, was the first in the village, on the high road. For a week pasther elder daughter Charlotte, Blaise's wife, had come to stay there withher children, Berthe and Christophe, who needed change of air; andon the previous evening they had been joined by Blaise, who was wellpleased to spend Sunday with them. 

Madame Desvignes' younger daughter, Marthe, was delighted whenever hersister thus came to spend a few weeks in the old home, bringing herlittle ones with her, and once more occupying the room which hadbelonged to her in her girlish days. All the laughter and playfulness ofthe 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. Asa matter of fact it had seemed likely that there might be three insteadof two weddings at Chantebled that spring. Denis, who, since leaving ascientific school had embarked in fresh technical studies, often sleptat the farm and nearly every Sunday he saw Marthe, who was of the sameage as Rose and her constant companion. The young girl, a pretty blondelike her sister Charlotte, but of a less impulsive and more practicalnature, had indeed attracted Denis, and, dowerless though she was, hehad made up his mind to marry her, since he had discovered that shepossessed the sterling qualities that help one on to fortune. But intheir 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'shappiness in question until he could offer her an assured position. Thus, of their own accord, they had postponed their marriage, quietlyand smilingly resisting the passionate assaults of Rose, whom the ideaof three weddings on the same day had greatly excited. At the same time, Denis continued visiting Madame Desvignes, who, on her side, equallyprudent and confident, received him much as if he were her son. Thatmorning he had even quitted the farm at seven o'clock, saying thathe meant to surprise Blaise in bed; and thus he also was to be met atJanville. 

As it happened, the fete of Janville fell on Sunday, the second inMay. Encompassing the square in front of the railway station wereroundabouts, booths, shooting galleries, and refreshment stalls. Stormyshowers 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. Agood many people were already assembled on the square--all the idlersof the district, bands of children, and peasants of the surroundingcountry, eager to see the sights; and into the midst of this crowd fellthe Froments--first the bicyclists, next the wagon, and then the otherswho had been met at the entry of the village. 

"We are producing our little effect!" exclaimed Rose as she sprang fromher wheel. 

This was incontestable. During the earlier years the whole of Janvillehad looked harshly on those Froments, those bourgeois who had comenobody knew whence, and who, with overweening conceit, had talked ofmaking corn grow in land where there had been nothing but crops ofstones for centuries past. Then the miracle, Mathieu's extraordinaryvictory, had long hurt people's vanity and thereby increased theiranger. But everything passes away; one cannot regard success withrancor, and folks who grow rich always end by being in the right. Thus, nowadays, Janville smiled complacently on that swarming family which hadgrown up beside it, forgetting that in former times each fresh birthat Chantebled had been regarded as quite scandalous by the gossips. Besides, how could one resist such a happy display of strength andpower, such a merry invasion, when, as on that festive Sunday, the wholefamily came up at a gallop, conquering the roads, the streets, and thesquares? What with the father and mother, the eleven children--six boysand five girls--and two grandchildren already, there were fifteen ofthem. The eldest boys, the twins, were now four-and twenty, and stillso much alike that people occasionally mistook one for the other as intheir cradle days, when Marianne had been obliged to open their eyesto 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 asyet but five years old; a delightful little urchin was he, a precociouslittle man whose energy and courage were quite amusing. And between thetwins and that youngster came the eight other children: Ambroise, thefuture husband, who was already on the road to every conquest; Rose, sobrimful of life; who likewise was on the eve of marrying; Gervais, withhis square brow and wrestler's limbs, who would soon be fighting thegood fight of agriculture; Claire, who was silent and hardworking, andlacked beauty, but possessed a strong heart and a housewife's sensiblehead. Next Gregoire, the undisciplined, self-willed schoolboy, who wasever beating the hedges in search of adventures; and then the three lastgirls: Louise, plump and good natured; Madeleine, delicate and of dreamymind; Marguerite, the least pretty but the most loving of the trio. Andwhen, behind their father and their mother, the eleven came along oneafter the other, followed too by Berthe and Christophe, representingyet another generation, it was a real procession that one saw, as, forinstance, on that fine Sunday on the Grand Place of Janville, alreadycrowded with holiday-making folks. And the effect was irresistible;even those who were scarcely pleased with the prodigious success ofChantebled felt enlivened and amused at seeing the Froments gallopingabout and invading the place. So much health and mirth and strengthaccompanied them, as if earth with her overflowing gifts of life hadthus profusely created them for to-morrow's everlasting hopes. 

"Let those who think themselves more numerous come forward!" Roseresumed 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, likewisefelt proud at finding himself, as he put it, among "the sacredbattalion" of his sons and daughters. To that battalion worthy MadameDesvignes herself belonged, since her daughter Charlotte was addingsoldiers 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 seenever increasing and multiplying, becoming a swarming victorious race, great-grandchildren following grandchildren, till there were fiftyof them, and a hundred, and two hundred, all tending to increase thehappiness and beauty of the world. And in the mingled amazement andamusement of Janville gathered around that fruitful family there wascertainly some of the instinctive admiration which is felt for thestrength and the healthfulness which create great nations. 

"Besides, we have only friends now, " remarked Mathieu. "Everybody iscordial with us!"

"Oh, everybody!" muttered Rose. "Just look at the Lepailleurs yonder, infront of that booth. "

The Lepailleurs were indeed there--the father, the mother, Antonin, andTherese. In order to avoid the Froments they were pretending to takegreat interest in a booth, where a number of crudely-colored chinaornaments were displayed as prizes for the winners at a "lucky-wheel. "They no longer even exchanged courtesies with the Chantebled folks; forin their impotent rage at such ceaseless prosperity they had availedthemselves 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 thosemoorlands, from which, in his opinion, one would never reap anythingbut stones. And thus, when he had well examined the china ornaments, itoccurred to him to be insolent, with which object he turned round andstared at the Froments, who, as the train they were expecting would notarrive for another quarter of an hour, were gayly promenading throughthe fair. 

The miller's bad temper had for the last two months been increasedby the return of his son Antonin to Janville under very deplorablecircumstances. This young fellow, who had set off one morning to conquerParis, sent there by his parents, who had a blind confidence in his finehandwriting, had remained with Maitre Rousselet the attorney for fouryears as a petty clerk, dull-witted and extremely idle. He had not madethe slightest progress in his profession, but had gradually sunk intodebauchery, cafe-life, drunkenness, gambling, and facile amours. To himthe conquest of Paris meant greedy indulgence in the coarsest pleasuressuch as he had dreamt of in his village. It consumed all his money, allthe supplies which he extracted from his mother by continual promisesof victory, in which she implicitly believed, so great was her faithin him. But he ended by grievously suffering in health, turned thin andyellow, and actually began to lose his hair at three-and-twenty, so thathis mother, full of alarm, brought him home one day, declaring that heworked too hard, and that she would not allow him to kill himself inthat fashion. It leaked out, however, later on, that Maitre Rousselethad summarily dismissed him. Even before this was known his return homedid not fail to make his father growl. The miller partially guessedthe truth, and if he did not openly vent his anger, it was solely frompride, in order that he might not have to confess his mistake withrespect to the brilliant career which he had predicted for Antonin. Athome, when the doors were closed, Lepailleur revenged himself onhis wife, picking the most frightful quarrels with her since he haddiscovered her frequent remittances of money to their son. But she heldher own against him, for even as she had formerly admired him, so atpresent she admired her boy. She sacrificed, as it were, the father tothe son, now that the latter's greater learning brought her increasedsurprise. And so the household was all disagreement as a result ofthat foolish attempt, born of vanity, to make their heir a Monsieur, aParisian. Antonin for his part sneered and shrugged his shoulders atit all, idling away his time pending the day when he might be able toresume a life of profligacy. 

When the Froments passed by, it was a fine sight to see the Lepailleursstanding there stiffly and devouring them with their eyes. The fatherpuckered his lips in an attempt to sneer, and the mother jerked her headwith an air of bravado. The son, standing there with his hands in hispockets, presented a sorry sight with his bent back, his bald head, andpale face. All three were seeking to devise something disagreeable whenan opportunity presented itself. 

"Why, where is Therese?" exclaimed La Lepailleur. "She was here justnow: what has become of her? I won't have her leave me when there areall these people about!"

It was quite true, for the last moment Therese had disappeared. She wasnow ten years old and very pretty, quite a plump little blonde, withwild hair and black eyes which shone brightly. But she had a terriblyimpulsive and wilful nature, and would run off and disappear for hoursat a time, beating the hedges and scouring the countryside in search ofbirds'-nests and flowers and wild fruit. If her mother, however, madesuch a display of alarm, darting hither and thither to find her, justas the Froments passed by, it was because she had become aware of somescandalous proceedings during the previous week. Therese's ardent dreamwas to possess a bicycle, and she desired one the more since her parentsstubbornly refused to content her, declaring in fact that those machinesmight do for bourgeois but were certainly not fit for well-behavedgirls. Well, one afternoon, when she had gone as usual into the fields, her mother, returning from market, had perceived her on a deserted stripof road, in company with little Gregoire Froment, another young wandererwhom she often met in this wise, in spots known only to themselves. Thetwo made a very suitable pair, and were ever larking and rambling alongthe paths, under the leaves, beside the ditches. But the abominablething was that, on this occasion, Gregoire, having seated Therese onhis own bicycle, was supporting her at the waist and running alongside, helping her to direct the machine. Briefly it was a real bicycle lessonwhich the little rascal was giving, and which the little hussy took withall the pleasure in the world. When Therese returned home that eveningshe had her ears soundly boxed for her pains. 

"Where can that little gadabout have got to?" La Lepailleur continuedshouting. "One can no sooner take one's eyes off her than she runsaway. "

Antonin, however, having peeped behind the booth containing the chinaornaments, lurched back again, still with his hands in his pockets, andsaid with his vicious sneer: "Just look there, you'll see something. "

And indeed, behind the booth, his mother again found Therese andGregoire together. The lad was holding his bicycle with one handand explaining some of the mechanism of it, while the girl, full ofadmiration and covetousness, looked on with glowing eyes. Indeed shecould not resist her inclination, but laughingly let Gregoire raise herin order to seat her for a moment on the saddle, when all at once hermother's terrible voice burst forth: "You wicked hussy! what are you upto there again? Just come back at once, or I'll settle your business foryou. "

Then Mathieu also, catching sight of the scene, sternly summonedGregoire: "Please to place your wheel with the others. You know what Ihave already said to you, so don't begin again. "

It was war. Lepailleur impudently growled ignoble threats, whichfortunately were lost amid the strains of a barrel organ. And thetwo families separated, going off in different directions through thegrowing holiday-making crowd. 

"Won't that train ever come, then?" resumed Rose, who with joyousimpatience was at every moment turning to glance at the clock of thelittle railway station on the other side of the square. "We have stillten minutes to wait: whatever shall we do?"

As it happened she had stopped in front of a hawker who stood on thefootway with a basketful of crawfish, crawling, pell-mell, at his feet. They had certainly come from the sources of the Yeuse, three leaguesaway. They were not large, but they were very tasty, for Rose herselfhad occasionally caught some in the stream. And thus a greedy but alsoplayful fancy came to her. 

"Oh, mamma!" she cried, "let us buy the whole basketful. It will befor the feast of welcome, you see; it will be our present to the royalcouple we are awaiting. People won't say that Our Majesties neglect todo things properly when they are expecting other Majesties. And I willcook 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 bydoing as she asked, big child as she was, who in the fulness of herhappiness hardly knew what amusement to seek. However, as by way ofpastime she obstinately sought to count the crawfish, quite an affairensued: some of them pinched her, and she dropped them with a littleshriek; and, amid it all, the basket fell over and then the crawfishhurriedly crawled away. The boys and girls darted in pursuit of them, there was quite a hunt, in which even the serious members of the familyat last took part. And what with the laughter and eagerness of one andall, the big as well as the little, the whole happy brood, the sightwas so droll and gay that the folks of Janville again drew near andgood-naturedly took their share of the amusement. 

All at once, however, arose a distant rumble of wheels and an enginewhistled. 

"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 wasjust time to shut the basket and carry it to the wagon. The whole familywas already running off, invading the little station, and ranging itselfin good order along the arrival platform. 

"No, no, not like that, " Rose repeated. "You don't observe the rightorder of precedence. The queen mother must be with the king her husband, and then the princes according to their height. Frederic must placehimself on my right. And it's for me, you know, to make the speech ofwelcome. "

The train stopped. When Ambroise and Andree alighted they were at firstmuch surprised to find that everybody had come to meet them, drawn upin a row with solemn mien. When Rose, however began to deliver a pompouslittle speech, treating her brother's betrothed like some foreignprincess, whom she had orders to welcome in the name of the king, herfather, the young couple began to laugh, and even prolonged the joke byresponding in the same style. The railway men looked on and listened, gaping. It was a fine farce, and the Froments were delighted at showingthemselves so playful on that warm May morning. 

But Marianne suddenly raised an exclamation of surprise: "What! hasnot Madame Seguin come with you? She gave me so many promises that shewould. "

In the rear of Ambroise and Andree Celeste the maid had alone alightedfrom the train. And she undertook to explain things: "Madame chargedme, " said she, "to say that she was really most grieved. Yesterday shestill hoped that she would be able to keep her promise. Only in theevening she received a visit from Monsieur de Navarede, who is presidingto-day, Sunday, at a meeting of his Society, and of course Madame couldnot do otherwise than attend it. So she requested me to accompany theyoung people, and everything is satisfactory, for here they are, yousee. "

As a matter of fact nobody regretted the absence of Valentine, whoalways moped when she came into the country. And Mathieu expressed thegeneral opinion in a few words of polite regret: "Well, you must tellher how much we shall miss her. And now let us be off. "

Celeste, however, intervened once more. "Excuse me, monsieur, but Icannot remain with you. No. Madame particularly told me to go back toher at once, as she will need me to dress her. And, besides, she isalways bored when she is alone. There is a train for Paris at a quarterpast ten, is there not? I will go back by it. Then I will be here ateight o'clock this evening to take Mademoiselle home. We settled allthat 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 theothers returned to the village square, where the wagon and the bicycleswere waiting. 

"Now we are all assembled, " exclaimed Rose, "and the real fete is aboutto begin. Let me organize the procession for our triumphal return to thecastle of our ancestors. "

"I am very much afraid that your procession will be soaked, " saidMarianne. "Just look at the rain approaching!"

During the last few moments there had appeared in the hitherto spotlesssky a huge, livid cloud, rising from the west and urged along by asudden squall. It presaged a return of the violent stormy showers of theprevious night. 

"Rain! Oh, we don't care about that, " the girl responded with an air ofsuperb defiance. "It will never dare to come down before we get home. "

Then, with a comical semblance of authority, she disposed her people inthe order which she had planned in her mind a week previously. And theprocession set off through the admiring village, amid the smiles of allthe good women hastening to their doorsteps, and then spread out alongthe white road between the fertile fields, where bands of startledlarks took wing, carrying their clear song to the heavens. It was reallymagnificent. 

At the head of the party were Rose and Frederic, side by side on theirbicycles, opening the nuptial march with majestic amplitude. Behindthem followed the three maids of honor, the younger sisters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the tallest first, the shortest last, andeach on a wheel proportioned to her growth. And with berets* on theirheads, and their hair down their backs, waving in the breeze, theylooked adorable, suggesting a flight of messenger swallows skimming overthe ground and bearing good tidings onward. As for Gregoire the page, restive and always ready to bolt, he did not behave very well; for heactually tried to pass the royal couple at the head of the procession, a proceeding which brought him various severe admonitions until he fellback, as duty demanded, to his deferential and modest post. On the otherhand, as the three maids of honor began to sing the ballad ofCinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming, the royal couplecondescendingly declared that the song was appropriate and of pleasingeffect, whatever might be the requirements of etiquette. Indeed, Rose, Frederic, and Gregoire also ended by singing the ballad, which rang outamid the serene, far-spreading countryside like the finest music in theworld. 

 * The beret is the Pyreneean tam-o'-shanter. 

Then, at a short distance in the rear, came the chariot, the goodold family wagon, which was now crowded. According to the prearrangedprogramme it was Gervais who held the ribbons, with Claire beside him. The two strong horses trotted on in their usual leisurely fashion, inspite of all the gay whip-cracking of their driver, who also wishedto contribute to the music. Inside there were now seven people for sixplaces, for if the three children were small, they were at the same timeso restless that they fully took up their share of room. First, faceto face, there were Ambroise and Andree, the betrothed couple who werebeing honored by this glorious welcome. Then, also face to face, therewere the high and mighty rulers of the region, Mathieu and Marianne, thelatter of whom kept little Nicolas, the last prince of the line, on herknees, he braying the while like a little donkey, because he felt sopleased. Then the last places were occupied by the rulers' granddaughterand grandson, Mademoiselle Berthe and Monsieur Christophe, who were asyet unable to walk long distances. And the chariot rolled on with muchmajesty, albeit that for fear of the rain the curtains of stout whitelinen had already been half-drawn, thus giving the vehicle, at adistance, somewhat of the aspect of a miller's van. 

Further back yet, as a sort of rear-guard, was a group on foot, composedof Blaise, Denis, Madame Desvignes, and her daughters Charlotte andMarthe. They had absolutely refused to take a fly, finding it morepleasant to walk the mile and a half which separated Chantebled fromJanville. If the rain should fall, they would manage to find sheltersomewhere. Besides, Rose had declared that a suite on foot wasabsolutely necessary to give the procession its full significance. Thosefive last comers would represent the multitude, the great concourse ofpeople which follows sovereigns and acclaims them. Or else they mightbe the necessary guard, the men-at-arms, who watched for the purpose offoiling a possible attack from some felon neighbor. At the same time itunfortunately happened that worthy Madame Desvignes could not walk veryfast, so that the rear-guard was soon distanced, to such a degree indeedthat 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 sawher rear-guard more than three hundred yards away she raised cries ofadmiration. "Oh! just look, Frederic! What an interminable procession!What a deal of room we take up! The cortege is becoming longer andlonger, and the road won't be long enough for it very soon. "

Then, as the three maids of honor and the page began to jeerimpertinently, "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, therabbits who watch us pass are mute with stupor and humiliation. "

Then came another laugh, and once more they all took up the song ofCinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming. 

It was at the bridge over the Yeuse that the first drops of rain, bigdrops they were, began to fall. The big livid cloud, urged on by aterrible wind, was galloping across the sky, filling it with the clamorof a tempest. And almost immediately afterwards the rain-drops increasedin volume and in number, lashed by so violent a squall that the waterpoured down as if by the bucketful, or as if some huge sluice-gate hadsuddenly burst asunder overhead. One could no longer see twenty yardsbefore one. In two minutes the road was running with water like the bedof a torrent. 

Then there was a _sauve-qui-peut_ among the procession. It was learntlater on that the people of the rear-guard had luckily been surprisednear a peasant's cottage, in which they had quietly sought refuge. Thenthe folks in the wagon simply drew their curtains, and halted beneaththe shelter of a wayside tree for fear lest the horses should takefright under such a downpour. They called to the bicyclists ahead ofthem to stop also, instead of obstinately remaining in such a deluge. But their words were lost amid the rush of water. However, the littlegirls and the page took a proper course in crouching beside a thickhedge, though the betrothed couple wildly continued on their way. 

Frederic, the more reasonable of the two, certainly had sense enough tosay: "This isn't prudent on our part. Let us stop like the others, I begyou. "

But from Rose, all excitement, transported by her blissful fever, andinsensible, so it seemed, to the pelting of the rain, he only drew thisanswer: "Pooh! what does it matter, now that we are soaking? It is bystopping 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 ofthose 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 athousand yards or so between rows of lofty poplars. 

"I assure you that we are doing wrong, " the young man repeated. "Theywill blame me, and they will be right. "

"Oh! well, " cried she, "I'm amusing myself. This bicycle bath is quitefunny. Leave me, then, if you don't love me enough to follow me. "

He followed her, however, pressed close beside her, and sought toshelter her a little from the slanting rain. And it was a wild, mad raceon the part of that young couple, almost linked together, their elbowstouching as they sped on and on, as if lifted from the ground, carriedoff 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 momentwhen they sprang from their bicycles in the yard of the farm the rainceased, and the sky became blue once more. 

Rose was laughing like a lunatic, and looked very flushed, but she wassoaked 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 whohad 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 togain just a few minutes, eager as she was to cook the crawfish, she didnot take the trouble to put on dry linen. She wished the pot to be onthe fire with the water, the white wine, the carrots and spices, beforethe family arrived. And she came and went, attending to the fire andfilling the whole kitchen with her gay activity, like a good housewifewho was glad to display her accomplishments, while her betrothed, whohad also come downstairs again after changing his clothes, watched herwith a kind of religious admiration. 

At last, when the whole family had arrived, the folks of the brake andthe pedestrians also, there came a rather sharp explanation. Mathieuand Marianne were angry, so greatly had they been alarmed by that rushthrough the storm. 

"There was no sense in it, my girl, " Marianne repeated. "Did you atleast change your linen?"

"Why yes, why yes!" replied Rose. "Where are the crawfish?"

Mathieu meantime was lecturing Frederic. "You might have broken yournecks, " said he; "and, besides, it is by no means good to get soakedwith 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 anybodycompliment me on my _court-bouillon_? Have you ever known crawfish tosmell as nice as that?"

The lunch was wonderfully gay. As they were twenty, and wished to havea real rehearsal of the wedding feast, the table had been set in a largegallery adjoining the ordinary dining-room. This gallery was stillbare, but throughout the meal they talked incessantly of how they wouldembellish it with shrubs, garlands of foliage, and clumps of flowers. During the dessert they even sent for a ladder with the view ofindicating on the walls the main lines of the decorations. 

For a moment or so Rose, previously so talkative, had lapsed intosilence. She had eaten heartily, but all the color had left her face, which had assumed a waxy pallor under her heavy hair, which was stilldamp. And when she wished to ascend the ladder herself to indicatehow some ornament should be placed, her legs suddenly failed her, shestaggered, 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 comingto her senses, she remained for a moment silent, oppressed as by afeeling of pain, and apparently failing to understand what had takenplace. Mathieu and Marianne, terribly upset, pressed her with questions, anxious as they were to know if she felt better. She had evidentlycaught cold, and this was the fine result of her foolish ride. 

By degrees the girl recovered her composure, and again smiled. She thenexplained that she now felt no pain, but that it had suddenly seemed toher as if a heavy paving-stone were lying on her chest; then this weighthad melted away, leaving her better able to breathe. And, indeed, shewas soon on her feet once more, and finished giving her views respectingthe decoration of the gallery, in such wise that the others ended byfeeling reassured, and the afternoon passed away joyously in the makingof all sorts of splendid plans. Little was eaten at dinner, for theyhad done too much honor to the crawfish at noon. And at nine o'clock, assoon as Celeste arrived for Andree, the gathering broke up. Ambroise wasreturning to Paris that same evening. Blaise and Denis were to take theseven o'clock train the following morning. And Rose, after accompanyingMadame Desvignes and her daughters to the road, called to them throughthe darkness: "Au revoir, come back soon. " She was again full of gayetyat the thought of the general rendezvous which the family had arrangedfor the approaching weddings. 

Neither Mathieu nor Marianne went to bed at once, however. Though theydid not even speak of it together, they thought that Rose looked verystrange, as if, indeed, she were intoxicated. She had again staggeredon returning to the house, and though she only complained of some slightoppression, they prevailed on her to go to bed. After she had retired toher room, which adjoined their own, Marianne went several times to seeif she were well wrapped up and were sleeping peacefully, while Mathieuremained anxiously thoughtful beside the lamp. At last the girl fellasleep, and the parents, leaving the door of communication open, thenexchanged a few words in an undertone, in their desire to tranquillizeeach other. It would surely be nothing; a good night's rest wouldsuffice to restore Rose to her wonted health. Then in their turn theywent to bed, the whole farm lapsed into silence, surrendering itself toslumber until the first cockcrow. But all at once, about four o'clock, shortly before daybreak, a stifled call, "Mamma! mamma!" awoke bothMathieu and Marianne, and they sprang out of bed, barefooted, shivering, and groping for the candle. Rose was again stifling, struggling againstanother attack of extreme violence. For the second time, however, shesoon regained consciousness and appeared relieved, and thus the parents, great as was their distress, preferred to summon nobody but to wait tilldaylight. Their alarm was caused particularly by the great changethey noticed in their daughter's appearance; her face was swollen anddistorted, as if some evil power had transformed her in the night. Butshe fell asleep again, in a state of great prostration; and they nolonger stirred for fear of disturbing her slumber. They remained therewatching and waiting, listening to the revival of life in the farmaround them as the daylight gradually increased. Time went by; five andthen 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 toreturn to Paris by the seven o'clock train, hastened down to tell himto call upon Boutan and beg the doctor to come at once. Then, as soon ashis son had started, he rejoined Marianne upstairs, still unwilling tocall or warn anybody. But a third attack followed, and this time it wasthe thunderbolt. 

Rose had half risen in bed, her arms thrown out, her mouth distended asshe gasped "Mamma! mamma!"

Then in a sudden fit of revolt, a last flash of life, she sprang fromher bed and stepped towards the window, whose panes were all aglow withthe rising sun. And for a moment she leant there, her legs bare, hershoulders bare, and her heavy hair falling over her like a royal mantle. Never had she looked more beautiful, more dazzling, full of strength andlove. 

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 herarms around her like invincible armor which would shield her from allharm. 

"Don't talk like that, you unhappy girl! It is nothing; it is onlyanother attack which will pass away. Get into bed again, for mercy'ssake. Your old friend Boutan is on his way here. You will be up and wellagain 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 fewminutes she died of congestion of the lungs. 

Ah! the imbecile thunderbolt! Ah! the scythe, which with a single strokeblindly cuts down a whole springtide! It was all so brutally sudden, so utterly unexpected, that at first the stupefaction of Marianne andMathieu was greater than their despair. In response to their cries thewhole farm hastened up, the fearful news filled the place, and then allsank into the deep silence of death--all work, all life ceasing. And theother children were there, scared and overcome: little Nicolas, whodid not yet understand things; Gregoire, the page of the previous day;Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the three maids of honor, and theirelders, Claire and Gervais, who felt the blow more deeply. And therewere 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 theterrible tidings reach them? In what cruel distress would they return!And the doctor who would soon arrive too! But all at once, amid theterror and confusion, there rang out the cries of Frederic, the poordead girl's affianced lover. He shrieked his despair aloud, he was halfmad, he wished to kill himself, saying that he was the murderer and thathe ought to have prevented Rose from so rashly riding home throughthe storm! He had to be led away and watched for fear of some freshmisfortune. His sudden frenzy had gone to every heart; sobs burst forthand lamentations arose from the woful parents, from the brothers, thesisters, from the whole of stricken Chantebled, which death thus visitedfor the first time. 

Ah, God! Rose on that bed of mourning, white, cold, and dead! She, thefairest, the gayest, the most loved! She, before whom all the otherswere ever in admiration--she of whom they were so proud, so fond! Andto think that this blow should fall in the midst of hope, bright hope inlong life and sterling happiness, but ten days before her wedding, andon 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 happyyouthful 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 andprosperity. Doubtless they had often experienced trouble and had evenwept at times, but they had drawn closer together and consoledone another on such occasions; none had ever been cut off from thegood-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 mostvaliant, the happiest; never reaped the fulness of their hopes. Therewas no life without death. And they paid their share of the debt ofhuman wretchedness, paid it the more dearly since they had made forthemselves a larger sum of life. When everything germinates and growsaround one, when one has determined on unreserved fruitfulness; oncontinuous creation and increase, how awful is the recall to theever-present dim abyss in which the world is fashioned, on the day whenmisfortune falls, digs its first pit, and carries off a loved one! Itis like a sudden snapping, a rending of the hopes which seemed to beendless, and a feeling of stupefaction comes at the discovery that onecannot live and love forever!

Ah! how terrible were the two days that followed: the farm itselflifeless, without sound save that of the breathing of the cattle, thewhole family gathered together, overcome by the cruel spell of waiting, ever in tears while the poor corpse remained there under a harvest offlowers. And there was this cruel aggravation, that on the eve of thefuneral, when the body had been laid in the coffin, it was brought downinto that gallery where they had lunched so merrily while discussing howmagnificently they might decorate it for the two weddings. It was therethat the last funeral watch, the last wake, took place, and there wereno evergreen shrubs, no garlands of foliage, merely four tapers whichburnt there amid a wealth of white roses gathered in the morning, butalready fading. Neither the mother nor the father was willing to goto bed that night. They remained, side by side, near the child whommother-earth was taking back from them. They could see her quite littleagain, but sixteen months old, at the time of their first sojourn atChantebled in the old tumbledown shooting-box, when she had just beenweaned and they were wont to go and cover her up at nighttime. They sawher also, later on, in Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbingup and pulling their bed to pieces with triumphant laughter. And theysaw her yet more clearly, growing and becoming more beautiful even asChantebled did, as if, indeed, she herself bloomed with all the healthand beauty of that now fruitful land. Yet she was no more, and wheneverthe thought returned to them that they would never see her again, theirhands sought one another, met in a woful clasp, while from their crushedand mingling hearts it seemed as if all life, all future, were flowingaway to nihility. Now that a breach had been made, would not every otherhappiness be carried off in turn? And though the ten other childrenwere there, from the little one five years old to the twins who werefour-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered in tears around theirsleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion rendering funeralhonors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted them: theirhearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, carryingaway with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare gallerywhich the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose uponthat death watch, that last leave-taking. 

Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread outalong the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, thatroad over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All therelations of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had cometo pay a tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, thistime, the cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped withwhite and blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The wholefamily was present; the mother and the sisters had declared that theywould only quit their loved one when she had been lowered into her lastresting-place. And after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, the Seguins, and others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcomeby suffering, no longer recognized people amid their tears. They onlyremembered on the morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed itwere really Morange--that silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman, who had wept while pressing their hands. And in like fashion Mathieufancied that, in some horrible dream, he had seen Constance's sparefigure and bony profile drawing near to him in the cemetery after thecoffin had been lowered into the grave, and addressing vague words ofconsolation to him, though he fancied that her eyes flashed the while asif with abominable exultation. 

What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her wordsmust have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourningrelative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which shehad spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then inbitter fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebledmight continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, were now stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhapsdeparted 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, littleLeonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietlysix weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be thefirst outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recoveredfrom the terrible shock of their eldest daughter's death. Moreover, itwas arranged that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch atthe parents' home, and that one and all should afterwards be free toreturn to his or her avocations. It was impossible for the whole familyto come, and, indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, onlythe twins, Denis and Blaise, and the latter's wife Charlotte, wereexpected, together with the godparents. Beauchene, the godfather, had selected Madame Seguin as his _commere_, for, since the death ofMaurice, Constance shuddered at the bare thought of touching a child. At the same time she had promised to be present at the lunch, and thusthere would be ten of them, sufficient to fill the little dining-room ofthe modest flat in the Rue de La Boetie, where the young couple residedpending fortune's arrival. 

It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had beenunwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, they ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of thatlittle grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early inthe winter a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had losthis little Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attackof croup. Charlotte, however, was already at that time again _enceinte_, and thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraughtwith 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 thevictorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm inarm, 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, jestingand paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her muchamusement, prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though shewas already forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance aloneremained grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faintsmile, while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face everytime that she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, basedon the invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning. 

At about three o'clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allowBeauchene to take any more Chartreuse. 

"It's true, he is right, my children, " Beauchene ended by exclaimingin a docile way. "We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutelynecessary that we should return to the works. And we must deprive youof Denis, for we need his help over a big building affair. That's how weare, 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, goingto the window, exclaimed: "You will get wet. "

"Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shallhave time to get to the works. "

It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with herin the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilionadjoining the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and couldquietly return to the Avenue d'Antin, which was close by, as soon as thesky might clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had justyielded to Andree's affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spendthe whole day and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train. Thus the fete would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured atthe prospect. 

The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, amistake which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all themirth promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and, looking at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him "Blaise, myfriend, 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. Andit was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis whenhe brought her the boa: "I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are veryamiable. "

Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, sodroll 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 suspectingthat 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 amalways mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in thesame fashion. "

Thereupon Marianne, in her obliging way, in order to take any stingaway from the laughter, repeated the well-known family story of how sheherself, when the twins were children and slept together, had been wontto awake them in order to identify them by the different color of theireyes. The others, Beauchene and Valentine, then intervened and recalledcircumstances under which they also had mistaken the twins one for theother, so perfect was their resemblance on certain occasions, incertain lights. And it was amid all this gay animation that the companyseparated after exchanging all sorts of embraces and handshakes. 

Once in the brougham, Constance spoke but seldom to Charlotte, takingas a pretext a violent headache which the prolonged lunch had increased. With a weary air and her eyes half closed she began to reflect. AfterRose'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 quiteyoung again. But when she consulted Boutan on the matter he dealt hera final blow by informing her that her hopes were quite illusive. Thus, for two months now, her rage and despair had been increasing. That verymorning at that christening, and now in that carriage beside that youngwoman who was again expecting to become a mother, it was this whichpoisoned her mind, filled her with jealousy and spite, and renderedher capable of any evil deed. The loss of her son, the childlessnessto which she was condemned, all threw her into a state of morbidperversity, fraught with dreams of some monstrous vengeance which shedared not even confess to herself. She accused the whole world of beingin league to crush her. Her husband was the most cowardly and idioticof traitors, for he betrayed her by letting some fresh part of the workspass day by day into the hands of that fellow Blaise, whose wife nosooner lost a child than she had another. She, Constance, was enragedalso at seeing her husband so gay and happy, since she had left himto his own base courses. He still retained his air of victorioussuperiority, declaring that he had remained unchanged, and therewas truth in this; for though, instead of being an active master asformerly, he now too often showed himself a senile prowler, on the highroad to paralysis, he yet continued to be a practical egotist, one whodrew from life the greatest sum of enjoyment possible. He was followinghis destined road, and if he took to Blaise it was simply because hewas delighted to have found an intelligent, hard-working young man whospared him all the cares and worries that were too heavy for his wearyshoulders, while still earning for him the money which he needed forhis pleasures. Constance knew that something in the way of a partnershiparrangement was about to be concluded. Indeed, her husband must havealready received a large sum to enable him to make good certain lossesand expenses which he had hidden from her. And closing her eyes as thebrougham rolled along, she poisoned her mind by ruminating all thesethings, scarce able to refrain from venting her fury by throwing herselfupon that young woman Charlotte, well-loved and fruitful spouse, who satbeside her. 

Then the thought of Denis occurred to her. Why was he being taken to theworks? Did he also mean to rob her? Yet she knew that he had refused tojoin his brother, as in his opinion there was not room for two at theestablishment of the Boulevard de Grenelle. Indeed, Denis's ambitionwas to direct some huge works by himself; he possessed an extensiveknowledge of mechanics, and this it was that rendered him a valuableadviser whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine hadto be prepared at the Beauchene factory. Constance promptly dismissedhim from her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason tofear him; he was a mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, wouldestablish himself at the other end of France. Then once more the thoughtof Blaise came back to her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenlyoccurred to her that if she made haste home she would be able to seeMorange alone in his office and ascertain many things from him beforethe others arrived. It was evident that the accountant must knowsomething of the partnership scheme, even if it were as yet only in apreliminary 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 andlooked out. "_Mon Dieu_!" said she, "what a time this brougham takes! Ifthe 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 seekshelter in some doorway. And when the carriage reached the works shehastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion tothe little pavilion. 

"You will excuse me, won't you, my dear?" said she; "you only have toturn the street corner. "

When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, tookhold 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. Whenyou see my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he growsanxious at the slightest thing. "

Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with manyprofessions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission. Then they parted. "Au revoir, till to-morrow "--"Yes, yes, tillto-morrow, au revoir. "

Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wifeValerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yetit always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, forhe had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retiredlife, giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. Onthe other hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correctpainstaking accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as itwere to the office chair in which he had taken his seat every morningfor thirty years past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter hadcarried off with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, all that he had momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes--a largefortune and a luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, who had relapsed into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothingbeyond his humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady cornerto which he was accustomed. It was suspected, however, that he led amysterious maniacal life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in thatflat of the Boulevard de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refusedto quit. His servant had orders to admit nobody, and she herselfknew nothing. If he gave her free admittance to the dining- anddrawing-rooms, he did not allow her to set foot in his own bedroom, formerly shared by Valerie, nor in that which Reine had occupied. Hehimself 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 atime. It was in vain that the servant tried to glance inside, in vainthat she listened at the doors when he spent his holidays at home; shesaw nothing and heard nothing. Nobody could have told what relics thosechapels contained, nor with what religious cult he honored them. Anothercause of surprise was his niggardly, avaricious life, which, as timewent on, had become more and more pronounced, in such wise that his onlyexpenses were his rental of sixteen hundred francs, the wages he paidto his servant, and the few pence per day which she with difficultyextracted from him to defray the cost of food and housekeeping. Hissalary had now risen to eight thousand francs a year, and he certainlydid not spend half of it. What became, then, of his big savings, themoney which he refused to devote to enjoyment? In what secret hole, andfor what purpose, what secret passion, did he conceal it? Nobody couldtell. But amid it all he remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, continued very cleanly in his habits, keeping his beard, which was nowwhite as snow, very carefully tended. And he came to his office everymorning with a little smile on his face, in such wise that nothing inthis 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 andMorange. When, after his daughter's death, she had seen him return tothe works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with whichsome covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destinedto 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, onexperiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping, incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brotherin misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to noneother. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, andthe pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, faceto face, sharing each other's woe. Later on she had profited by thisintimacy to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at thefactory, of which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularlysince she had suspected the latter of bad management, blunders anddebts, that she endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, evena spy, who might aid her to secure as much control of the business aspossible. And this was why she was so anxious to return to the factorythat day, and profit by the opportunity to see Morange privately, persuaded as she was that she would induce him to speak out in theabsence of his superiors. 

She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She foundthe accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, andleaning 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 tospeak of what she had at heart. "Why, yes. That is to say, I came awaybecause 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 megood to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I amnot happy, not happy at all. "

She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had beenrestraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quiteupset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself, Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might havea fainting fit. But she prevented him. 

"I have only you left me, my friend, " said she. "Everybody else forsakesme, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks arebent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything whenI lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know mytorments, you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven's sakehelp me and tell me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able todefend 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 wouldanswer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the commongrief which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement wasindeed on the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchene, only it wasnot precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchene having drawn large sumsfrom the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could notconfess--a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored--had beenobliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active lieutenantwho managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to findsomebody willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man hadoffered it himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, who advanced the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in hisson's name. And now, with the view of putting everything in order, ithad been resolved that the property should be divided into six parts, and that one of these parts or shares should be attributed to Blaiseas reimbursement for the loan. Thus the young fellow would possess aninterest of one sixth in the establishment, unless indeed Beaucheneshould buy him out again within a stipulated period. The danger wasthat, instead of freeing himself in this fashion, Beauchene might yieldto the temptation of selling the other parts one by one, now that he wasgliding down a path of folly and extravagance. 

Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. "Is thissigned?" 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 ruinand 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, explainingthat Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances inquestion he had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that hecould to stifle scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. And as Constance had risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, andanxious that the three men might not find her there on their arrival, the accountant likewise quitted his chair, and accompanied her along thegallery 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 manhas made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass throughmy hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if Ihad entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should haveendeavored to requite your kindness by warning you. "

She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to getrid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun tofall violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds hadoverspread the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, thoughfour o'clock had scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that inpresence of such a deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. Soshe hastened her steps, still followed, however, by the accountant. 

"For instance, " he continued, "when it was a question of drawing up theagreement--"

But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stoppedher, 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 forlowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a ruleon certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. Whenthe appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there tosuperintend the operations. 

"Take care! take care!" Morange repeated, shuddering with terror. 

The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was nobarrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearfulplunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness hadbecome so complete in the gallery that they had walked on withoutseeing anything before them. Another step would have hurled them todestruction. It was little short of miraculous that the accountantshould have become anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in thatcorner, where he had divined rather than perceived the abyss. 

Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought tofree herself from his wild grasp. 

"But look!" he cried. 

And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. Itdescended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a wellof darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vagueoutlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern, a distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth andhorror of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching. 

And now Morange burst into a temper. "It is idiotic!" he exclaimed. "Whydon't they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a manexpressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post solong as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth canthe 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 thedarkness alone ascended as from the deep silence of the tomb. 

Thereupon Morange resorted to action. "I must go down; I must findBonnard. Can you picture us falling through that hole to the verybottom? No, no, this cannot be allowed. Either he must close this trapor return to his post. What can he be doing? Where can he be?"

Morange had already betaken himself to a little winding staircase, bywhich one reached every floor beside the lift, when in a voice whichgradually 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 aboveher continued, but a little livid light was appearing as a gust of windcarried off the clouds. And in that pale light Blaise suddenly appearedat the end of the gallery. He had just returned to the factory withDenis and Beauchene, and had left his companions together for a moment, in order to go to the workshops to procure some information theyrequired. Preoccupied, absorbed once more in his work, he came alongwith an easy step, his head somewhat bent. And when Constance saw himthus appear, all that she felt in her heart was the smart of rancor, arenewal of her anger at what she had learnt of that agreement which wasto be signed on the morrow and which would despoil her. That enemy whowas in her home and worked against her, a revolt of her whole beingurged her to exterminate him, and thrust him out like some usurper, allcraft and falsehood. 

He drew nearer. She was in the dense shadow near the wall, so that hecould not see her. But on her side, as he softly approached steeped ina grayish light, she could see him with singular distinctness. Neverbefore had she so plainly divined the power of his lofty brow, theintelligence of his eyes, the firm will of his mouth. And all at onceshe was struck with fulgural certainty; he was coming towards the cavitywithout seeing it and he would assuredly plunge into the depths unlessshe should stop him as he passed. But a little while before, she, likehimself, had come from yonder, and would have fallen unless a friendlyhand had restrained her; and the frightful shudder of that moment yetpalpitated in her veins; she could still and ever see the damp black pitwith the little lantern far below. The whole horror of it flashed beforeher 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; shewould 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 therebefore her? And yet from the recesses of her being a very clear andfrigid voice seemed to ascend, articulating brief words which rang inher ears as if repeated by a trumpet blast. If he should die it wouldbe all over, the factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterlylamented that she could devise no obstacle had merely to let thishelpful chance take its own course. And this, indeed, was what thevoice said, what it repeated with keen insistence, never adding anothersyllable. After that there would be nothing. After that there wouldmerely remain the shattered remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit ofdarkness splashed with blood, in which she discerned, foresaw nothingmore. What would happen on the morrow? She did not wish to know; indeedthere would be no morrow. It was solely the brutal immediate fact whichthe imperious voice demanded. He dead, it would be all over, he wouldnever 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 wasstill resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she feltthat she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment camefor the decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, becamematerialized within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger. She hungered for that finish, hungered to the point of suffering, seizedby one of those sudden desperate longings which beget crime; such aswhen 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 herselfmust lose her life. A consuming passion, a mad desire for that man'sannihilation filled her as she saw him approach. She could now see himstill more plainly and the sight of him exasperated her. His forehead, his eyes, his lips tortured her like some hateful spectacle. Anotherstep, yet one more, then another, and he would be before her. Yes, yetanother step, and she was already stretching out her hand in readinessto stop him as soon as he should brush past. 

He came along. What was it that happened? O God! When he was there, soabsorbed in his thoughts that he brushed against her without feelingher, she turned to stone. Her hand became icy cold, she could not liftit, it hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever agreat cold shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, whileshe was deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of herbeing. All demur was swept away; the craving for that death remainedintense, invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the innervoice which robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be deadand he would never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff andbreathless against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear hislight breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of hisneck. He had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she hadraised a call she might still have changed the course of destiny even atthat last moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but shewas clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, took yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently overthat friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as hewas in thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was aloud, terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crashdown below in the depths of the black darkness. 

Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, stilllistening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss. She could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewedrage. And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-enteredher drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had shedesired that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do withit. Most certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If ithad been possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apartfrom her, for assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassuredher. Yes, indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her pastlife spread out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Neverhad she sinned, never until that day had any consciousness of guiltweighed upon her conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she hadremained upright amidst all the excesses of her husband. An impassionedmother, she had been ascending her calvary ever since her son's death. And this recollection of Maurice alone drew her for a moment from hercallousness, choked her with a rising sob, as if in that direction layher madness, the vainly sought explanation of the crime. Vertigo againfell upon her, the thought of her dead son and of the other being masterin his place, all her perverted passion for that only son of hers, thedespoiled prince, all her poisoned, fermenting rage which had unhingedand maddened her, even to the point of murder. Had that monstrousvegetation growing within her reached her brain then? A rush of bloodsuffices at times to bedim a conscience. But she obstinately clungto the view that she had been absent; she forced back her tears andremained frigid. No remorse came to her. It was done, and 'twas goodthat it should be done. It was necessary. She had not pushed him, hehimself had fallen. Had she not been there he would have fallen just thesame. And so since she had not been there, since both her brain andher heart had been absent, it did not concern her. And ever and everresounded the words which absolved her and chanted her victory; he wasdead, and would never possess the works. 

Erect in the middle of the drawing-room, Constance listened, strainingher ears. Why was it that she heard nothing? How long they were ingoing down to pick him up! Anxiously waiting for the tumult which sheexpected, the clamor of horror which would assuredly rise from theworks, the heavy footsteps, the loud calls, she held her breath, quivering at the slightest, faintest sound. Several minutes stillelapsed, and the cosey quietude of her drawing-room pleased her. Thatroom was like an asylum of bourgeois rectitude, luxurious dignity, inwhich she felt protected, saved. Some little objects on which her eyeslighted, a pocket scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife ofburnished silver left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, almost surprised at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some newand particular meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived thather hands were icy cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing towarm them a little. Why was it, too, that she now felt so tired? Itseemed to her as if she had just returned from some long walk, fromsome accident, from some affray in which she had been bruised. She feltwithin her also a tendency to somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, asif she had feasted too copiously off some spicy dish, after too greata hunger. Amid the fatigue which benumbed her limbs she desirednothing more; apart from her sleepiness all that she felt was a kind ofastonishment that things should be as they were. However, she had againbegun to listen, repeating that if that frightful silence continued, she would certainly sink upon a chair, close her eyes, and sleep. Andat last it seemed to her that she detected a faint sound, scarcely abreath, far away. 

What was it? No, there was nothing yet. Perhaps she had dreamt thathorrible scene, perhaps it had all been a nightmare; that man marchingon, that black pit, that loud cry of terror! Since she heard nothing, perhaps nothing had really happened. Were it true a clamor would haveascended from below in a growing wave of sound, and a distracted rushup the staircase and along the passages would have brought her the news. Then again she detected the faint distant sound, which seemed to drawa little nearer. It was not the tramping of a crowd; it seemed to be amere footfall, perhaps that of some pedestrian on the quay. Yet no; itcame from the works, and now it was quite distinct; it ascended stepsand then sped along a passage. And the steps became quicker, and apanting could be heard, so tragical that she at last divined that thehorror was at hand. All at once the door was violently flung open. Morange entered. He was alone, beside himself, with livid face andscarce 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 askher for an explanation, for he had quite lost his poor head over thatunaccountable catastrophe. And the apparent ignorance and tranquillityin 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 beggedyou to wait for me and keep a watch on the hole, so that nobody mightfall through it. "

"Oh! dear no. You said nothing to me, or, at all events, I heardnothing, understood nothing of that kind. "

In his terror he peered into her eyes. Assuredly she was lying. Calm asshe might appear, he could detect her voice trembling. Besides, it wasevident she must still have been there, since he had not even had timeto get below before it happened. And all at once he recalled theirconversation, the questions she had asked him and her cry of hatredagainst the unfortunate young fellow who had now been picked up, coveredwith blood, in the depths of that abyss. Beneath the gust of horrorwhich 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 itwas in a halting voice that she exclaimed: "Good Lord! good Lord, what afrightful misfortune. "

But at that moment an uproar arose through the house. The drawing-roomdoor had remained open, and the voices and footsteps of a number ofpeople drew nearer, became each moment more distinct. Orders were beinggiven on the stairs, men were straining and drawing breath, there wereall the signs of the approach of some cumbrous burden, carried as gentlyas possible. 

"What! is he being brought up here to me?" exclaimed Constance turningpale, and her involuntary cry would have sufficed to enlighten theaccountant had he needed it. "He is being brought to me here!"

It was not Morange who answered; he was stupefied by the blow. ButBeauchene abruptly appeared preceding the body, and he likewise waslivid and beside himself, to such a degree did this sudden visit ofdeath thrill him with fear, in his need of happy life. 

"Morange will have told you of the frightful catastrophe, my dear, " saidhe. "Fortunately Denis was there, for the question of responsibilitytowards his family. And it was Denis, too, who, just as we were aboutto 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 herin this dying state. And so the only course was to bring him here, wasit not?"

Then he quitted his wife with a gesture of bewilderment, and returnedto 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 ona stretcher provided with a mattress. Denis, as pale as linen, followed, supporting the pillow on which rested his brother's head. A littlestreamlet of blood coursed over the dying man's brow, his eyes wereclosed. And four factory hands held the shafts of the stretcher. Theirheavy shoes crushed down the carpet, and fragile articles of furniturewere thrust aside anyhow to open a passage for this invasion of horrorand of fright. 

Amid his bewilderment, an idea occurred to Beauchene, who continued todirect the operation. 

"No, no, don't leave him there. There is a bed in the next room. We willtake him up very gently with the mattress, and lay him with it on thebed. "

It was Maurice's room; it was the bed in which Maurice had died, andwhich Constance with maternal piety had kept unchanged, consecrating theroom to her son's memory. But what could she say? How could she preventBlaise from dying there in his turn, killed by her?

The abomination of it all, the vengeance of destiny which exacted thissacrilege, filled her with such a feeling of revolt that at the momentwhen vertigo was about to seize her and the flooring began to flee frombeneath her feet, she was lashed by it and kept erect. And then shedisplayed extraordinary strength, will, and insolent courage. When thestricken man passed before her, her puny little frame stiffened andgrew. She looked at him, and her yellow face remained motionless, savefor a flutter of her eyelids and an involuntary nervous twinge on theleft 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 sayingwhat was necessary without lavishness, but like one simply thunderstruckby the suddenness of the catastrophe. 

However, the orders had been carried out in the bedroom, and the bearerswithdrew greatly upset. Down below, directly the accident had beendiscovered, 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 theway. 

"All the same, I prefer to have him here rather than in the basement, "Beauchene repeated mechanically as he stood before the bed. "He stillbreathes. There! see, it is quite apparent. Who knows? Perhaps Boutanmay be able to pull him through, after all. "

Denis, however, entertained no illusions. He had taken one of hisbrother's cold yielding hands in his own and he could feel that it wasagain becoming a mere thing, as if broken, wrenched away from lifein that great fall. For a moment he remained motionless beside thedeath-bed, with the mad hope they he might, perhaps, by his clasp infusea 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 brotherhooddrunk life from the same source? It was the other half of himself thatwas about to die. Down below, after raising a loud cry of heartrendingdistress, he had said nothing. Now all at once he spoke. 

"One must go to Ambroise's to warn my mother and father. Since he stillbreathes, 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 tomamma. And nothing must be done as yet with regard to Charlotte. We willsee about that by and by, when I come back. I only hope that death willhave a little patience, so that I may find my poor brother still alive. "

He leant forward and kissed Blaise, who with his eyes closed remainedmotionless, still breathing faintly. Then distractedly Denis printedanother kiss upon his hand and hurried off. 

Constance meantime was busying herself, calling the maid, and requestingher to bring some warm water in order that they might wash thesufferer's blood-stained brow. It was impossible to think of taking offhis jacket; they had to content themselves with doing the little theycould to improve his appearance pending the arrival of the doctor. Andduring these preparations, Beauchene, haunted, worried by the accident, again began to speak of it. 

"It is incomprehensible. One can hardly believe such a stupid mischanceto 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 afury when he finds that nobody answers him. Then Morange arrives, fliesinto a temper, and goes down in his turn, exasperated at receiving noanswer to his calls for Bonnard. Poor Bonnard! he's sobbing; he wantedto 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 upabove near the trap. "

She was standing in front of her husband, in the full light whichcame through the window. And again did her eyelids beat while a littlenervous twinge slightly twisted her mouth on the left side. That wasall. 

"I? Why I had gone down the passage. I came back here at once, asMorange knows very well. "

A moment previously, Morange, annihilated, his legs failing him, hadsunk upon a chair. Incapable of rendering any help, he sat there silent, awaiting the end. When he heard Constance lie in that quiet fashion, helooked at her. The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it. And atthat 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 towardsthe accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyesupon him. "Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, yousaid 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 cowardiceof heart returned. Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime? Hepictured the consequences. And then, too, he no longer knew if he wereright or not; his poor maniacal mind was lost. 

"It is possible, " he stammered, "I may simply have thought I spoke. Andit must be so since it can't be otherwise. "

Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude. Thecomplicity demanded was accepted. For a moment he thought of rising tosee if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare. Deep peacefulnessfell upon the room. 

Ah! how great was the anguish, the torture in the cab, when Blaisebrought Mathieu and Marianne back with him. He had at first spoken tothem simply of an accident, a rather serious fall. But as the vehiclerolled along he had lost his self-possession, weeping and confessing thetruth in response to their despairing questions. Thus, when they at lastreached the factory, they doubted no longer, their child was dead. Workhad just been stopped, and they recalled their visit to the place on themorrow 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 waslike the very breath of the place. He who had watched over its work wasdead, and it was dead like him. Then their affright increased when theypassed from the factory to the house amid that absolute solitude, thegallery steeped in slumber, the staircase quivering, all the doorsupstairs open, as in some uninhabited place long since deserted. In theante-room they found no servant. And it was indeed in the same tragedyof sudden death that they again participated, only this time it wastheir 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 wasdying away. And when he saw Mathieu and Marianne, who had instinctivelycrossed the disorderly drawing-room, rushing into that bedchamber whoseodor of nihility they recognized, he could but murmur in a voice full ofsobs:

"My poor friends, embrace him; you will yet have a little of his lastbreath. "

That breath had scarce ceased, and the unhappy mother, the unhappyfather, had already sprung forward, kissing those lips that exhaled thefinal quiver of life, and sobbing and crying their distress aloud. TheirBlaise was dead. Like Rose, he had died suddenly, a year later, on aday of festivity. Their heart wound, scarce closed as yet, opened afreshwith a tragic rending. Amid their long felicity this was the second timethat they were thus terribly recalled to human wretchedness; this wasthe second hatchet stroke which fell on the flourishing, healthy, happyfamily. And their fright increased. Had they not yet finished payingtheir accumulated debt to misfortune? Was slow destruction now arrivingwith blow following blow? Already since Rose had quitted them, herbier strewn with flowers, they had feared to see their prosperity andfruitfulness checked and interrupted now that there was an open breach. And to-day, through that bloody breach, their Blaise departed in themost frightful of fashions, crushed as it were by the jealous anger ofdestiny. And now what other of their children would be torn away fromthem on the morrow to pay in turn the ransom of their happiness?

Mathieu and Marianne long remained sobbing on their knees beside thebed. Constance stood a few paces away, silent, with an air of quiveringdesolation. Beauchene, as if to combat that fear of death which madehim shiver, had a moment previously seated himself at the littlewriting-table formerly used by Maurice, which had been left in thedrawing-room like a souvenir. And he then strove to draw up a noticeto his workpeople, to inform them that the factory would remain closeduntil the day after the funeral. He was vainly seeking words when heperceived Denis coming out of the bedroom, where he had wept all histears and set his whole heart in the last kiss which he had bestowed onhis departed brother. Beauchene called him, as if desirous of divertinghim 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 hadpronounced when making Blaise seat himself at that same table ofMaurice'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 adjoiningroom. And she recoiled with fright on seeing Denis seated there andwriting. Had not Blaise resuscitated? Even as she had mistaken the twinsone for the other that very afternoon on rising from the gay baptismallunch, so now again she saw Blaise in Denis, the pair of them so similarphysically that in former times their parents had only been able todistinguish them by the different color of their eyes. And thus it wasas if Blaise returned and resumed his place; Blaise, who would possessthe works although she had killed him. She had made a mistake; deadas he was, he would nevertheless have the works. She had killed one ofthose Froments, but behold another was born. When one died his brotherfilled up the breach. And her crime then appeared to her such a uselessone, such a stupid one, that she was aghast at it, the hair on the napeof her neck standing up, while she burst into a cold sweat of fear, andrecoiled as from a spectre. 

"It is a notice for the workpeople, " Beauchene repeated. "We will haveit 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 asthis?"

She had said "Blaise"; and once more an icy sensation of horror cameover her. Unconsciously she had heard herself saying yonder, in theante-room: "Blaise, where did I put my boa?" And it was Denis who hadbrought it to her. Of what use had it been for her to kill Blaise, sinceDenis was there? When death mows down a soldier of life, another isalways ready to take the vacant post of combat. 

But a last defeat awaited her. Mathieu and Marianne reappeared, whileMorange, seized with a need of motion, came and went with an air ofstupefaction, quite losing his wits amid his dreadful sufferings, thoseawful things which could but unhinge his narrow mind. 

"I am going down, " stammered Marianne, trying to wipe away her tears andto remain erect. "I wish to see Charlotte, and prepare and tell her ofthe misfortune. I alone can find the words to say, so that she may notdie of the shock, circumstanced as she is. "

But Mathieu, full of anxiety, sought to detain his wife, and spare herthis fresh trial. "No, I beg you, " he said; "Denis will go, or I will gomyself. "

With gentle obstinacy, however, she still went towards the stairs. "Iam the only one who can tell her of it, I assure you--I shall havestrength--"

But all at once she staggered and fainted. It became necessary to layher on a sofa in the drawing-room. And when she recovered consciousness, her face remained quite white and distorted, and an attack of nauseacame upon her. Then, as Constance, with an air of anxious solicitude, rang for her maid and sent for her little medicine-chest, Mathieuconfessed the truth, which hitherto had been kept secret; Marianne, likeCharlotte, was _enceinte_. It confused her a little, he said, since shewas now three-and-forty years old; and so they had not mentionedit. "Ah! poor brave wife!" he added. "She wished to spare ourdaughter-in-law too great a shock; I trust that she herself will not bestruck down by it. "

_Enceinte_, good heavens! As Constance heard this, it seemed as if abludgeon were falling on her to make her defeat complete. And so, evenif she should now let Denis, in his turn, kill himself, another Fromentwas coming who would replace him. There was ever another and another ofthat race--a swarming of strength, an endless fountain of life, againstwhich it became impossible to battle. Amid her stupefaction atfinding the breach repaired when scarce opened, Constance realized herpowerlessness and nothingness, childless as she was fated to remain. Andshe 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 hadtaken Blaise's place at the factory, was married to Marthe Desvignes. And after all the grievous mourning this was the first smile, the brightwarm sun of springtime, so to say, following severe winter. Mathieu andMarianne, hitherto grief-stricken and clad in black, displayed a gayetytinged with soft emotion in presence of the sempiternal renewal of life. The mother had been willing to don less gloomy a gown, and the fatherhad agreed to defer no longer a marriage that had long since beenresolved upon, and was necessitated by all sorts of considerations. Formore than two years now Rose had been sleeping in the little cemetery ofJanville, and for more than a year Blaise had joined her there, beneathflowers 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 themselveshad decided with their parents that the hour for the espousals hadstruck, and that regret for their loss ought no longer to bar the joy ofgrowth and increase. 

Denis's installation at the Beauchene works in his brother's place hadcome about quite naturally. If he had not gone thither on leaving thescience school where he had spent three years, it was simply becausethe position was at that time already held by Blaise. All his technicalstudies marked him out for the post. In a single day he had fittedhimself for it, and he simply had to take up his quarters in the littlepavilion, Charlotte having fled to Chantebled with her little Berthedirectly after the horrible catastrophe. It should be added that Denis'entry into the establishment offered a convenient solution withregard to the large sum of money lent to Beauchene, which, it had beenarranged, should be reimbursed by a sixth share in the factory. Thatmoney came from the family, and one brother simply took the place of theother, signing the agreement which the deceased would have signed. Witha delicate rectitude, however, Denis insisted that out of his share ofthe profits an annuity should be assigned to Charlotte, his brother'swidow. 

Thus matters were settled in a week, in the manner that circumstanceslogically demanded, and without possibility of discussion. Constance, bewildered and overwhelmed, was not even able to struggle. Her husbandreduced her to silence by repeating: "What would you have me do? I musthave somebody to help me, and it is just as well to take Denis as astranger. Besides, if he worries me I will buy him out within a year andgive him his dismissal!"

At this Constance remained silent to avoid casting his ignominy in hisface, amid her despair at feeling the walls of the house crumble andfall, bit by bit, upon her. 

Once installed at the works, Denis considered that the time had come tocarry out the matrimonial plans which he had long since arranged withMarthe Desvignes. The latter, Charlotte's younger sister and at onetime the inseparable friend of Rose, had been waiting for him for nearlythree years now, with her bright smile and air of affectionate goodsense. They had known one another since childhood, and had exchangedmany a vow along the lonely paths of Janville. But they had said to oneanother that they would do nothing prematurely, that for the happinessof a whole lifetime one might well wait until one was old enough andstrong enough to undertake family duties. Some people were greatlyastonished that a young man whose future was so promising, and whoseposition at twenty-six years of age was already a superb one, shouldthus obstinately espouse a penniless girl. Mathieu and Marianne smiled, however, and consented, knowing their son's good reasons. He had nodesire to marry a rich girl who would cost him more than she brought, and he was delighted at having discovered a pretty, healthy, andvery sensible and skilful young woman, who would be at all times hiscompanion, helpmate, and consoler. He feared no surprises with her, forhe had studied her; she united charm and good sense with kindliness, allthat was requisite for the happiness of a household. And he himself wasvery good-natured, prudent, and sensible, and she knew it and willinglytook his arm to tread life's path with him, certain as she felt thatthey would thus walk on together until life's end should be reached, ever advancing with the same tranquil step under the divine and limpidsun of reason merged in love. 

Great preparations were made at Chantebled on the day before thewedding. Nevertheless, the ceremony was to remain of an intimatecharacter, on account of the recent mourning. The only guests, apartfrom members of the family, were the Seguins and the Beauchenes, andeven the latter were cousins. So there would scarcely be more than ascore of them altogether, and only a lunch was to be given. One matterwhich 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 warmthat they resolved to place it out of doors under the trees. There wasa fitting and delightful spot in front of the old shooting-box, theprimitive pavilion, which had been their first residence on theirarrival in the Janville district. That pavilion was indeed like thefamily nest, the hearth whence it had radiated over the surroundingregion. As the pavilion had threatened ruin, Mathieu had repairedand enlarged it with the idea of retiring thither with Marianne, andCharlotte and her children, as soon as he should cede the farm to hisson Gervais, that being his intention. He was, indeed, pleased withthe idea of living in retirement like a patriarch, like a king whohad willingly abdicated, but whose wise counsel was still sought andaccepted. In place of the former wild garden a large lawn now stretchedbefore the pavilion, surrounded by some beautiful trees, elms andhornbeams. These Mathieu had planted, and he had watched them grow; thusthey seemed to him to be almost part of his flesh. But his real favoritewas an oak tree, nearly twenty years of age and already sturdy, whichstood 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 onthe day when they had founded their domain of Chantebled. And near thisoak, which thus belonged to their robust family, there was a basin ofliving water, fed by the captured springs of the plateau--water whosecrystalline 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 wouldbe 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 inwater colors a series of menu cards for the wedding feast. And, prettilyand lovingly enough, her idea had been to depict children's gamesand children's heads; indeed, all the members of the family in theirchildish days. She had taken their likenesses from old photographs, and her sketch of the oak tree was to serve as a background for theportraits of the two youngest scions of the house--little Benjamin andlittle Guillaume. 

Mathieu and Marianne were delighted with that fleet procession of littlefaces all white and pink which they perfectly recognized as they sawthem pass before their eyes. There were the twins nestling in theircradle, locked in one another's arms; there was Rose, the dear lostone, in her little shift; there were Ambroise and Gervais, bare, and wrestling on a patch of grass; there were Gregoire and Nicolasbirdnesting; there were Claire and the three other girls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, romping about the farm, quarrelling with thefowls, springing upon the horses' backs. But what particularly touchedMarianne was the sketch of her last-born, little Benjamin, now ninemonths old, whom Charlotte had depicted reclining under the oak tree inthe same little carriage as her own son Guillaume, who was virtually ofthe same age, having been born but eight days later. 

"The uncle and the nephew, " said Mathieu jestingly. "All the same, theuncle is the elder by a week. "

As Marianne stood there smiling, soft tears came into her eyes, and thesketch shook in her happy hands. 

"The dears!" said she; "my son and grandson. With those dear little onesI am once again a mother and a grandmother. Ah, yes! those two are thesupreme consolation; they have helped to heal the wound; it is they whohave brought us back hope and courage. "

This was true. How overwhelming had been the mourning and sadness of theearly days when Charlotte, fleeing the factory, had sought refuge at thefarm! The tragedy by which Blaise had been carried off had nearly killedher. Her first solace was to see that her daughter Berthe, who had beenrather sickly in Paris, regained bright rosy cheeks amid the open airof Chantebled. Moreover, she had settled her life: she would spend herremaining years, in that hospitable house, devoting herself to hertwo children, and happy in having so affectionate a grandmother andgrandfather to help and sustain her. She had always shown herself to besomewhat apart from life, possessed of a dreamy nature, only asking tolove and to be loved in return. 

So by degrees she settled down once more, installed beside hergrandparents in the old pavilion, which Mathieu fitted up for the threeof them. And wishing to occupy herself, irrespective of her income fromthe factory, she even set to work again and painted miniatures, whicha dealer in Paris readily purchased. But her grief was mostly healed byher little Guillaume, that child bequeathed to her by her dead husband, in whom he resuscitated. And it was much the same with Marianne sincethe birth of Benjamin. A new son had replaced the one she had lost, andhelped to fill the void in her heart. The two women, the two mothers, found infinite solace in nursing those babes. For them they forgotthemselves; they reared them together, watching them grow side by side;they gave them the breast at the same hours, and it was their desire tosee them both become very strong, very handsome, and very good. Althoughone mother was almost twice as old as the other, they became, as itwere, sisters. The same nourishing milk flowed from both their fruitfulbosoms. And gleams of light penetrated their mourning: they began tolaugh when they saw those little cherubs laugh, and nothing could havebeen gayer than the sight of that mother-in-law and that daughter-in-lawside by side, almost mingling, having but one cradle between them, amidan 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 andthe strongest of the family, with short, curly black hair, large brighteyes, and a full broad-featured face. He had remained his father'sfavorite son, the son of the fertile earth, the one in whom Mathieufostered a love for the estate, a passion for skilful agriculture, inorder that later on the young man might continue the good work which hadbeen begun. Mathieu already disburdened himself on Gervais of a partof his duties, and was only waiting to see him married to give him thecontrol of the whole farm. And he often thought of adjoining to himClaire when she found a husband in some worthy, sturdy fellow who wouldassume part of the labor. Two men agreeing well would be none too manyfor an enterprise which was increasing in importance every day. SinceMarianne had again been nursing, Claire had been attending to her work. Though she had no beauty, she was of vigorous health and quite strongfor her seventeen years. She busied herself more particularly withcookery and household affairs, but she also kept the accounts, beingshrewd-witted and very economically inclined, on which account theprodigals of the family often made fun of her. 

"And so it's here that the table is to be set, " said Gervais; "I shallhave to see that the lawn is mowed then. "

On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be attable and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having calledto Frederic to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing thearrangements. After Rose's death, Frederic, her betrothed, had continuedworking beside Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comradeand helper. For some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed thathe was revolving around Claire, as though, since he had lost the eldergirl, he were willing to content himself with the younger one, who wasfar less beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. This had at first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget theirdear daughter? Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought cameto them that the family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the youngfellow's heart would not roam in search of love elsewhere, but wouldremain with them. So closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, for in Frederic, when Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervaiswould find the brother-in-law and partner that he needed. 

The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasionburst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, andloose 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 nowhite roses, only red ones. "

Thirteen, eleven, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise, plump and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim andpretty, 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 timeand warm them with her hands. And the three of, them, after scouring theback garden, where flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up indespair at their vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was theend of everything! What could they offer to the bride? And what couldthey 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 mostturbulent, worrying member of the family, a lad inclined to the mostdiabolical devices. His pointed nose and his thin lips denoted alsohis adventurous spirit, his will power, and his skill in effecting hisobject. And, apparently much amused by his sisters' disappointment, heforgot himself and exclaimed, by way of teasing them: "Why, I know wherethere 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 arethree big bushes which are quite white, with roses as big as cabbages. "

Then he flushed and became confused, for his father was eyeing himseverely. 

"What! do you still prowl round the mill?" said Mathieu. "I hadforbidden you to do so. As you know that there are white roses in theenclosure you must have gone in, eh?"

"No; I looked over the wall. "

"You climbed up the wall, that's the finishing touch! So you wantto land me in trouble with those Lepailleurs, who are decidedly veryfoolish and very malicious people. There is really a devil in you, myboy. "

That which Gregoire left unsaid was that he repaired to the enclosurein order that he might there join Therese, the miller's fair-haireddaughter with the droll, laughing face, who was also a terriblyadventurous damsel for her thirteen years. True, their meetings were butchildish play, but at the end of the enclosure, under the apple trees, there was a delightful nook where one could laugh and chat and amuseoneself at one's ease. 

"Well, just listen to me, " Mathieu resumed. "I won't have you going toplay with Therese again. She is a pretty little girl, no doubt. Butthat house is not a place for you to go to. It seems that they fight oneanother 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 allhe could with that object, in view of resuming a life of idleness anddissipation. Lepailleur, greatly irritated at having been duped by hisson, had at first violently opposed his plans. But what could he do inthe country with that idle fellow, whom he himself had taught to hatethe earth and to sneer at the old rotting mill. Besides, he now hadhis wife against him. She was ever admiring her son's learning, and sostubborn was her faith in him that she was convinced that he would thistime secure a good position in the capital. Thus the father had beenobliged to give way, and Antonin was now finally wrecking his life whilefilling some petty employment at a merchant's in the Rue du Mail. But, on the other hand, the quarrelling increased in the home, particularlywhenever Lepailleur suspected his wife of robbing him in order to sendmoney to that big lazybones, their son. From the bridge over the Yeuseon certain days one could hear oaths and blows flying about. And hereagain was family life destroyed, strength wasted, and happiness spoilt. 

Carried off by perfect anger, Mathieu continued: "To think of it; peoplewho had everything needful to be happy! How can one be so stupid? Howcan one seek wretchedness for oneself with such obstinacy? As for thatidea of theirs of an only son, and their vanity in wanting to make agentleman of him, ah! well, they have succeeded finely! They must beextremely pleased to-day! It is just like Lepailleur's hatred of theearth, his old-fashioned system of cultivation, his obstinacy in leavinghis bit of moorland barren and refusing to sell it to me, no doubtby way of protesting against our success! Can you imagine anything sostupid? And it's just like his mill; all folly and idleness he standsstill, looking at it fall into ruins. He at least had a reason for thatin former times; he used to say that as the region had almost renouncedcorn-growing, the peasants did not bring him enough grain to set hismill-stones working. But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows onall sides, surely he ought to have pulled down his old wheel and havereplaced it by a good engine. Ah! if I were in his place I would alreadyhave a new and bigger mill there, making all use of the water of theYeuse, and connecting it with Janville railway station by a line ofrails, which would not cost so much to lay down. "

Gregoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall onanother than himself. And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters werestill greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying:"Well, for the table to-morrow morning you must gather those which arethe lightest in color--the pale pink ones; they will do very well. "

Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by addinggayly: "Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find. They willsymbolize the blood of life!"

Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all thepreparations, 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 hadremained indoors playing at "fathers and mothers" near the cradleoccupied by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies. But all at once the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment. AndNicolas and Berthe, quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch thetwo mothers. 

"Mamma!" called Nicolas, "Benjamin's asking for you. He's thirsty. "

"Mamma, mamma!" repeated Berthe, "Guillaume's thirsty. Come quick, he'sin a hurry. "

Marianne and Charlotte laughed. True enough, the morrow's wedding hadmade them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house. 

On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated inaffectionate intimacy. There were but one-and-twenty at table under theoak tree in the middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, seemed like a hall of verdure. The whole family was present: firstthose of the farm, then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wifeAndree, who had brought their little Leonce with them. And apart fromthe family proper, there were only the few invited relatives, Beaucheneand 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 onespresent: Leonce, who at fifteen months had just been weaned, andBenjamin and Guillaume, who still took the breast. Their littlecarriages had been drawn up near, so that they also belonged to theparty, which was thus a round two dozen. And the table, flowery withroses, sent forth a delightful perfume under the rain of summer sunbeamswhich flecked it with gold athwart the cool shady foliage. From onehorizon to the other stretched the wondrous tent of azure of thetriumphant July sky. And Marthe's white bridal gown, and the brightdresses of the girls, big and little; all those gay frocks, and all thatfine youthful health, seemed like the very florescence of that greennook of happiness. They lunched joyously, and ended by clinking glassesin country fashion, while wishing all sorts of prosperity to the bridalpair and to everybody present. 

Then, while the servants were removing the cloth, Seguin, who affectedan interest in horse-breeding and cattle-raising, wished Mathieu to showhim his stables. He had talked nothing but horseflesh during the meal, and was particularly desirous of seeing some big farm-horses, whosegreat strength had been praised by his host. He persuaded Beaucheneto join him in the inspection, and the three men were starting, whenConstance and Valentine, somewhat inquisitive with respect to that farm, the great growth of which still filled them with stupefaction, decidedto 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 reachthem one had to cross the great yard, whence the entire estate couldbe seen. And here there was a halt, a sudden stopping inspired byadmiration, so grandly did the work accomplished show forth under thesun. They had known that land dry and sterile, covered with merescrub; they beheld it now one sea of waving corn, of crops whose growthincreased at each successive season. Up yonder, on the old marshyplateau, the fertility was such, thanks to the humus amassed during longcenturies, 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 offruitfulness. And the very woods afar off, skilfully arranged, aired bybroad clearings, seemed to possess more sap, as if all the surroundinggrowth of life had instilled additional vigor into them. With thisvigor, this power, indeed, the whole domain was instinct; it wascreation, man's labor fertilizing sterile soil, and drawing from ita wealth of nourishment for expanding humanity, the conqueror of theworld. 

There was a long spell of silence. At last Seguin, in his dry shrillvoice, with a tinge of bitterness born of his own ruin, remarked: "Youhave done a good stroke of business. I should never have believed itpossible. "

Then they walked on again. But in the sheds, the cow-houses, thesheep-cotes, and all round, the sensation of strength and power yetincreased. Creation was there continuing; the cattle, the sheep, thefowls, the rabbits, all that dwelt and swarmed there were incessantlyincreasing and multiplying. Each year the ark became too small, andfresh pens and fresh buildings were required. Life increased life; onall sides there were fresh broods, fresh flocks, fresh herds; all theconquering wealth of inexhaustible fruitfulness. 

When they reached the stables Seguin greatly admired the big draughthorses, and praised them with the expressions of a connoisseur. Thenhe returned to the subject of breeding, and cited some extraordinaryresults that one of his friends obtained by certain crosses. So far asthe animal kingdom was concerned his ideas were sound enough, but whenhe came to the consideration of human kind he was as erratic as ever. Asthey walked back from the stables he began to descant on the populationquestion, denouncing the century, and repeating all his old theories. Perhaps it was jealous rancor that impelled him to protest against thevictory of life which the whole farm around him proclaimed so loudly. Depopulation! why, it did not extend fast enough. Paris, which wished todie, so people said, was really taking its time about it. All the same, he noticed some good symptoms, for bankruptcy was increasing on allsides--in science, politics, literature, and even art. Liberty wasalready dead. Democracy, by exasperating ambitious instincts and settingclasses in conflict for power, was rapidly leading to a social collapse. Only the poor still had large families; the elite, the people of wealthand intelligence, had fewer and fewer children, so that, before finalannihilation came, there might still be a last period of acceptablecivilization, in which there would remain only a few men and women ofsupreme refinement, content with perfumes for sustenance and mere breathfor enjoyment. He, however, was disgusted, for he now felt certain thathe would not see that period since it was so slow in coming. 

"If only Christianity would return to the primitive faith, " hecontinued, "and condemn woman as an impure, diabolical, and harmfulcreature, we might go and lead holy lives in the desert, and in that waybring the world to an end much sooner. But the political Catholicism ofnowadays, anxious to keep alive itself, allows and regulates marriage, with the view of maintaining things as they are. Oh! you will say, ofcourse, 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 saysthat a soldier's only wife ought to be his sword, and so he intendsto remain single; and as Lucie, on her side, has taken the veil at theUrsulines, 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 orless literary form of pessimism. In former days all such views, as, forinstance, the struggle of civilization against the birth-rate, and therelative childlessness of the most intelligent and able members of thecommunity, had disturbed him. But since he had fought the cause of lovehe had found another faith. Thus he contented himself with saying rathermaliciously: "But you forget your daughter Andree and her little boyLeonce. "

"Oh! Andree!" replied Seguin, waving his hand as if she did not belongto him. 

Valentine, however, had stopped short, gazing at him fixedly. Sincetheir household had been wrecked and they had been leading lives apart, she no longer tolerated his sudden attacks of insane brutality andjealousy. By reason also of the squandering of their fortune she had ahold on him, for he feared that she might ask for certain accounts to berendered her. 

"Yes, " he granted, "there is Andree; but then girls don't count. "

They were walking on again when Beauchene, who had hitherto contentedhimself with puffing and chewing his cigar, for reserve was imposed uponhim by the frightful drama of his own family life, was unable toremain silent any longer. Forgetful, relapsing into the extraordinaryunconsciousness which always set him erect, like a victorious superiorman, he spoke out loudly and boldly:

"I don't belong to Seguin's school, but, all the same, he says some truethings. That population question greatly interests me even now, andI can flatter myself that I know it fully. Well, it is evident thatMalthus was right. It is not allowable for people to have familieswithout knowing how they will be able to nourish them. If the poor dieof starvation it is their fault, and not ours. "

Then he reverted to his usual lecture on the subject. The governingclasses alone were reasonable in keeping to small families. A countrycould only produce a certain supply of food, and was thereforerestricted to a certain population. People talked of the faulty divisionof wealth; but it was madness to dream of an Utopia, where there wouldbe 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 availedthemselves of the circumstance that there was a surplus of children tohire labor at reduced rates. 

Then, losing all recollection of the past, infatuated, intoxicated withhis own ideas, he went on talking of himself. "People pretend that weare 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 theproceeds of our commerce and industry. A fine lot of good would it dothe country if we were to ruin ourselves with big families, which wouldhamper us, prevent us from getting rich, and afterwards destroy whateverwe create by subdividing it. With our laws and customs there can be nosubstantial fortune unless a family is limited to one son. And yes, thatis 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 thatfashion, that the others remained silent, full of embarrassment. Andhe, thinking that he was convincing them, went on triumphantly: "Thus, Imyself--"

But at this moment Constance interrupted him. She had hitherto walkedon with bowed head amid that flow of chatter which brought her so muchtorture and shame, an aggravation, as it were, of her defeat. But nowshe 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 feelingdisturbed, 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 arestill ideas. "

Silence fell between them. They were now near the lawn where the familyhad remained. And for the last moment Mathieu had been thinking ofMorange, whom he had also invited to the wedding, but who had excusedhimself from attending, as if he were terrified at the idea of gazingon the joy of others, and dreaded, too, lest some sacrilegious attemptshould be made in his absence on the mysterious sanctuary where heworshipped. Would he, Morange--so Mathieu wondered--have clung likeBeauchene to his former ideas? Would he still have defended the theoryof the only child; that hateful, calculating theory which had cost himboth his wife and his daughter? Mathieu could picture him flittingpast, pale and distracted, with the step of a maniac hastening to somemysterious end, in which insanity would doubtless have its place. Butthe lugubrious vision vanished, and then again before Mathieu's eyesthe lawn spread out under the joyous sun, offering between its belt offoliage such a picture of happy health and triumphant beauty, that hefelt impelled to break the mournful silence and exclaim:

"Look there! look there! Isn't that gay; isn't that a delightfulscene--all those dear women and dear children in that setting ofverdure? It ought to be painted to show people how healthy and beautifullife is!"

Time had not been lost on the lawn since the Beauchenes and Seguinshad gone off to visit the stables. First of all there had been adistribution of the menu cards, which Charlotte had adorned with suchdelicate water-color sketches. This surprise of hers had enrapturedthem all at lunch, and they still laughed at the sight of those prettychildren's heads. Then, while the servants cleared the table, Gregoireachieved a great success by offering the bride a bouquet of splendidwhite roses, which he drew out of a bush where he had hitherto kept ithidden. 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 havepillaged the bushes in the enclosure. Marianne, recognizing how seriouswas the transgression, wished to scold him. But what superb whiteroses they were, as big as cabbages, as he himself had said! And he wasentitled to triumph over them, for they were the only white roses there, and had been secured by himself, like the wandering urchin he was witha spice of knight-errantry in his composition, quite ready to jump overwalls and cajole damsels in order to deck a bride with snowy blooms. 

"Oh! papa won't say anything, " he declared, with no littleself-assurance; "they are far too beautiful. "

This made the others laugh; but fresh emotion ensued, for Benjamin andGuillaume awoke and screamed their hunger aloud. It was gayly remarked, however, that they were quite entitled to their turn of feasting. And asit was simply a family gathering there was no embarrassment on the partof the mothers. Marianne took Benjamin on her knees in the shade of theoak tree, and Charlotte placed herself with Guillaume on her right hand;while, on her left, Andree seated herself with little Leonce, who hadbeen weaned a week previously, but was still very fond of caresses. 

It was at this moment that the Beauchenes and the Seguins reappearedwith Mathieu, and stopped short, struck by the charm of the spectaclebefore them. Between a framework of tall trees, under the patriarchaloak, on the thick grass of the lawn the whole vigorous family wasgathered in a group, instinct with gayety, beauty, and strength. Gervaisand Claire, ever active, were, with Frederic, hurrying on the servants, who made no end of serving the coffee on the table which had just beencleared. For this table the three younger girls, half buried in a heapof flowers, tea and blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help ofknight Gregoire, devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, thebridal pair, Denis and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while thebride's mother, Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreetand infinitely gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midstof all this that Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, everbeautiful, with serene strength, was giving the breast to her twelfthchild, her Benjamin, and smiling at him as he sucked away; whilesurrendering her other knee to little Nicolas, who was jealous of hisyounger brother. And her two daughters-in-law seemed like a continuationof herself. There was Andree on the left with Ambroise, who had steppedup to tease his little Leonce; and Charlotte on the right with her twochildren, Guillaume, who hung on her breast, and Berthe, who hadsought a place among her skirts. And here, faith in life had yieldedprosperity, ever-increasing, overflowing wealth, all the sovereignflorescence of happy fruitfulness. 

Seguin, addressing himself to Marianne, asked her jestingly: "And sothat 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 fromintervening once more: "A full dozen, eh! It is madness!"

"I share your opinion, " said Mathieu, laughing in his turn. "At allevents, if it is not madness it is extravagance, as we admit, my wifeand I, when we are alone. And we certainly don't think that all peopleought to have such large families as ours. But, given the situation inFrance nowadays, with our population dwindling and that of nearly everyother country increasing, it is hardly possible to complain of even thelargest family. Thus, even if our example be exaggerated, it remains anexample, 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 hadreopened even amid all her joy at seeing her children assembled aroundher. "Yes, " said she in a trembling voice, "there have been twelve, butI have only ten left. Two are already sleeping yonder, waiting for usunderground. "

There was no sign of dread, however, in that evocation of the peacefullittle cemetery of Janville and the family grave in which all thechildren hoped some day to be laid, one after the other, side by side. Rather did that evocation, coming amid that gay wedding assembly, seemlike a promise of future blessed peace. The memory of the dear departedones remained alive, and lent to one and all a kind of loving gravityeven amid their mirth. Was it not impossible to accept life withoutaccepting death. Each came here to perform his task, and then, his workended, went to join his elders in that slumber of eternity where thegreat fraternity of humankind was fulfilled. 

But in presence of those jesters, Beauchene and Seguin, quite a floodof words rose to Mathieu's lips. He would have liked to answer them;he would have liked to triumph over the mendacious theories which theystill dared to assert even in their hour of defeat. To fear that theearth might become over-populated, that excess of life might producefamine, was this not idiotic? Others only had to do as he had done:create the necessary subsistence each time that a child was born tothem. And he would have pointed to Chantebled, his work, and to all thecorn growing up under the sun, even as his children grew. They could notbe charged with having come to consume the share of others, since eachwas born with his bread before him. And millions of new beings mightfollow, for the earth was vast: more than two-thirds of it stillremained to be placed under cultivation, and therein lay endlessfertility for unlimited humanity. Besides, had not every civilization, every progress, been due to the impulse of numbers? The improvidenceof the poor had alone urged revolutionary multitudes to the conquest oftruth, justice, and happiness. And with each succeeding day the humantorrent would require more kindliness, more equity, the logical divisionof wealth by just laws regulating universal labor. If it were true, too, that civilization was a check to excessive natality, this phenomenonitself 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 asort of divine immobility. But all this was pure speculation besidethe needs of the hour, the nations which must be built up afresh andincessantly enlarged, pending the eventual definitive federation ofmankind. And it was really an example, a brave and a necessary one, thatMarianne and he were giving, in order that manners and customs, and theidea 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 ofthat admirable scene; that mother surrounded by such a florescence ofvigorous children; that mother nursing yet another child, under the bigoak which she had planted. She was bravely accomplishing her task--thatof perpetuating the world. And hers was the sovereign beauty. 

Mathieu could think of only one thing that would express everything, andthat 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 theothers do as you have done. "

Then, when Marianne had gloriously returned his kiss, there arose anacclamation, a tempest of merry laughter. They were both of heroicmould; it was with a great dash of heroism that they had steered theirbark onward, thanks to their full faith in life, their will of action, and the force of their love. And Constance was at last conscious ofit: she could realize the conquering power of fruitfulness; she couldalready see the Froments masters of the factory through their son Denis;masters of Seguin's mansion through their son Ambroise; masters, too, ofall 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 someabominable revenge of destiny, she--who never wept!--turned aside tohide the big hot tears which now burnt her withered cheeks. 

Meantime Benjamin and Guillaume were enjoying themselves like greedylittle men whom nothing could disturb. Had there been less laughterone might have heard the trickling of their mothers' milk: that littlestream flowing forth amid the torrent of sap which upraised the earthand made the big trees quiver in the powerful July blaze. On every sidefruitful life was conveying germs, creating and nourishing. And for itseternal work an eternal river of milk flowed through the world. 

XIX

ONE Sunday morning Norine and Cecile--who, though it was rightly a dayof rest, were, nevertheless, working on either side of their littletable, pressed as they were to deliver boxes for the approaching NewYear season--received a visit which left them pale with stupor andfright. 

Their unknown hidden life had hitherto followed a peaceful course, theonly battle being to make both ends meet every week, and to put by therent money for payment every quarter. During the eight years that thesisters had been living together in the Rue de la Federation near theChamp de Mars, occupying the same big room with cheerful windows, a roomwhose coquettish cleanliness made them feel quite proud, Norine's childhad grown up steadily between his two affectionate mothers. For he hadended by confounding them together: there was Mamma Norine and therewas Mamma Cecile; and he did not exactly know whether one of the twowas more his mother than the other. It was for him alone that they bothlived and toiled, the one still a fine, good-looking woman at fortyyears of age, the other yet girlish at thirty. 

Now, at about ten o'clock that Sunday, there came in succession twoloud knocks at the door. When the latter was opened a short, thick-setfellow, about eighteen, stepped in. He was dark-haired, with a squareface, a hard prominent jaw, and eyes of a pale gray. And he wore aragged 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 hearthad contracted as if she were menaced. She had certainly seen that facesomewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, whichsuddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threateningto spoil her quiet life. 

"Yes, it is here, " she answered. 

Without any haste the young man glanced around the room. He must haveexpected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted slightly. Thenhis eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, had been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his faceto examine the newcomer. And the latter concluded his examination bydirecting a brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, sickly creature who likewise felt anxious in presence of that suddenapparition of the unknown. 

"I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor, " the young manresumed. "But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, forthe things I have to say can't be said to everybody. It isn't an easymatter, 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 theother woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his paleeyes steadily fixed on Norine. The growing anguish with which he sawher 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 isAlexandre-Honore. "

There was no need for him to say anything more. The unhappy Norine beganto tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung her hands, while anashen 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 consumedby base voracity, that she was now astonished that she had not been ableto name him at her first glance. Her legs failed her, and she had to sitdown. 

"So it's you, " said Alexandre. 

As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, butunable to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and frightclutch 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 tofear from me; it isn't my intention to give you any trouble. Only whenI learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that wasnatural, wasn't it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased tosee me.. .. Then, too, the truth is that I'm precious badly off. Threeyears ago I was silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do littlemore than starve. And on the days when one hasn't breakfasted, one feelsinclined to look up one's parents, even though they may have turned oneinto the street, for, all the same, they can hardly be so hard-heartedas to refuse one a plateful of soup. "

Tears rose to Norine's eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the returnof that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow whoaccused her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable toelicit from her any response but shivers and sobs, Alexandre turnedto Cecile: "You are her sister, I know, " said he; "tell her that it'sstupid of her to go on like that. I haven't come to murder her. It'sfunny how pleased she is to see me! Yet I don't make any noise, and Isaid nothing whatever to the door-porter downstairs, I assure you. "

Then as Cecile, without answering him, rose to go and comfort Norine, heagain became interested in the child, who likewise felt frightened andturned 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 betweenthe child and him. A mad fear had come to her of some catastrophe, somegreat collapse which would crush them all. Yet she did not wish to beharsh, 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? Afterso 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, " heanswered; "and my father, can't you tell me his name?"

She remained thunderstruck by this question and turned yet paler, whilehe continued: "Because if my father should have any money I should knowvery well how to make him give me some. People have no right to flingchildren 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 hisinfirmities, leaving his son Victor behind him. 

And a sort of instinctive prudence came to her at the thought that ifshe were to give up Beauchene's name she might compromise all her happylife, since terrible complications might ensue. The dread she felt ofthat suspicious-looking lad, who reeked of idleness and vice, inspiredher with an idea: "Your father? He has long been dead, " said she. 

He could have known nothing, have learnt nothing on that point, for, inpresence of the energy of her answer, he expressed no doubt whatever ofher veracity, but contented himself with making a rough gesture whichindicated 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--adesire that he might take himself away, and cease torturing her by hispresence, to such a degree did remorse, and pity, and fright, and horrornow wring her bleeding heart. She opened a drawer and took from it aten-franc piece, her savings for the last three months, with which shehad intended to buy a New Year's present for her little boy. And givingthose ten francs to Alexandre, she said: "Listen, I can do nothing foryou. We live all three in this one room, and we scarcely earn ourbread. It grieves me very much to know that you are so unfortunatelycircumstanced. But you mustn't rely on me. Do as we do--work. "

He pocketed the ten francs, and remained there for another momentswaying about, and saying that he had not come for money, and thathe could very well understand things. For his part he always behavedproperly with people when people behaved properly with him. And herepeated that since she showed herself good-natured he had no idea ofcreating any scandal. A mother who did what she could performed herduty, even though she might only give a ten-sous piece. Then, as he wasat last going off, he inquired: "Won't you kiss me?"

She kissed him, but with cold lips and lifeless heart, and the twosmacking 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 unableto keep together, each knows now that the other's in the land of theliving. And there is no reason why I shouldn't come up just now andagain to wish you good day when I'm passing. "

When he had at last disappeared long silence fell amid the infinitedistress which his short stay had brought there. Norine had again sunkupon a chair, as if overwhelmed by this catastrophe. Cecile had beenobliged to sit down in front of her, for she also was overcome. Andit was she who, amid the mournfulness of that room, which but a littlewhile ago had held all their happiness, spoke out the first to complainand 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 theinteresting things to learn. "

"Oh! what would you have!" replied Norine. "When he told me his name heknocked all the strength out of me; I felt as cold as ice! Oh! it'she, 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 alwaysbe living with that threat over our heads, in fear that everything willcrumble 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 eighteenfalling on one like that without a word of warning! And it's quite truethat I don't love him, since I don't even know him. When he kissed me Ifelt 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 herarms. "My poor little one! my poor little one! if only you don't sufferby it; if only my sin doesn't fall on you! Ah! that would be a terriblepunishment. Really the best course is for folks to behave properly inlife if they don't want to have a lot of trouble afterwards!"

In the evening the sisters, having grown somewhat calmer, decided thattheir best course would be to write to Mathieu. Norine remembered thathe had called on her a few years previously to ask if Alexandre had notbeen to see her. He alone knew all the particulars of the business, andwhere to obtain information. And, indeed, as soon as the sisters'letter reached him Mathieu made haste to call on them in the Rue dela Federation, for he was anxious with respect to the effect which anyscandal might have at the works, where Beauchene's position was becomingworse every day. After questioning Norine at length, he guessed thatAlexandre must have learnt her address through La Couteau, though hecould not say precisely how this had come about. At last, after a longmonth of discreet researches, conversations with Madame Menoux, Celeste, and La Couteau herself, he was able in some measure to explainthings. The alert had certainly come from the inquiry intrusted to thenurse-agent at Rougemont, that visit which she had made to the hamlet ofSaint-Pierre in quest of information respecting the lad who was supposedto be in apprenticeship with Montoir the wheelwright. She had talked toomuch, said too much, particularly to the other apprentice, that Richard, another foundling, and one of such bad instincts, too, that seven monthslater he had taken flight, like Alexandre, after purloining some moneyfrom his master. Then years elapsed, and all trace of them was lost. Butlater 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 fellowthe whole story how his relatives had caused a search to be made forhim, and perhaps, too, who his mother was, the whole interspersed withtittle-tattle and ridiculous inventions. Still this did not explaineverything, and to understand how Alexandre had procured his mother'sactual address, Mathieu had to presume that he had secured it from LaCouteau, whom Celeste had acquainted with so many things. Indeed, helearnt at Broquette's nurse-agency that a short, thickset young manwith pronounced jaw-bones had come there twice to speak to La Couteau. Nevertheless, many points remained unexplained; the whole affair hadtaken place amid the tragic, murky gloom of Parisian low life, whosemire it is not healthy to stir. Mathieu ended by resting content witha general notion of the business, for he himself felt frightened atthe charges already hanging over those two young bandits, who lived soprecariously, dragging their idleness and their vices over the pavementof the great city. And thus all his researches had resulted in but oneconsoling 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 fewparticulars 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 toodreadfully to see him. "

Mathieu, of course, could do nothing in this respect. After maturereflection he realized that the great object of his efforts must be toprevent Alexandre from discovering Beauchene. What he had learnt of theyoung man was so bad, so dreadful, that he wished to spare Constance thepain and scandal of being blackmailed. He could see her blanching at thethought of the ignominy of that lad whom she had so passionatelydesired to find, and he felt ashamed for her sake, and deemed it morecompassionate and even necessary to bury the secret in the silence ofthe grave. Still, it was only after a long fight with himself that hecame to this decision, for he felt that it was hard to have to abandonthe unhappy youth in the streets. Was it still possible to save him? Hedoubted it. And besides, who would undertake the task, who would knowhow 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 hecould think of no reasonable means of salvation. 

"My opinion, " he said to Norine, "is that you should keep his father'sname from him for the present. Later on we will see. But just now Ishould 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 outeverything would fall on my shoulders, and my great desire is to be leftin peace in my corner with my little one. "

With sorrowful mien Mathieu continued reflecting, unable to make up hismind to utterly abandon the young man. "If he would only work, I wouldfind him some employment. And I would even take him on at the farmlater, when I should no longer have cause to fear that he mightcontaminate my people. However, I will see what can be done; I know awheelwright who would doubtless employ him, and I will write to you inorder that you may tell him where to apply, when he comes back to seeyou. "

"What? When he comes back!" she cried in despair. "So you think that hewill come back. O God! O God! I shall never be happy again. "

He did, indeed, come back. But when she gave him the wheelwright'saddress he sneered and shrugged his shoulders. He knew all about theParis wheelwrights! A set of sweaters, a parcel of lazy rogues, who madepoor people toil and moil for them. Besides, he had never finished hisapprenticeship; he was only fit for running errands, in which capacityhe was willing to accept a post in a large shop. When Mathieu hadprocured him such a situation, he did not remain in it a fortnight. Onefine evening he disappeared with the parcels of goods which he had beentold to deliver. In turn he tried to learn a baker's calling, becamea mason's hodman, secured work at the markets, but without ever fixinghimself anywhere. He simply discouraged his protector, and left allsorts of roguery behind him for others to liquidate. It became necessaryto renounce the hope of saving him. When he turned up, as he didperiodically, emaciated, hungry, and in rags, they had to limitthemselves to providing him with the means to buy a jacket and somebread. 

Thus Norine lived on in a state of mortal disquietude. For long weeksAlexandre seemed to be dead, but she, nevertheless, started at theslightest sound that she heard on the landing. She always felt him tobe there, and whenever he suddenly rapped on the door she recognized hisheavy knock and began to tremble as if he had come to beat her. He hadnoticed how his presence reduced the unhappy woman to a state of abjectterror, and he profited by this to extract from her whatever littlesums she hid away. When she had handed him the five-franc piece whichMathieu, as a rule, left with her for this purpose, the young rascalwas not content, but began searching for more. At times he made hisappearance in a wild, haggard state, declaring that he should certainlybe sent to prison that evening if he did not secure ten francs, andtalking the while of smashing everything in the room or else of carryingoff the little clock in order to sell it. And it was then necessary forCecile to intervene and turn him out of the place; for, however punyshe might be, she had a brave heart. But if he went off it was only toreturn a few days later with fresh demands, threatening that he wouldshout his story to everybody on the stairs if the ten francs were notgiven to him. One day, when his mother had no money in the place andbegan to weep, he talked of ripping up the mattress, where, said he, sheprobably kept her hoard. Briefly, the sisters' little home was becominga perfect hell. 

The greatest misfortune of all, however, was that in the Rue de laFederation Alexandre made the acquaintance of Alfred, Norine's youngestbrother, the last born of the Moineaud family. He was then twenty, and thus two years the senior of his nephew. No worse prowler than heexisted. He was the genuine rough, with pale, beardless face, blinkingeyes, and twisted mouth, the real gutter-weed that sprouts up amid theParisian 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 aconstant watch over him, had never managed to make him attend schoolregularly, or to keep him in apprenticeship. He exasperated her to sucha degree that she herself ended by turning him into the streets in orderto secure a little peace and quietness at home. His big brothers kickedhim about, his father was at work from morning till evening, and thechild, thus morally a waif, grew up out of doors for a career of viceand crime among the swarms of lads and girls of his age, who all rottedthere together like apples fallen on the ground. And as Alfred grew hebecame yet more corrupt; he was like the sacrificed surplus of a poorman's family, the surplus poured into the gutter, the spoilt fruit whichspoils all that comes into contact with it. 

Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was noteven known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died ata hospital exhausted by her long life of wretchedness and family careswhich had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at thetime of her death, but was as bent and as worn out as a centenarian. Moineaud, two years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted byparalysis, a lamentable wreck after fifty years of unjust toil, had beenobliged to quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its fewpoor sticks had been cast to the four winds of heaven. 

Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he wasindebted to Denis's compassionate initiative. But he was sinking intosecond childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and notonly did he squander his few coppers in drink, but he could not be leftalone, for his feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degreethat he ran the risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he triedto light his pipe. At last he found himself stranded in the home of hisdaughters, Norine and Cecile, the only two who had heart enough to takehim in. They rented a little closet for him, on the fifth floor of thehouse, over their own room, and they nursed him and bought him food andclothes with his pension-money, to which they added a good deal of theirown. As they remarked in their gay, courageous way, they now had twochildren, a little one and a very old one, which was a heavy burdenfor two women who earned but five francs a day, although they were evermaking boxes from morn till night, There was a touch of soft irony inthe circumstance that old Moineaud should have been unable to find anyother refuge than the home of his daughter Norine--that daughter whom hehad formerly turned away and cursed for her misconduct, that hussy whohad dishonored him, but whose very hands he now kissed when, for fearlest he should set the tip of his nose ablaze, she helped him to lighthis pipe. 

All the same, the shaky old nest of the Moineauds was destroyed, and thewhole family had flown off, dispersed chancewise. Irma alone, thanksto her fine marriage with a clerk, lived happily, playing the part of alady, and so full of vanity that she no longer condescended to see herbrothers and sisters. Victor, meantime, was leading at the factory muchthe same life as his father had led, working at the same mill as theother, and in the same blind, stubborn way. He had married, and thoughhe was under six-and-thirty, he already had six children, three boys andthree girls, so that his wife seemed fated to much the same existenceas his mother La Moineaude. Both of them would finish broken down, andtheir children in their turn would unconsciously perpetuate the swarmingand 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 graduallybecome bedridden, quite unable to move, though she lived on and couldhear and see and understand things. From that open grave, her bed, shehad beheld the final break-up of what remained of her sorry home. Shewas nothing more than a thing, insulted by her husband and tortured byMadame Joseph, who would leave her for days together without water, andfling her occasional crusts much as they might be flung to a sick animalwhose litter is not even changed. Terror-stricken, and full of humilityamid her downfall, Euphrasie resigned herself to everything; but theworst was that her three children, her twin daughters and her son, beingabandoned to themselves, sank into vice, the all-corrupting life of thestreets. Benard, tired out, distracted by the wreck of his home, hadtaken to drinking with Madame Joseph; and afterwards they would fighttogether, break the furniture, and drive off the children, who came homemuddy, in rags, and with their pockets full of stolen things. On twooccasions Benard disappeared for a week at a time. On the third he didnot come back at all. When the rent fell due, Madame Joseph in her turntook herself off. And then came the end. Euphrasie had to be removedto the hospital of La Salpetriere, the last refuge of the aged and theinfirm; while the children, henceforth without a home in name, weredriven into the gutter. The boy never turned up again; it was as if hehad been swallowed by some sewer. One of the twin girls, found in thestreets, 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 thedingy garrets of haunts of vice, so that at sixteen she was already anexpert thief. Her fate was similar to Alfred's; here was a girl morallyabandoned, then contaminated by the life of the streets, and carried offto a criminal career. And, indeed, the uncle and the niece having metby chance, ended by consorting together, their favorite refuge, it wasthought, being the limekilns in the direction of Les Moulineaux. 

One day then it happened that Alexandre upon calling at Norine's thereencountered Alfred, who came at times to try to extract a half-francfrom old Moineaud, his father. The two young bandits went off together, chatted, and met again. And from that chance encounter there sprang aband. Alexandre was living with Richard, and Alfred brought Toinetteto them. Thus they were four in number, and the customary developmentsfollowed: begging at first, the girl putting out her hand at theinstigation of the three prowlers, who remained on the watch and drewalms by force at nighttime from belated bourgeois encountered in darkcorners; next came vulgar vice and its wonted attendant, blackmail;and then theft, petty larceny to begin with, the pilfering of thingsdisplayed 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 throughthe woods of the environs, pending the arrival of night, which handedParis over to their predatory designs. They found themselves at theCentral Markets, among the crowds on the boulevards, in the lowtaverns, along the deserted avenues--indeed, wherever they sniffed thepossibility of a stroke of luck, the chance of snatching the bread ofidleness, or the pleasures of vice. They were like a little clan ofsavages on the war-path athwart civilization, living outside the pale ofthe laws. They suggested young wild beasts beating the ancestral forest;they typified the human animal relapsing into barbarism, forsaken sincebirth, and evincing the ancient instincts of pillage and carnage. Andlike noxious weeds they grew up sturdily, becoming bolder and boldereach day, exacting a bigger and bigger ransom from the fools who toiledand moiled, ever extending their thefts and marching along the road tomurder. 

Never should it be forgotten that the child, born chancewise, and thencast upon the pavement, without supervision, without prop or help, rotsthere and becomes a terrible ferment of social decomposition. All thoselittle ones thrown to the gutter, like superfluous kittens are flunginto some sewer, all those forsaken ones, those wanderers of thepavement who beg, and thieve, and indulge in vice, form the dung-heap inwhich the worst crimes germinate. Childhood left to wretchedness breedsa fearful nucleus of infection in the tragic gloom of the depths ofParis. Those who are thus imprudently cast into the streets yield aharvest of brigandage--that frightful harvest of evil which makes allsociety totter. 

When Norine, through the boasting of Alexandre and Alfred, who tookpleasure 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 sheknew his name. Her torture had been lasting for nearly two years; shewas ever quivering with alarm at the thought of Alexandre rushing inupon her some dark night. He was twenty now; he spoke authoritatively, and threatened her with atrocious revenge whenever he had to retirewith empty hands. One day, in spite of Cecile, he threw himself uponthe wardrobe and carried off a bundle of linen, handkerchiefs, towels, napkins, and sheets, intending to sell them. And the sisters did notdare to pursue him down the stairs. Despairing, weeping, overwhelmed byit 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 ofcold and starvation, together with the dear child for whom they stilldid their best, had it not been for the help which their old friend, Madame Angelin, regularly brought them. She was still a lady-delegateof the Poor Relief Service, and continued to watch over the children ofunhappy mothers in that terrible district of Grenelle, whose poverty isso great. But for a long time past she had been unable to do anythingofficially for Norine. If she still brought her a twenty-franc pieceevery month, it was because charitable people intrusted her with fairlylarge amounts, knowing that she could distribute them to advantage inthe 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 oneslaughed at her joyously as soon as they saw her arrive with her handsfull of good things. 

One day when the weather was frightful, all rain and wind, MadameAngelin lingered for a little while in Norine's room. It was barely twoo'clock in the afternoon, and she was just beginning her round. On herlap lay her little bag, bulging out with the gold and the silver whichshe had to distribute. Old Moineaud was there, installed on a chairand smoking his pipe, in front of her. And she felt concerned abouthis needs, and explained that she would have greatly liked to obtain amonthly relief allowance for him. 

"But if you only knew, " she added, "what suffering there is among thepoor during these winter months. We are quite swamped, we cannot give toeverybody, there are too many. And after all you are among the fortunateones. 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. Andthe poor children, too, good Heavens! Children in heaps among vermin, without shoes, without clothes, all growing up as if destined for prisonor the scaffold, unless consumption should carry them off. "

Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escapethe spectacle of all the terrifying things that she evoked, thewretchedness, the shame, the crimes that she elbowed during hercontinual perambulations through that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger. She often returned home pale and silent, having reached the uttermostdepths of human abomination, and never daring to say all. At timesshe trembled and raised her eyes to Heaven, wondering what vengefulcataclysm would swallow up that accursed city of Paris. 

"Ah!" she murmured once more; "their sufferings are so great, may theirsins be forgiven them. "

Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable tounderstand. At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipefrom his mouth. It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do sucha thing, and yet for fifty years he had wrestled with iron--iron in thevice or on the anvil. 

"There is nothing like good conduct, " he stammered huskily. "When a manworks he's rewarded. "

Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but wasunable to do so. His hand, deformed by the constant use of tools, trembled too violently. So it became necessary for Norine to rise fromher chair and help him. 

"Poor father!" exclaimed Cecile, who had not ceased working, cutting outthe cardboard for the little boxes she made: "What would have becomeof him if we had not given him shelter? It isn't Irma, with her stylishhats and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at herplace. "

Meantime Norine's little boy had taken his stand in front of MadameAngelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good ladycalled, there was some dessert at supper in the evening. He smiled ather with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned withtumbled sunshiny hair. And when she noticed with what a merry glance hewas 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 thechildren in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy. When theyoungster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filledwith tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated: "No, no, you must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy thanyou. I know one who if this pretty little fellow could only be herown would willingly accept your poverty, and paste boxes together frommorning till night and lead a recluse's life in this one room, whichhe suffices to fill with sunshine. Ah! good Heavens, if you were onlywilling, 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. Sheand her husband were now growing old in bitter solitude in three littlerooms overlooking a courtyard in the Rue de Lille. In this retirementthey subsisted on the salary which she, the wife, received as alady-delegate, joined to what they had been able to save of theiroriginal fortune. The former fan-painter of triumphant mien was nowcompletely blind, a mere thing, a poor suffering thing, whom his wifeseated every morning in an armchair where she still found him in theevening when she returned home from her incessant peregrinations throughthe frightful misery of guilty mothers and martyred children. He couldno longer eat, he could no longer go to bed without her help, he hadonly her left him, he was her child as he would say at times with adespairing irony which made them both weep. 

A child? Ah, yes! she had ended by having one, and it was he! An oldchild, born of disaster; one who appeared to be eighty though he wasless than fifty years old, and who amid his black and ceaseless nightever dreamt of sunshine during the long hours which he was compelled tospend alone. And Madame Angelin did not only envy that poor workwomanher little boy, she also envied her that old man smoking his pipeyonder, that infirm relic of labor who at all events saw clearly andstill 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 sofull. "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 benefactresswas blended a sort of impassioned respect, which rendered her timid anddeferent each time that she saw her arrive, tall and distinguished, ever clad in black, and showing the remnants of her former beauty whichsorrow had wrecked already, though she was barely six-and-forty yearsof age. For Norine, the lady-delegate was like some queen who had fallenfrom her throne amid frightful and undeserved sufferings. 

"Run away, go and play, my darling, " Norine repeated to her boy: "youare 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 prettyfellow. "

Then she began to bestir and collect herself. 

"Well, it is getting late, and I have so many places to go to betweennow 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 verymoment a heavy blow, as if dealt by a fist, resounded on the door. AndNorine turned ghastly pale, for she had recognized Alexandre's brutalknock. What could she do? If she did not open the door, the bandit wouldgo on knocking, and raise a scandal. She was obliged to open it, butthings 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 againstthe wall. The lady-delegate had raised her eyes and then carried themelsewhere, 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 willtry to double the amount next month. It will be the rent month, and I'vealready applied for help on all sides, and people have promised togive me the utmost they can. But shall I ever have enough? So manyapplications are made to me. "

Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with hisglittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure ofthe poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the coppermoney that distended its sides. Still in silence, he watched MadameAngelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, andthen finally rose from her chair. 

"Well, au revoir, till next month then, " she resumed. "I shall certainlycall 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, forit happens to be my poor husband's name-day. And so be brave and workwell. "

Norine and Cecile had likewise risen, in order to escort her to thedoor. Here again there was an outpouring of gratitude, and the childonce more kissed the good lady on both cheeks with all his little heart. The sisters, so terrified by Alexandre's arrival, at last began tobreathe again. 

In point of fact the incident terminated fairly well, for the young manshowed himself accommodating. When Cecile returned from obtainingchange for the gold, he contented himself with taking one of the fourfive-franc pieces which she brought up with her. And he did not tarry totorture them as was his wont, but immediately went off with the money hehad 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 rapidlyalready 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 ofwaste ground, a building site, for long years enclosed by a fence, whichdampness had ended by rotting. Some of the boards were missing, and atone part there was quite a breach. All through that afternoon, in spiteof the constantly recurring downpours, a scraggy girl remained stationednear that breach, wrapped to her eyes in the ragged remnants of anold shawl, doubtless for protection against the cold. She seemed tobe waiting for some chance meeting, the advent it might be of somecharitably disposed wayfarer. And her impatience was manifest, forwhile keeping close to the fence like some animal lying in wait, shecontinually peered through the breach, thrusting out her taperingweasel's head and watching yonder, in the direction of the Champ deMars. 

Hours went by, three o'clock struck, and then such dark clouds rolledover the livid sky, that the girl herself became blurred, obscured, asif she were some mere piece of wreckage cast into the darkness. At timesshe raised her head and watched the sky darken, with eyes that glitteredas if to thank it for throwing so dense a gloom over that desertedcorner, that spot so fit for an ambuscade. And just as the rain had oncemore begun to fall, a lady could be seen approaching, a lady clad inblack, quite black, under an open umbrella. While seeking to avoid thepuddles in her path, she walked on quickly, like one in a hurry, whogoes about her business on foot in order to save herself the expense ofa cab. 

From some precise description which she had obtained, Toinette, thegirl, appeared to recognize this lady from afar off. She was indeed noneother than Madame Angelin, coming quickly from the Rue de Lille, on herway to the homes of her poor, with the little chain of her little bagencircling her wrist. And when the girl espied the gleaming steel ofthat little chain, she no longer had any doubts, but whistled softly. And forthwith cries and moans arose from a dim corner of the vacantground, 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'tany home, and he was using an old ladder to try to prevent the rain frompouring 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 tenminutes, but could see nobody to help them, which was not surprisingwith that terrible rain falling and the cold so bitter. And while shestammered all this, the calls for help and the cries of pain becamelouder in the depths of the waste ground. 

Though Madame Angelin was terribly upset, she nevertheless hesitated, asif distrustful. 

"You must run to get a doctor, my poor child, " said she, "I can donothing. "

"Oh! but you can, madame; come with me, I pray you. I don't know wherethere'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 theshed, so that the rain sha'n't pour down on him. "

This time the good woman consented, so truthful did the girl's accentsseem to be. Constant visits to the vilest dens, where crime sproutedfrom the dunghill of poverty, had made Madame Angelin brave. She wasobliged to close her umbrella when she glided through the breach in thefence in the wake of the girl, who, slim and supple like a cat, glidedon in front, bareheaded, in her ragged shawl. 

"Give me your hand, madame, " said she. "Take care, for there are sometrenches.... 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 andthrew themselves upon Madame Angelin with such hungry, wolfish violencethat she was thrown to the ground. Alfred, however, being a coward, thenleft her to the two others, and hastened with Toinette to the breach inorder to keep watch. Alexandre, who had a handkerchief rolled up, allready, thrust it into the poor lady's mouth to stifle her cries. Theirintention was to stun her only and then make off with her little bag. 

But the handkerchief must have slipped out, for she suddenly raised ashriek, a loud and terrible shriek. And at that moment the others nearthe breach gave the alarm whistle: some people were, doubtless, drawingnear. It was necessary to finish. Alexandre knotted the handkerchiefround the unhappy woman's neck, while Richard with his fist forced hershriek back into her throat. Red madness fell upon them, they both beganto twist and tighten the handkerchief, and dragged the poor creatureover the muddy ground until she stirred no more. Then, as the whistlesounded again, they took the bag, left the body there with thehandkerchief around the neck, and galloped, all four of them, as faras the Grenelle bridge, whence they flung the bag into the Seine, aftergreedily thrusting the coppers, and the white silver, and the yellowgold into their pockets. 

When Mathieu read the particulars of the crime in the newspapers, hewas seized with fright and hastened to the Rue de la Federation. Themurdered woman had been promptly identified, and the circumstance thatthe crime had been committed on that plot of vacant ground but a hundredyards or so from the house where Norine and Cecile lived upset him, filled him with a terrible presentiment. And he immediately realizedthat his fears were justified when he had to knock three times atNorine's door before Cecile, having recognized his voice, removed thearticles with which it had been barricaded, and admitted him inside. Norine was in bed, quite ill, and as white as her sheets. She began tosob and shuddered repeatedly as she told him the story: Madame Angelin'svisit the previous month, and the sudden arrival of Alexandre, who hadseen the bag and had heard the promise of further help, at a certainhour on a certain date. Besides, Norine could have no doubts, forthe handkerchief found round the victim's neck was one of hers whichAlexandre had stolen: a handkerchief embroidered with the initialletters of her Christian name, one of those cheap fancy things whichare sold by thousands at the big linendrapery establishments. Thathandkerchief, too, was the only clew to the murderers, and it was sucha 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. GoodGod! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in heryounger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming thewoods there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losingthemselves among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shadeof the pollard willows beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses soundedbeneath the branches like the twittering of song birds. And he couldpicture her at a later date, already too severely punished for her lackof foresight, in despair at remaining childless, and bowed down withgrief as by slow degrees her husband became blind, and night fell uponthe little happiness yet left to them. And all at once Mathieu alsopictured that wretched blind man, on the evening when he vainly awaitedthe return of his wife, in order that she might feed him and put him tobed, old child that he was, now motherless, forsaken, forever alone inhis dark night, in which he could only see the bloody spectre of hismurdered helpmate. Ah! to think of it, so bright a promise of radiantlife, 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 possiblewithin 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 themurderers of the lady with the little bag. For years, too, Norineshuddered every time that anybody knocked too roughly at her door. ButAlexandre did not reappear there. He doubtless feared that corner ofthe Rue de la Federation, and remained as it were submerged in the dimunsoundable depths of the ocean of Paris. 

XX

DURING the ten years which followed, the vigorous sprouting of theFroments, 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, andmore and more children, all the promised crop, all the promised swarmingof a race of conquerors. 

First it was Gervais who married Caroline Boucher, daughter of a bigfarmer of the region, a fair, fine-featured, gay, strong girl, one ofthose superior women born to rule over a little army of servants. Onleaving a Parisian boarding-school she had been sensible enough to feelno shame of her family's connection with the soil. Indeed she loved theearth and had set herself to win from it all the sterling happiness ofher life. By way of dowry she brought an expanse of meadow-land inthe direction of Lillebonne, which enlarged the estate by some seventyacres. But she more particularly brought her good humor, her health, hercourage in rising early, in watching over the farmyard, the dairy, thewhole home, like an energetic active housewife, who was ever bustlingabout, 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 softemotion, for the memory of her whom Berthaud had loved and whom he wasto have married disturbed several hearts on the wedding day when thefamily skirted the little cemetery of Janville as it returned to thefarm from the municipal offices. But, after all, did not that love offormer days, that faithful fellow's long affection, which in time hadbecome transferred to the younger sister, constitute as it were anotherlink in the ties which bound him to the Froments? He had no fortune, he brought with him only his constant faithfulness, and the fraternitywhich had sprung up between himself and Gervais during the many seasonswhen they had ploughed the estate like a span of tireless oxen drawingthe same plough. His heart was one that could never be doubted, he wasthe helper who had become indispensable, the husband whose advent wouldmean the best of all understandings and absolute certainty of happiness. 

From the day of that wedding the government of the farm was finallysettled. Though Mathieu was barely five-and-fifty he abdicated, andtransferred his authority to Gervais, that son of the earth as with alaugh 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 himthe support of his arm and his brain and his heart. And now Fredericin turn would think and strive as Gervais's devoted lieutenant, inthe great common task. Between them henceforth they would continue thefather's work, and perfect the system of culture, procuring appliancesof new design from the Beauchene works, now ruled by Denis, and everdrawing from the soil the largest crops that it could be induced toyield. Their wives had likewise divided their share of authority; Clairesurrendered the duties of supervision to Caroline, who was stronger andmore active than herself, and was content to attend to the accounts, theturnover of considerable sums of money, all that was paid away and allthat was received. The two couples seemed to have been expressly andcleverly selected to complete one another and to accomplish the greatestsum of work without ever the slightest fear of conflict. And, indeed, they lived in perfect union, with only one will among them, one purposewhich was ever more and more skilfully effected--the continual increaseof the happiness and wealth of Chantebled under the beneficent sun. 

At the same time, if Mathieu had renounced the actual exercise ofauthority, he none the less remained the creator, the oracle who wasconsulted, listened to, and obeyed. He dwelt with Marianne in theold shooting-box which had been transformed and enlarged into a verycomfortable house. Here they lived like the founders of a dynasty whohad retired in full glory, setting their only delight in beholdingaround them the development and expansion of their race, the birth andgrowth of their children's children. Leaving Claire and Gervais on oneside, there were as yet only Denis and Ambroise--the first to wing theirflight abroad--engaged in building up their fortunes in Paris. The threegirls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, who would soon be old enoughto marry, still dwelt in the happy home beside their parents, as wellas the three youngest boys, Gregoire, the free lance, Nicolas, the moststubborn and determined of the brood, and Benjamin, who was of a dreamynature. All these finished growing up at the edge of the nest, so tosay, with the window of life open before them, ready for the day whenthey likewise would take wing. 

With them dwelt Charlotte, Blaise's widow, and her two children, Bertheand Guillaume, the three of them occupying an upper floor of the housewhere the mother had installed her studio. She was becoming rich sinceher little share in the factory profits, stipulated by Denis, had beenincreasing year by year; but nevertheless, she continued working forher dealer in miniatures. This work brought her pocket-money, she gaylysaid, and would enable her to make her children a present whenever theymight marry. There was, indeed, already some thought of Berthemarrying; and assuredly she would be the first of Mathieu and Marianne'sgrandchildren to enter into the state of matrimony. They smiled softlyat 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 inconnection with the affair, which Mathieu and Marianne had for sometime been anticipating. Gregoire was anything but reasonable. Short, butrobust, with a pert face in which glittered the brightest of eyes, hehad always been the turbulent member of the family, the one who causedthe most anxiety. His childhood had been spent in playing truant inthe woods of Janville, and he had afterwards made a mere pretence ofstudying in Paris, returning home full of health and spirits, but unableor unwilling to make up his mind with respect to any particular tradeor profession. Already four-and-twenty, he knew little more than howto shoot and fish, and trot about the country on horseback. He wascertainly not more stupid or less active than another, but he seemedbent on living and amusing himself according to his fancy. The worst wasthat for some months past all the gossips of Janville had beenrelating that he had renewed his former boyish friendship with ThereseLepailleur, the miller's daughter, and that they were to be met of anevening in shady nooks under the pollard-willows by the Yeuse. 

One morning Mathieu, wishing to ascertain if the young coveys ofpartridges were plentiful in the direction of Mareuil, took Gregoirewith him; and when they found themselves alone among the plantations ofthe plateau, he began to talk to him seriously. 

"You know I'm not pleased with you, my lad, " said he. "I really cannotunderstand the idle life which you lead here, while all the rest of usare hard at work. I shall wait till October since you have positivelypromised me that you will then come to a decision and choose the callingwhich you most fancy. But what is all this tittle-tattle which I hearabout 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 becausehe happens to be on friendly terms with a pretty girl! Why, as you mayremember, it was I who gave her her first bicycle lesson nearly tenyears ago. And you will recollect the fine white roses which she helpedme to secure in the enclosure by the mill for Denis' wedding. "

Gregoire still laughed at the memory of that incident, and lived afreshthrough all his old time sweethearting--the escapades with Therese alongthe river banks, and the banquets of blackberries in undiscoverablehiding-places, deep in the woods. And it seemed, too, that the loveof childhood had revived, and was now bursting into consuming fire, sovividly did his cheeks glow, and so hotly did his eyes blaze as he thusrecalled those distant times. 

"Poor Therese! We had been at daggers drawn for years, and all becauseone evening, on coming back from the fair at Vieux-Bourg, I pushed herinto a pool of water where she dirtied her frock. It's true that lastspring we made it up again on finding ourselves face to face in thelittle wood at Monval over yonder. But come, father, do you mean tosay that it's a crime if we take a little pleasure in speaking to oneanother when we meet?"

Rendered the more anxious by the fire with which Gregoire sought todefend 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 armsround each other's waist, and that you go stargazing through the grassalongside 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 gendarmebehind my sons. But I won't have you drawing some unpleasant businesswith the Lepailleurs on us all. You know the position, they wouldbe delighted to give us trouble. So don't give them occasion forcomplaining, leave their daughter alone. "

"Oh! I take plenty of care, " cried the young man, thus suddenlyconfessing the truth. "Poor girl! She has already had her ears boxedbecause somebody told her father that I had been met with her. Heanswered that rather than give her to me he would throw her into theriver. "

"Ah! you see, " concluded Mathieu. "It is understood, is it not? I shallrely on your good behavior. "

Thereupon they went their way, scouring the fields as far as the road toMareuil. Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started upboth to the right and to the left. The shooting would be good. Then asthe father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a longspell 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 youfrom marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you totake an heiress. Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl. And itwas the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, inmarriage to Frederic, who was simply one of our farm hands. So I don'tlook down on Therese. On the contrary, I think her charming. She's oneof the prettiest girls of the district--not tall, certainly, but soalert and determined, with her little pink face shining under such awild crop of fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all theflour in the mill. "

"Yes, isn't that so, father?" interrupted Gregoire enthusiastically. "And if you only knew how affectionate and courageous she is! She'sworth a man any day. It's wrong of them to smack her, for she will neverput up with it. Whenever she sets her mind on anything she's bound to doit, 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 itwere not for Lepailleur's stupid obstinacy he would be drawing a fortunefrom that mill nowadays. Since corn-growing has again been taken up allover the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pileof crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism of hiswheel which he leaves rotting under the moss. And better still, I shouldlike to see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway lineconnecting the mill with Janville station. "

In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Gregoirelistened, again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way. 

"Well, father, " the young man ended by saying, "as you wish that Ishould have a calling, it's settled. If I marry Therese, I'll be amiller. "

Mathieu protested in surprise: "No, no, I was merely talking. Andbesides, you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable. Soonce 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 theLepailleurs. "

The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm. That evening, however, the father told the mother of the young man's confession, andshe, who already entertained various misgivings, felt more anxious thanever. Still a month went by without anything serious happening. 

Then, one morning Marianne was astounded at finding Gregoire's bedroomempty. As a rule he came to kiss her. Perhaps he had risen early, andhad gone on some excursion in the environs. But she trembled slightlywhen she remembered how lovingly he had twice caught her in his arms onthe previous night when they were all retiring to bed. And as she lookedinquisitively round the room she noticed on the mantelshelf a letteraddressed to her--a prettily worded letter in which the young fellowbegged her to forgive him for causing her grief, and asked her to excusehim with his father, for it was necessary that he should leave themfor a time. Of his reasons for doing so and his purpose, however, noparticulars were given. 

This family rending, this bad conduct on the part of the son who hadbeen the most spoilt of all, and who, in a fit of sudden folly was thefirst to break the ties which united the household together, was a verypainful blow for Marianne and Mathieu. They were the more terrifiedsince they divined that Gregoire had not gone off alone. They piecedtogether the incidents of the deplorable affair. Charlotte rememberedthat she had heard Gregoire go downstairs again, almost immediatelyafter entering his bedroom, and before the servants had even bolted thehouse-doors for the night. He had certainly rushed off to join Theresein some coppice, whence they must have hurried away to Vieux-Bourgstation which the last train to Paris quitted at five-and-twenty minutespast midnight. And it was indeed this which had taken place. At noon theFroments already learnt that Lepailleur was creating a terrible scandalabout the flight of Therese. He had immediately gone to the gendarmesto shout the story to them, and demand that they should bring the guiltyhussy back, chained to her accomplice, and both of them with gyves abouttheir wrists. 

He on his side had found a letter in his daughter's bedroom, a pluckyletter in which she plainly said that as she had been struck again theprevious day, she had had enough of it, and was going off of her ownfree will. Indeed, she added that she was taking Gregoire with her, andwas quite big and old enough, now that she was two-and-twenty, to knowwhat she was about. Lepailleur's fury was largely due to this letterwhich he did not dare to show abroad; besides which, his wife, everat war with him respecting their son Antonin, not only roundly abusedTherese, 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 thedistrict did nothing but talk about the flight of one of the Chantebledlads 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 forthe runaways remained fruitless Lepailleur, boiling over with rancor, went up to the farm, and from the middle of the road--for he did notventure inside--poured forth a flood of ignoble insults. It so happenedthat Mathieu was absent; and Marianne had great trouble to restrainGervais as well as Frederic, both of whom wished to thrust the miller'sscurrilous language back into his throat. When Mathieu came home in theevening he was extremely vexed to hear of what had happened. 

"It is impossible for this state of things to continue, " he said to hiswife, 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 themorning. 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 itnot so? And it is to that man's advantage to consent also. To-morrow thematter must be settled. "

On the following day, Monday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Mathieuset out for the mill. But certain complications, a tragic drama, whichhe could not possibly foresee, awaited him there. For years now astubborn struggle had been going on between Lepailleur and his wife withrespect to Antonin. While the farmer had grown more and more exasperatedwith his son's idleness and life of low debauchery in Paris, the latterhad supported her boy with all the obstinacy of an illiterate woman, who was possessed of a blind faith in his fine handwriting, and feltconvinced that if he did not succeed in life it was simply because hewas refused the money necessary for that purpose. In spite of her sordidavarice in some matters, the old woman continued bleeding herself forher son, and even robbed the house, promptly thrusting out her claws andsetting her teeth ready to bite whenever she was caught in the act, andhad to defend some twenty-franc piece or other, which she had been onthe point of sending away. And each time the battle began afresh, tosuch a point indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would someday 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 hadthe audacity to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into thewater. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held thecountry in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him uplike 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 LaLepailleur went to see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday, and on the Sunday evening she received a telegram summoning her toBatignolles again. Thus, on the morning of the day when Mathieu repairedto the mill, she had once more gone to Paris after a frightful quarrelwith her husband, who asked if their good-for-nothing son ever meant tocease fooling them and spending their money, when he had not the courageeven to turn a spit of earth. 

Alone in the mill that morning Lepailleur did not cease storming. At theslightest provocation he would have hammered his plough to pieces, orhave rushed, axe in hand, and mad with hatred, on the old wheel by wayof avenging his misfortunes. When he saw Mathieu come in he believed insome act of bravado, and almost choked. 

"Come, neighbor, " said the master of Chantebled cordially, "let us bothtry to be reasonable. I've come to return your visit, since you calledupon me yesterday. Only, bad words never did good work, and the bestcourse, since this misfortune has happened, is to repair it as speedilyas 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 houseroofs that he would have no marriage at all, but rather a good lawsuitby way of sending all the Froments to prison. Nevertheless, when itcame to reflection, a son of the big farmer of Chantebled was not to bedisdained as a son-in-law. 

"Marry them, marry them, " he stammered at the first moment. "Yes, byfastening a big stone to both their necks and throwing them togetherinto the river. Ah! the wretches! I'll skin them, I will, her as well ashim. "

At last, however, the miller grew calmer and was even showing adisposition to discuss matters, when all at once an urchin of Janvillecame 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, hadalready gone off, and still the miller, instead of opening the telegram, stood examining the address on it with the distrustful air of a man whodoes not often receive such communications. However, he at last had totear it open. It contained but three words: "Your son dead"; and in thatbrutal brevity, that prompt, hasty bludgeon-blow, one could detect themother's cold rage and eager craving to crush without delay the man, thefather yonder, whom she accused of having caused her son's death, evenas she had accused him of being responsible for her daughter's flight. He felt this full well, and staggered beneath the shock, stunned by thewords that appeared on that strip of blue paper, reading them againand again till he ended by understanding them. Then his hands began totremble 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 remainstanding, he sank upon a chair and again obstinately read the telegram;"Your son dead--Your son dead, " as if seeking something else, theparticulars, indeed, which the message did not contain. Perhaps the boyhad died before his mother's arrival. Or perhaps she had arrived justbefore he died. Such were his stammered comments. And he repeated ascore of times that she had taken the train at ten minutes past elevenand must have reached Batignolles about half-past twelve. As she hadhanded in the telegram at twenty minutes past one it seemed more likelythat she had found the lad already dead. 

"Curse it! curse it!" he shouted; "a cursed telegram, it tells younothing, and it murders you! She might, at all events, have sentsomebody. I shall have to go there. Ah the whole thing's complete, it'smore than a man can bear!"

Lepailleur shouted those words in such accents of rageful despair thatMathieu, full of compassion, made bold to intervene. The sudden shockof the tragedy had staggered him, and he had hitherto waited in silence. But now he offered his services and spoke of accompanying the otherto Paris. He had to retreat, however, for the miller rose to his feet, seized with wild exasperation at perceiving him still there in hishouse. 

"Ah! yes, you came; and what was it you were saying to me? That we oughtto marry off those wretched children? Well, you can see that I'm inproper 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 dosomething dreadful!"

He raised his fists, quite maddened as he was by the presence of Mathieuat that moment when his whole life was wrecked. It was terrible indeedthat this bourgeois who had made a fortune by turning himself into apeasant should be there at the moment when he so suddenly learnt thedeath of Antonin, that son whom he had dreamt of turning into a Monsieurby filling his mind with disgust of the soil and sending him to rot ofidleness 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 decrepitudeand barrenness was really a living, youthful, and fruitful spouse to theman 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 hadkilled his only son, and his only daughter had gone off with a scion ofthe triumphant farm, while he was now utterly alone, weeping and howlingin his deserted mill, that mill which he had likewise disdained andwhich was crumbling around him with old age. 

"You hear me!" he shouted. "Therese may drag herself at my feet; butI 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 sothat 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 asudden threatening vision: Antonin being dead, it was Gregoire who wouldpossess the mill, if he should marry Therese. And he would possess themoorland also, that enclosure, hitherto left barren with such savagedelight, and so passionately coveted by the farm. And doubtless he wouldcede it to the farm as soon as he should be the master. The thought thatChantebled 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'llthrow 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 forgiveyou, for you are in great grief. Besides, I am quite easy, sensiblethings always end by taking place. "

Again, a month went by. Then, one rainy morning in October, MadameLepailleur was found hanging in the mill stable. There were folks atJanville who related that Lepailleur had hung her there. The truth wasthat 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 daythe husband and wife reproached one another for their son's death andtheir daughter's flight, battling ragefully together like two abandonedbeasts shut up in the same cage. Folks were merely astonished that sucha harsh, avaricious woman should have been willing to quit this lifewithout 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 shewas that he should remain alone in his two-fold bereavement. At first itproved a terrible time for her in the company of that brutal old man whowas exasperated by what he termed his bad luck. But she was a girl ofsterling courage and prompt decision; and thus, after a few weeks, shehad made her father consent to her marriage with Gregoire, which, asMathieu had said, was the only sensible course. The news gave greatrelief at the farm whither the prodigal son had not yet dared to return. It was believed that the young couple, after eloping together, had livedin some out of the way district of Paris, and it was even suspected thatAmbroise, who was liberally minded, had, in a brotherly way, helped themwith his purse. And if, on the one hand, Lepailleur consented to themarriage in a churlish, distrustful manner--like one who deemed himselfrobbed, and was simply influenced by the egotistical dread of someday finding himself quite alone again in his gloomy house--Mathieu andMarianne, on the other side, were delighted with an arrangement whichput an end to an equivocal situation that had caused them the greatestsuffering, grieved as they were by the rebellion of one of theirchildren. 

Curiously enough, it came to pass that Gregoire, once married andinstalled at the mill in accordance with his wife's desire, agreed withhis father-in-law far better than had been anticipated. This resulted inparticular from a certain discussion during which Lepailleur had wishedto make Gregoire swear, that, after his death, he would never disposeof the moorland enclosure, hitherto kept uncultivated with peasantstubbornness, to any of his brothers or sisters of the farm. Gregoiretook no oath on the subject, but gayly declared that he was not sucha fool as to despoil his wife of the best part of her inheritance, particularly as he proposed to cultivate those moors and, within two orthree years' time, make them the most fertile land in the district. Thatwhich belonged to him did not belong to others, and people would soonsee that he was well able to defend the property which had fallen tohis lot. Things took a similar course with respect to the mill, whereGregoire at first contented himself with repairing the old mechanism, for he was unwilling to upset the miller's habits all at once, andtherefore postponed until some future time the installation of anengine, and the laying down of a line of rails to Janville station--allthose ideas formerly propounded by Mathieu which henceforth fermented inhis audacious young mind. 

In this wise, then, people found themselves in presence of a newGregoire. The madcap had become wise, only retaining of his youthfulfollies the audacity which is needful for successful enterprise. And itmust be said that he was admirably seconded by the fair and energeticTherese. They were both enraptured at now being free to love each otherin the romantic old mill, garlanded with ivy, pending the time whenthey would resolutely fling it to the ground to install in its placethe great white meal stores and huge new mill-stones, which, with theirconquering ambition, they often dreamt of. 

During the years that followed, Mathieu and Marianne witnessed otherdepartures. The three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, inturn took their flight from the family nest. All three found husbandsin the district. Louise, a plump brunette, all gayety and health, with abundant hair and large laughing eyes, married notary Mazaud ofJanville, a quiet, pensive little man, whose occasional silent smilesalone denoted the perfect satisfaction which he felt at having found awife of such joyous disposition. Then Madeleine, whose chestnut tresseswere tinged with gleaming gold, and who was slimmer than her sister, andof a more dreamy style of beauty, her character and disposition refinedby her musical tastes, made a love match which was quite a romance. Herbette, the architect, who became her husband, was a handsome, elegantman, already celebrated; he owned near Monvel a park-like estate, wherehe came to rest at times from the fatigue of his labors in Paris. 

At last, Marguerite, the least pretty of the girls--indeed, shewas quite plain, but derived a charm from her infinite goodness ofheart--was chosen in marriage by Dr. Chambouvet, a big, genial, kindlyfellow, who had inherited his father's practice at Vieux-Bourg, where helived 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 withMathieu and Marianne in the slowly emptying nest were their two lastboys, Nicolas and Benjamin. 

At the same time, however, as the youngsters flew away and installedthemselves elsewhere, there came other little ones, a constant swarmingdue to the many family marriages. In eight years, Denis, who reignedat the factory in Paris, had been presented by his wife with threechildren, two boys, Lucien and Paul, and a girl, Hortense. Then Leonce, the son of Ambroise, who was conquering such a high position in thecommercial world, now had a brother, Charles, and two little sisters, Pauline and Sophie. At the farm, moreover, Gervais was already thefather of two boys, Leon and Henri, while Claire, his sister, couldcount three children, a boy, Joseph, and two daughters, Lucile andAngele. There was also Gregoire, at the mill, with a big boy who hadreceived the name of Robert; and there were also the three last marrieddaughters--Louise, with a girl two years old; Madeleine, with a boy sixmonths of age; and Marguerite, who in anticipation of a happy event, haddecided to call her child Stanislas, if it were a boy, and Christine, ifit should be a girl. 

Thus upon every side the family oak spread out its branches, its trunkforking and multiplying, and boughs sprouting from boughs at eachsuccessive season. And withal Mathieu was not yet sixty, and Mariannenot yet fifty-seven. Both still possessed flourishing health, andstrength, and gayety, and were ever in delight at seeing the family, which had sprung from them, thus growing and spreading, invading all thecountry around, even like a forest born from a single tree. 

But the great and glorious festival of Chantebled at that period was thebirth of Mathieu and Marianne's first great-grandchild--a girl, calledAngeline, 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 agrandmother in her forty-second year, wept with emotion at the sight ofher. Madame Desvignes had died six months previously, passing away, evenas she had lived, gently and discreetly, at the termination of her task, which had chiefly consisted in rearing her two daughters on the scantymeans at her disposal. Still it was she, who, before quitting the scene, had found a husband for her granddaughter, Berthe, in the person ofPhilippe Havard, a young engineer who had recently been appointedassistant-manager at a State factory near Mareuil. It was at Chantebled, however, that Berthe's little Angeline was born; and on the day ofthe churching, the whole family assembled together there once more toglorify 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 willnever be empty. "

"Never, never!" repeated Mathieu with emotion, proud as he felt ofthat continual victory over solitude and death. "We shall never be leftalone!"

Yet there came another departure which brought them many tears. Nicolas, the youngest but one of their boys, who was approaching his twentiethbirthday, and thus nigh the cross-roads of life, had not yet decidedwhich one he would follow. He was a dark, sturdy young man, with anopen, laughing face. As a child, he had adored tales of travel andfar-away adventure, and had always evinced great courage and endurance, returning home enraptured from interminable rambles, and never utteringcomplaints, however badly his feet might be blistered. And withal hepossessed a most orderly mind, ever carefully arranging and classifyinghis little belongings in his drawers, and looking down with contempt onthe haphazard way in which his sisters kept their things. 

Later on, as he grew up, he became thoughtful, as if he were vainlyseeking around him some means of realizing his two-fold craving, thatof discovering some new land and organizing it properly. One of thelast-born of a numerous family, he no longer found space enough for theamplitude and force of his desires. His brothers and sisters had alreadytaken all the surrounding lands, and he stifled, threatened also, as itwere, 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! Atfirst he knew not in which direction to turn, but groped and hesitatedfor some months. Nevertheless, his hearty laughter continued to gladdenthe house; he wearied neither his father nor his mother with the careof his destiny, for he knew that he was already strong enough to fix ithimself. 

There was no corner left for him at the farm where Gervais and Clairetook up all the room. At the Beauchene works Denis was all sufficient, reigning there like a conscientious toiler, and nothing justifieda younger brother in claiming a share beside him. At the mill, too, Gregoire was as yet barely established, and his kingdom was so smallthat he could not possibly cede half of it. Thus an opening was onlypossible with Ambroise, and Nicolas ended by accepting an obliging offerwhich the latter made to take him on trial for a few months, by way ofinitiating him into the higher branches of commerce. Ambroise's fortunewas becoming prodigious since old uncle Du Hordel had died, leaving himhis commission business. Year by year the new master increased his tradewith all the countries of the world. Thanks to his lucky audacity andbroad international views, he was enriching himself with the spoils ofthe earth. And though Nicolas again began to stifle in Ambroise's hugestore-houses, where the riches of distant countries, the most variedclimes, were collected together, it was there that his real vocationcame to him; for a voice suddenly arose, calling him away yonder to dim, unknown regions, vast stretches of country yet sterile, which needed tobe populated, and cleared and sowed with the crops of the future. 

For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he wasnow maturing. He was extremely discreet, as are all men of great energy, who reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neitherspace nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of hisbirth; but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfectstate, deficient in the means needed for the heroic task of populatingand clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau, who was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, andactivity had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, likeNicolas, she stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confinedher; for she craved for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. Anorphan, and long dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little villagehaberdasher, she had hitherto, from feelings of affection, remainedcloistered in a small and gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died, leaving her some ten thousand francs, and her dream was to sell thelittle business, and go away and really live at last. One Octoberevening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told one another things that theyhad never previously told anybody, they came to an understanding. Theyresolutely took each other's hand and plighted their troth for life, forthe hard battle of creating a new world, a new family, somewhere on theearth's broad surface, in those mysterious, far away climes of whichthey knew so little. 'Twas a delightful betrothal, full of courage andfaith. 

Only then, everything having been settled, did Nicolas speak out, announcing his departure to his father and mother. It was an autumnevening, still mild, but fraught with winter's first shiver, and thetwilight was falling. Intense grief wrung the parents' hearts as soonas they understood their son. This time it was not simply a young oneflying from the family nest to build his own on some neighboring treeof the common forest; it was flight across the seas forever, severancewithout hope of return. They would see their other children again, butthis one was breathing an eternal farewell. Their consent would be theshare of cruel sacrifice, that life demands, their supreme gift to life, the tithe levied by life on their affection and their blood. To pursueits victory, life, the perpetual conqueror, demanded this portionof their flesh, this overplus of the numerous family, which wasoverflowing, spreading, peopling the world. And what could they answer, how could they refuse? The son who was unprovided for took himselfoff; nothing could be more logical or more sensible. Far beyond thefatherland there were vast continents yet uninhabited, and the seedwhich is scattered by the breezes of heaven knows no frontiers. Beyondthe race there is mankind with that endless spreading of humanity thatis 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 hisreasons for departing. He did not wish to be a parasite; he was settingoff to the conquest of another land, where he would grow the bread heneeded, since his own country had no field left for him. Besides, hetook his country with him in his blood; she it was that he wished toenlarge afar off with unlimited increase of wealth and strength. It wasancient Africa, the mysterious, now explored, traversed from end toend, that attracted him. In the first instance he intended to repair toSenegal, whence he would doubtless push on to the Soudan, to the veryheart of the virgin lands where he dreamt of a new France, an immensecolonial empire, which would rejuvenate the old Gallic race by endowingit with its due share of the earth. And it was there that he had theambition of carving out a kingdom for himself, and of founding withLisbeth another dynasty of Froments, and a new Chantebled, coveringunder the hot sun a tract ten times as extensive as the old one, andpeopled with the people of his own children. And he spoke of all thiswith such joyous courage that Mathieu and Marianne ended by smiling amidtheir 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 thatmay spring from you yonder will still be health and joy and strengthderived from us, of which we shall be proud. You are right, one must notweep, 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 andLisbeth there was an hour of painful emotion at Chantebled. The familyhad met to share a last meal all together, and when the time came forthe young and adventurous couple to tear themselves from the maternalsoil there were those who sobbed although they had vowed to be verybrave. Nicolas and Lisbeth were going off with little means, but rich inhopes. Apart from the ten thousand francs of the wife's dowry they hadonly been willing to take another ten thousand, just enough to providefor the first difficulties. Might courage and labor therefore provesturdy artisans of conquest. 

Young Benjamin, the last born of the brothers Froment, was particularlyupset by this departure. He was a delicate, good-looking child not yettwelve years old, whom his parents greatly spoiled, thinking that he wasweak. And they were quite determined that they would at all events keephim with them, so handsome did they find him with his soft limpid eyesand beautiful curly hair. He was growing up in a languid way, dreamy, petted, idle among his mother's skirts, like the one charming weaklingof that strong, hardworking family. 

"Let me kiss you again, my good Nicolas, " said he to his departingbrother. "When will you come back?"

"Never, my little Benjamin. "

The boy shuddered. 

"Never, never!" he repeated. "Oh! that's too long. Come back, come backsome 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 forall 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 lasttime wishing him victory, Benjamin in wild grief sought a refuge besidehis mother who was blinded by her tears. And she caught him up with apassionate 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 longreigned as sovereign mistress, Constance for twelve years alreadyhad been waiting for destiny, remaining rigid and stubborn amid thecontinual crumbling of her life and hopes. 

During those twelve years Beauchene had pursued a downward course, thedescent of which was fatal. He was right at the bottom now, in thelast 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 buta pitiful human rag, fast approaching some shameful death. And large ashis fortune had been, it had not sufficed him; as he grew older hehad squandered money yet more and more lavishly, immense sums beingswallowed up in disreputable adventures, the scandal of which it hadbeen necessary to stifle. Thus he at last found himself poor, receivingbut a small portion of the ever-increasing profits of the works, whichwere in full prosperity. 

This was the disaster which brought so much suffering to Constance inher incurable pride. Beauchene, since the death of his son, had quiteabandoned himself to a dissolute life, thinking of nothing but hispleasures, and taking no further interest in his establishment. What wasthe use of defending it, since there was no longer an heir to whom itmight be transmitted, enlarged and enriched? And thus he had surrenderedit, bit by bit, to Denis, his partner, whom, by degrees, he allowed tobecome the sole master. On arriving at the works, Denis had possessedbut one of the six shares which represented the totality of the propertyaccording to the agreement. And Beauchene had even reserved to himselfthe right of repurchasing that share within a certain period. But farfrom 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 orderto free himself of debts which he could not confess. 

From that time forward it became a habit with Beauchene to cede Denis afresh share every two years. A third followed the second, then came theturn of the fourth and the fifth, in such wise, indeed, that after afinal arrangement, he had not even kept a whole share for himself; butsimply some portion of the sixth. And even that was really fictitious, for Denis had only acknowledged it in order to have a pretext forproviding 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 offact, the works would belong to that son of the hated Froments, wheneverhe might choose to close the doors on their old master, who, as ithappened, was never seen now in the workshops. True, there was a clausein the covenant which admitted, so long as that covenant should not bebroken, the possibility of repurchasing all the shares at one and thesame time. Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent beliefin a miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven, that kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Thosetwelve years of vain waiting--and increasing decline did not seem tohave diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she wouldsome day triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled inpresence of the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recoveredher self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpectedoccurrence would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in theright. 

She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she wassimply bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon theover-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her ownhome, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of herhusband who was in the gutter--all the abomination, indeed, which hadbeen so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony. However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as anhonest bourgeoise filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could notadmit that she had been in the wrong. And thus she awaited the revengeof destiny in that luxurious house, which was far too large now thatshe 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 onwearing eternal mourning for Maurice, always erect, stiff, and haughtilysilent, she never complained, although her covert exasperation hadgreatly affected her heart, in such wise that she experienced at timesmost terrible attacks of stifling. These she kept as secret as possible, and one day when the old servant ventured to go for Doctor Boutan shethreatened her with dismissal. She would not even answer the doctor, and she refused to take any remedies, certain as she felt that she wouldlast as long as the hope which buoyed her up. 

Yet what anguish it was when she suddenly began to stifle, all alonein the empty house, without son or husband near her! She called nobodysince she knew that nobody would come. And the attack over, with whatunconquerable obstinacy did she rise erect again, repeating that herpresence sufficed to prevent Denis from being the master, from reigningalone in full sovereignty, and that in any case he would not have thehouse and install himself in it like a conqueror, so long as she had notsunk to death under the final collapse of the ceilings. 

Amid this retired life, Constance, haunted as she was by her fixedidea, had no other occupation than that of watching the factory, andascertaining what went on there day by day. Morange, whom she had madeher confidant, gave her information in all simplicity almost everyevening, when he came to speak to her for a moment after leaving hisoffice. She learnt everything from his lips--the successive sales ofthe shares into which the property had been divided, their gradualacquisition by Denis, and the fact that Beauchene and herself werehenceforth living on the new master's liberality. Moreover, she soorganized her system of espionage as to make the old accountant tell herunwittingly all that he knew of the private life led by Denis, his wifeMarthe, and their children, Lucien, Paul, and Hortense all, indeed, thatwas done and said in the modest little pavilion where the young people, in spite of their increasing fortune, were still residing, evincing noambitious haste to occupy the large house on the quay. They did noteven seem to notice what scanty accommodation they had in that pavilion, while she alone dwelt in the gloomy mansion, which was so spaciousthat she seemed quite lost in it. And she was enraged, too, by theirdeference, by the tranquil way in which they waited for her to be nomore; for she had been unable to make them quarrel with her, and wasobliged to show herself grateful for the means they gave her, and tokiss their children, whom she hated, when they brought her flowers. 

Thus, months and years went by, and almost every evening when Morangefor a moment called on Constance, he found her in the same little silentsalon, gowned in the same black dress, and stiffened into a posture ofobstinate expectancy. Though no sign was given of destiny's revenge, ofthe patiently hoped-for fall of misfortune upon others, she never seemedto doubt of her ultimate victory. On the contrary, when things fellmore and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defyingfate, buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced toprove that she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior tofatigue, and ever relying on a prodigy. 

Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, theconversation 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 betterdays. "

"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 into see her, he detected that the atmosphere of the little drawing-roomwas changed, quivering as it were with restrained delight amid theeternal silence. 

"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?"

"Yes, my friend, there's something fresh. "

"Something favorable I hope, then; something pleasant that you have beenwaiting for?"

"Something that I have been waiting for--yes! What one knows how to waitfor always comes. "

He looked at her in surprise, feeling almost anxious when he sawhow altered she was, with glittering eyes and quick gestures. Whatfulfilment of her desires, after so many years of immutable mourning, could have resuscitated her like that? She smiled, she breathedvigorously, as if she were relieved of the enormous weight which had solong crushed and immured her. But when he asked the cause of her greathappiness she said:

"I will not tell you yet, my friend. Perhaps I do wrong to rejoice; foreverything is still very vague and doubtful. Only somebody told me thismorning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. WhenI have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tellyou everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So havea 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. Butah! _mon Dieu_! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle atlast!"

More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. Hesaw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did noteven question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, notto say automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had latelycompleted his sixty-ninth year; thirty years had gone by since thedeath of his wife Valerie, more than twenty since his daughter Reinehad joined her, and he still ever lived on in his methodical, punctualmanner, amid the downfall of his existence. Never had man suffered morethan he, passed through greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse, and withal he came and went in a careful, correct way, ever and everprolonging his career of mediocrity, like one whom many may haveforgotten, but whom keenness of grief has preserved. 

Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of anature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias. While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which hehad formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived thereabsolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his ownmarketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself hadbeen inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there. But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed evento cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who wasnow white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulouslyclean of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which hemust have spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal, sordid avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart fromthe 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 orderthat he might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the peoplewho were acquainted with him, and never a week went by without thehouse-porter propounding the question: "When a gentleman of such quiethabits earns eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spendsa cent, what can he do with his money?" Some folks even tried to reckonup the amount which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thoughtthat it might perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs. 

But more serious trouble declared itself. He was twice snatched awayfrom certain death. One day, when Denis was returning homewards acrossthe Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet, watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if hehad not been grasped by his coat-tails. The poor man, on recovering hisself-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked of havingfelt giddy. Then, on another occasion, at the works, Victor Moineaudpushed him away from some machinery in motion at the very moment when, as if hypnotized, he was about to surrender himself to its devouringclutches. Then he again smiled, and acknowledged that he had done wrongin passing so near to the wheels. After this he was watched, for peoplecame to the conclusion that he occasionally lost his head. If Denisretained him as chief accountant, this was, firstly, from a feelingof gratitude for his long services; but, apart from that matter, theextraordinary thing was that Morange had never discharged his dutiesmore ably, obstinately tracing every doubtful centime in his books, and displaying the greatest accuracy over the longest additions. Alwaysshowing a calm and restful face, as though no tempest had ever assailedhis heart, he clung tightly to his mechanical life, like a discreetmaniac, who, though people might not know it, ought, perhaps, to havebeen placed under restraint. 

At the same time, it should be mentioned that for some few years alreadythere had been quite a big affair in Morange's life. Although he wasConstance's confidant, although she had made him her creature by theforce of her despotic will, he had gradually conceived the greatestaffection for Denis's daughter, Hortense. As this child grew up, hefancied that he found in her his own long-mourned daughter, Reine. Shehad recently completed her ninth year, and each time that Morangemet her he was thrown into a state of emotion and adoration, the moretouching since it was all a divine illusion on his part, for the twogirls in no wise resembled each other, the one having been extremelydark, and the other being nearly fair. In spite of his terrible avarice, the accountant loaded Hortense with dolls and sweetmeats on everypossible occasion; and at last his affection for the child absorbed himto such a degree that Constance felt offended by it. She thereupon gavehim to understand that whosoever was not entirely on her side was, inreality, against her. 

To all appearance, he made his submission; in reality, he only loved thechild the more for the thwarting of his passion, and he watched for herin order to kiss her in secret. In his daily intercourse with Constance, in showing apparent fidelity to the former mistress of the works, henow simply yielded to fear, like the poor weak being he was, one whomConstance had ever bent beneath her stern hand. The pact between themwas an old one, it dated from that monstrous thing which they aloneknew, that complicity of which they never spoke, but which bound them soclosely together. 

He, with his weak, good nature, seemed from that day to have remainedannihilated, tamed, cowed like a frightened animal. Since that day, too, he had learnt many other things, and now no secret of the house remainedunknown to him. This was not surprising. He had been living there somany years. He had so often walked to and fro with his short, discreet, maniacal step, hearing, seeing, and surprising everything! However, thismadman, who knew the truth and who remained silent--this madman, leftfree amid the mysterious drama enacted in the Beauchenes' home, wasgradually coming to a rebellious mood, particularly since he wascompelled to hide himself to kiss his little friend Hortense. His heartgrowled at the thought of it, and he felt ready to explode should hispassion be interfered with. 

All at once, one evening, Constance kept him to dinner. And he suspectedthat the hour of her revelations had come, on seeing how she quiveredand how erectly she carried her little figure, like a fighter henceforthcertain of victory. Nevertheless, although the servant left them aloneafter bringing in at one journey the whole of the frugal repast, she didnot broach the great affair at table. She spoke of the factory and thenof Denis and his wife Marthe, whom she criticised, and she was evenso foolish as to declare that Hortense was badly behaved, ugly, anddestitute of grace. The accountant, like the coward he was, listened toher, never daring to protest in spite of the irritation and rebellion ofhis whole being. 

"Well, we shall see, " she said at last, "when one and all are put backinto their proper places. "

Then she waited until they returned to the little drawing-room, and thedoors 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 thesubject 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 aminterested. And if you desire to please me, you will even take him intoyour own office. "

Morange, who was seated in front of her on the other side of thechimney-piece, gave her a look of surprise. 

"But I am not the master, " he replied; "apply to the master, he willcertainly do whatever you ask. "

"No, I do not wish to be indebted to Denis in any way. Besides, thatwould not suit my plans. You yourself must recommend the young man, andtake 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 onit. "

She spoke like a sovereign, and he bowed his back, for he had obeyedpeople all his life; first his wife, then his daughter, and now thatdethroned old queen who terrified him in spite of the dim feeling ofrebellion 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, butin reality to give herself time for further reflection. What good wouldit do to tell him everything at once? She would some day be forced totell it him, if she wished to have him entirely on her side; but therewas no hurry, and she fancied that it would be skilful policy if atpresent she merely prepared the ground. 

"He is a young man whose position has touched me, on account of certainrecollections, " she replied. "Perhaps you remember a girl who workedhere--oh! a very long time ago, some thirty years at the least--acertain Norine Moineaud, one of old Moineaud's daughters. "

Morange had hastily raised his head, and as sudden light flashed on hismemory he looked at Constance with dilated eyes. Before he could evenweigh 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 washolding, and gazed into the old man's eyes, diving to the very depths ofhis 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, learnteverything--Norine's trouble, the money given by Beauchene to providefor her at Madame Bourdieu's, the child carried to the FoundlingHospital and then put out to nurse at Rougemont, whence he had fledafter stealing three hundred francs. And the old accountant was evenaware 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 inall the surrounding atmosphere, the whole house. He knew those thingsbecause they were things pertaining to the place, which people had toldhim of, or which he had guessed. He could no longer remember exactly howthey had reached him. But he knew them well. 

"You understand, " said he, "when one has been in a place for more thanthirty years, things end by coming to one naturally. I know everything, everything. "

Constance started and deep silence fell. He, with his eyes fixed on theembers, had sunk back into the dolorous past. She reflected that it was, after all, preferable that the position should be perfectly plain. Sincehe was acquainted with everything, it was only needful that she, with all determination and bravery, should utilize him as her docileinstrument. 

"Alexandre-Honore, the child of Rougemont, " she said. "Yes! that is theyoung man whom I have at last found again. But are you also aware of thesteps 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, relatingthat she had long since renounced her old plans, when all at oncedestiny had revealed itself to her. 

"Imagine a flash of lightning!" she exclaimed. "It was on the morningof the day when you found me so moved! My sister-in-law, Seraphine, whodoes 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 didnot at first pay any attention to the story which she began to relate tome--the story of a young man whom she had become acquainted with throughsome 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 ofthe discovery which she had made by chance. I tell you, it is destinyawaking and striking!"

The story was indeed curious. Prematurely aged though she was, Seraphine, amid her growing insanity, continued to lead a wild, racketylife, and the strangest stories were related of her. A singular capriceof hers, given her own viciousness, was to join, as a lady patroness, a society whose purpose was to succor and moralize young offenders ontheir release from prison. And it was in this wise that she had becomeacquainted with Alexandre-Honore, now a big fellow of two-and-thirty, who had just completed a term of six years' imprisonment. He had endedby telling her his true story, speaking of Rougemont, naming Norine hismother, and relating the fruitless efforts that he had made in formeryears to discover his father, who was some immensely wealthy man. In themidst of it, Seraphine suddenly understood everything, and in particularwhy it was that his face had seemed so familiar to her. His strikingresemblance to Beauchene sufficed to throw a vivid light upon thequestion of his parentage. For fear of worry, she herself told himnothing, but as she remembered how passionately Constance had at onetime striven to find him, she went to her and acquainted her with herdiscovery. 

"He knows nothing as yet, " Constance explained to Morange. "Mysister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who willfind him a good situation. It appears that he now asks nothing betterthan to work. If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, therehave been many excuses for it! And, besides, I will answer for him assoon 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 storywhich he had concocted and retailed to Seraphine--a story to the effectthat 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 coursethat imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out ofthe twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the sixothers, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominyand crime. On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had arestful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmerand keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer. And cleansed, clad, and schooled by Seraphine, he had almost become apresentable young man. 

Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had beenstaring so fixedly. 

"Well, what do you want to do with him?" he inquired. "Does he write adecent 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 polishhim up for me and make him conversant with everything. My desire is thatin a year or two he should know everything about the factory, like amaster. "

At that last word which enlightened him, the accountant's good sensesuddenly awoke. Amid the manias which were wrecking his mind, he hadremained a man of figures with a passion for arithmetical accuracy, andhe 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 sucha dream would be, enumerating figures and fully setting forth how largea sum of money would be needed to indemnify Denis, who was installed inthe place like a conqueror. 

"Besides, dear madame, I don't understand why you should take that youngman 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 anintelligent, honest man, acquainted with our line of business. "

Constance had set to work poking the fire logs with the tongs. When sheat last looked up she thrust her face towards the other's, and said ina low voice, but violently: "Alexandre is my husband's son, he is theheir. He is not the stranger. The stranger is that Denis, that son ofthe Froments, who has robbed us of our property! You rend my heart; youmake 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 anillegitimate scion of the house rather than to a stranger. Doubtlessthe woman, the wife, the mother within her, bled even as she herselfacknowledged, but she sacrificed everything to her rancor; she woulddrive the stranger away even if in doing so her own flesh should belacerated. Then, too, it vaguely seemed to her that her husband's sonmust be in some degree her own, since his father was likewise the fatherof the son to whom she had given birth, and who was dead. Besides, shewould make that young fellow her son; she would direct him, she wouldcompel 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 thehundreds of thousands of francs which may be required. Your figures areaccurate, and it is possible that we may never have the money to buyback 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 muchthe worse for the other. For I assure you that if this young man willonly listen to me, he will then become the agent of destruction, theavenger and punisher, implanted in the factory to wreck it!"

With a gesture which summoned ruin athwart the walls, she finishedexpressing her abominable hopes. Among her vague plans, reared uponhate, was that of employing the wretched Alexandre as a destructiveweapon, whose ravages would bring her some relief. Should she loseall other battles, that would assuredly be the final one. And she hadattained to this pitch of madness through the boundless despair in whichthe loss of her only son had plunged her, withered, consumed by a lovewhich she could not content, then demented, perverted to the point ofcrime. 

Morange shuddered when, with her stubborn fierceness, she concluded:"For twelve years past I have been waiting for a stroke of destiny, andhere it is! I would rather perish than not draw from it the last chanceof good fortune which it brings me!"

This meant that Denis's ruin was decided on, and would be effected ifdestiny were willing. And the old accountant could picture the disaster:innocent children struck down in the person of their father, a great andmost unjust catastrophe, which made his kindly heart rise in rebellion. Would he allow that fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloudall that he knew? Doubtless the memory of the other crime, the firstone, 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 theview of mastering him she gazed at him fixedly. For a moment, asthey peered into one another's eyes, they lived once more beside themurderous trap, and shivered in the cold gust which rose from the abyss. And this time again Morange, like a poor weak man overpowered by awoman's will, was vanquished, and did not speak. 

"So it is agreed, my friend, " she softly resumed. "I rely on you totake Alexandre, in the first place, as a clerk. You can see him here oneevening at five o'clock, after dusk, for I do not wish him to knowat first what interest I take in him. Shall we say the day afterto-morrow?"

"Yes, the evening of the day after to-morrow, if it pleases you, dearmadame. "

On the morrow Morange displayed so much agitation that the wife of thedoor-porter of the house where he resided, a woman who was ever watchinghim, imparted her fears to her husband. The old gentleman was certainlygoing to have an attack, for he had forgotten to put on his slipperswhen he came downstairs to fetch some water in the morning; and, besides, he went on talking to himself, and looked dreadfully upset. Themost extraordinary incident of the day, however, was that after lunchMorange quite forgot himself, and was an hour late in returning to hisoffice, a lack of punctuality which had no precedent, which, in thememory 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 Grenellebridge, where Denis had one day saved him from the fascination of thewater. And some force, some impulse had carried him again to the verysame spot, and made him lean over the same parapet, gazing, in the sameway as previously, at the flowing river. Ever since the previous eveninghe had been repeating the same words, words which he stammered in anundertone, and which haunted and tortured him. "Would he allow thatfresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?" Nodoubt it was those words, of which he could not rid himself, that hadmade him forget to put on his slippers in the morning, and that had justnow again dazed him to the point of preventing him from returning to thefactory, as if he no longer recognized the entrance as he passed it. Andif he were at present leaning over that water, had he not been impelledthither by an unconscious desire to have done with all his troubles, an instinctive hope of drowning the torment into which he was thrownby those stubbornly recurring words? Down below, at the bottom of theriver, 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 hecould not find sufficient strength. And the call of the water was verygentle, and it would be so pleasant to have to struggle no longer, toyield to destiny, like a poor soft-hearted weakling who has lived toolong. 

Morange leant forward more and more, and in fancy could already feel thesonorous river seizing him, when a gay young voice in the rear recalledhim to reality. 

"What are you looking at, Monsieur Morange? Are there any big fishesthere?"

It was Hortense, looking extremely pretty, and tall already for her tenyears, whom a maid was conducting on a visit to some little friends atAuteuil. And when the distracted accountant turned round, he remainedfor a moment with trembling hands, and eyes moist with tears, at thesight of that apparition, that dear angel, who had recalled him from sofar. 

"What! is it you, my pet!" he exclaimed. "No, no, there are no bigfishes. I think that they hide at the bottom because the water is socold in winter. Are you going on a visit? You look quite beautiful inthat fur-trimmed cloak!"

The little girl began to laugh, well pleased at being flattered andloved, for her old friend's voice quivered with adoration. 

"Yes, yes, I am very happy; there are to be some private theatricalswhere I'm going. Oh! it is amusing to feel happy!"

She spoke those words like his own Reine might formerly have spokenthem, and he could have gone down on his knees to kiss her little handslike an idol's. 

"But it is necessary that you should always be happy, " he replied. "Youlook so beautiful, I must really kiss you. "

"Oh! you may, Monsieur Morange, I'm quite willing. Ah! you know the dollyou 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, hewatched her as she went off in the pale light of winter. What he hadthought of would be too cowardly: besides, that child must be happy!

He slowly quitted the bridge, while within him the haunting words rangout with decisive distinctness, demanding a reply: "Would he allow thatfresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?" No, no! It was impossible: he would speak, he would act. Nevertheless, hismind remained clouded, befogged. How could he speak, how could he act?

Then, to crown his extravagant conduct, utterly breaking away from thehabits of forty years, he no sooner returned to the office than, insteadof immediately plunging into his everlasting additions, he began towrite 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. Thesethings were set down simply as his impulse dictated, like a kind ofconfession by which he relieved his feelings. He had not yet come toany 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 warnMathieu 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 thefollowing evening, though not before six o'clock, as he desired to seeAlexandre and learn how the interview passed off, and what Constancemight require of the young man. 

The ensuing night, the ensuing day, must have been full of abominabletorment for Morange. The doorkeeper's wife recounted, later on, that thefourth-floor tenant had heard the old gentleman walking about overheadall through the night. Doors were slammed, and furniture was draggedabout as if for a removal. It was even thought that one could detectcries, sobs, and the monologues of a madman addressing phantoms, somemysterious rendering of worship to the dead who haunted him. And atthe works during the day which followed Morange gave alarming signs ofdistress, of the final sinking of his mind into a flood of gloom. Ever darting troubled glances around him, he was tortured by internalcombats, which, without the slightest motive, made him descend thestairs a dozen times, linger before the machinery in motion, and thenreturn to his additions up above, with the bewildered, distracted airof one who could not find what he sought so painfully. When the darknessfell, about four o'clock on that gloomy winter day, the two clerks whomhe 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 totalwas correct, then rose and went out, leaving the ledger open, as if hemeant to return to check the next addition. 

He followed the gallery which led to the passage connecting theworkshops with the private house. The whole factory was at that hourlighted up, electric lamps cast the brightness of daylight over it, while the stir of work ascended and the walls shook amid the rumblingof machinery. And all at once, before reaching the passage, Morangeperceived the lift, the terrible cavity, the abyss of murder in whichBlaise had met his death fourteen years previously. Subsequent to thatcatastrophe, and in order to prevent the like of it from ever occurringagain, the trap had been surrounded by a balustrade with a gate, insuch wise that a fall became impossible unless one should open the gateexpressly to take a plunge. At that moment the trap was lowered and thegate was closed, and Morange, yielding to some superior force, bent overthe 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 thecrushed corpse; and he could feel the gust of terror chilling him inthe presence of murder, accepted and concealed. Since he suffered sodreadfully, since he could no longer sleep, since he had promised hisdear dead ones that he would join them, why should he not make an endof himself? Two days previously, while leaning over the parapet ofthe Grenelle bridge, a desire to do so had taken possession of him. Hemerely had to lose his equilibrium and he would be liberated, laid torest in the peaceful earth between his wife and his daughter. And, allat once, as if the abyss itself suggested to him the frightful solutionfor which he had been vainly groping, in his growing madness, for twodays 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 withthe other one!"

He started violently and drew himself erect; decision had fallen on himin a lightning flash. Insane as he was, that appeared to him to be theone sole logical, mathematical, sensible solution, which would settleeverything. It seemed to him so simple, too, that he was astonished thathe had sought it so long. And from that moment this poor soft-heartedweakling, whose wretched brain was unhinged, gave proof of iron will andsovereign heroism, assisted by the clearest reasoning, the most subtlecraft. 

In the first place he prepared everything, set the catch to prevent thetrap from being sent up again in his absence, and also assured himselfthat the balustrade door opened and closed easily. He came and went witha light, aerial step, as if carried off his feet, with his eyes ever onthe alert, anxious as he was to be neither seen nor heard. At lasthe extinguished the three electric lamps and plunged the gallery intodarkness. From below, through the gaping cavity the stir of the workingfactory, the rumbling of the machinery ever ascended. And it was onlythen, everything being ready, that Morange turned into the passage tobetake himself to the little drawing room of the mansion. 

Constance was there waiting for him with Alexandre. She had giveninstructions for the latter to call half-an-hour earlier, for she wishedto confess him while as yet telling him nothing of the real positionwhich she meant him to take in the house. She was not disposed to placeherself all at once at his mercy, and had therefore simply expressed herwillingness to give him employment in accordance with the recommendationof her relative, the Baroness de Lowicz. Nevertheless, she studied himwith restrained ardor, and was well pleased to find that he was strong, sturdy, and resolute, with a hard face lighted by terrible eyes, whichpromised her an avenger. She would finish polishing him up, and then hewould suit her perfectly. For his part, without plainly understandingthe truth, he scented something, divined that his fortune was at hand, and was quite ready to wait awhile for the certain feast, like a youngwolf 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 resemblanceto Beauchene, that extraordinary resemblance which had already upsetConstance, and which now sent an icy chill through the old accountant asif 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 punctualas 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 immediatelysettled everything: "Well, here is the gentleman whom I spoke about, "she said. "You will begin by taking him with you and making himacquainted with the business, even if in the first instance you canmerely send him about on commissions for you. It is understood, is itnot?"

"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 onthe morrow, Morange offered to show him out by way of his office and theworkshops, which were still open. 

"In that way he will form an acquaintance with the works, and can comestraight to me to-morrow. "

Constance laughed again, so fully did the accountant's obligingnessreassure 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 andseemingly senseless incident. Morange, having shown Alexandre out of thelittle salon, in advance of himself, turned round towards her with thesudden grimace of a madman, revealing his insanity by the distortion ofhis countenance. And in a low, familiar, sneering voice, he stammered inher face: "Ha! ha! Blaise at the bottom of the hole! He speaks, he hasspoken to me! Ha! ha! the somersault! you would have the somersault! Andyou 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, soidiotic, that at first she did not understand it. But afterwards what aflash of light came to her! That which Morange had referred to was themurder yonder--the thing to which they had never referred, the monstrousthing which they had kept buried for fourteen years past, which theirglances only had confessed, but which, all of a sudden, he had cast inher teeth with the grimace of a madman. What was the meaning of the poorfool's diabolical rebellion, the dim threat which she had felt passinglike a gust from an abyss? She turned frightfully pale, she intuitivelyforesaw some frightful revenge of destiny, that destiny which, only amoment previously, she had believed to be her minion. Yes, it was surelythat. And she felt herself carried fourteen years backward, and sheremained standing, quivering, icy cold, listening to the sounds whicharose from the works, waiting for the awful thud of the fall, even ason the distant day when she had listened and waited for the other to becrushed and killed. 

Meantime Morange, with his discreet, short step, was leading Alexandreaway, 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 turnsand twists never end. The passage now turns to the left, you see. "

Then, on reaching the gallery where the darkness was complete, heaffected anger in the most natural manner possible. 

"Ah! well, that is just their way. They haven't yet lighted up thispart. 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 fortyyears. Mind follow me carefully. "

Thereupon, at each successive step, he warned the other what he ought todo, guiding him along in his obliging way without the faintest tremor inhis voice. 

"Don't let go of me, turn to the left. --Now we merely have to gostraight ahead. --Only, wait a moment, a barrier intersects thegallery, and there is a gate. --There we are! I'm opening the gate, youhear?--Follow me, I'll go first. "

Morange quietly stepped into the void, amid the darkness. And, withouta cry, he fell. Alexandre who was close in the rear, almost touching himso as not to lose him, certainly detected the void and the gust whichfollowed the fall, as with sudden horror the flooring failed beneaththem; but force of motion carried him on, he stepped forward in histurn, howled and likewise fell, head over heels. Both were smashedbelow, both killed at once. True, Morange still breathed for a fewseconds. Alexandre, for his part, lay with his skull broken to piecesand his brains scattered on the very spot where Blaise had been pickedup. 

Horrible was the stupefaction when those bodies were found there. Nobodycould explain the catastrophe. Morange carried off his secret, thereason for that savage act of justice which he had accomplishedaccording to the chance suggestions of his dementia. Perhaps he hadwished to punish Constance, perhaps he had desired to repair the oldwrong: Denis long since stricken in the person of his brother, and nowsaved for the sake of his daughter Hortense, who would live happily withMargot, the pretty doll who was so good. By suppressing the criminalinstrument the old accountant had indeed averted the possibility of afresh crime. Swayed by his fixed idea, however, he had doubtless neverreasoned that cataclysmic deed of justice, which was above reason, and which passed by with the impassive savagery of a death-dealinghurricane. 

At the works there was but one opinion, Morange had assuredly been mad;and he alone could have caused the accident, particularly as it wasimpossible to account, otherwise than by an act of madness, for theextinguishing of the lights, the opening of the balustrade-door, andthe plunge into the cavity which he knew to be there, and into whichhad followed him the unfortunate young man his companion. Moreover, theaccountant's madness was no longer doubted by anybody a few days later, when the doorkeeper of his house related his final eccentricities, anda commissary of police went to search his rooms. He had been mad, madenough to be placed in confinement. 

To begin, nobody had ever seen a flat in such an extraordinarycondition, the kitchen a perfect stable, the drawing-room in a state ofutter abandonment with its Louis XIV. Furniture gray with dust, and thedining-room all topsy-turvy, the old oak tables and chairs being piledup against the window as if to shut out every ray of light, thoughnobody could tell why. The only properly kept room was that in whichReine had formerly slept, which was as clean as a sanctuary, with itspitch-pine furniture as bright as if it had been polished every day. Butthe apartment in which Morange's madness became unmistakably manifestwas his own bedchamber, which he had turned into a museum of souvenirs, covering its walls with photographs of his wife and daughter. Above atable there, the wall facing the window quite disappeared from view, for a sort of little chapel had been set up, decked with a multitude ofportraits. In the centre were photographs of Valerie and Reine, bothof them at twenty years of age, so that they looked like twin sisters;while symmetrically disposed all around was an extraordinary number ofother portraits, again showing Valerie and Reine, now as children, nowas girls, and now as women, in every sort of position, too, and everykind of toilet. And below them on the table, like an offering on analtar, was found more than one hundred thousand francs, in gold, andsilver, and even copper; indeed, the whole fortune which Morange hadbeen saving up for several years by eating only dry bread, like apauper. 

At last, then, one knew what he had done with his savings; he had giventhem to his dead wife and daughter, who had remained his will, passion, and ambition. Haunted by remorse at having killed them while dreamingof making them rich, he reserved for them that money which they had sokeenly desired, and which they would have spent with so much ardor. Itwas still and ever for them that he earned it, and he took it tothem, lavished it upon them, never devoting even a tithe of it to anyegotistical pleasure, absorbed as he was in his vision-fraught worshipand eager to pacify and cheer their spirits. And the whole neighborhoodgossiped endlessly about the old mad gentleman who had let himself dieof wretchedness by the side of a perfect treasure, piled coin by coinupon a table, and for twenty years past tendered to the portraits ofhis wife and daughter, even as flowers might have been offered to theirmemory. 

About six o'clock, when Mathieu reached the works, he found the placeterrified by the catastrophe. Ever since the morning he had beenrendered anxious by Morange's letter, which had greatly surprised andworried him with that extraordinary story of Alexandre turning uponce more, being welcomed by Constance, and introduced by her into theestablishment. Plain as was the greater part of the letter, it containedsome singularly incoherent passages, and darted from one point toanother with incomprehensible suddenness. Mathieu had read it threetimes, indulging on each occasion in fresh hypotheses of a gloomier andgloomier nature; for the more he reflected, the more did the affairseem to him to be fraught with menace. Then, on reaching the rendezvousappointed by Morange, he found himself in presence of those bleedingbodies which Victor Moineaud had just picked up and laid out side byside! Silent, chilled to his bones, Mathieu listened to his son, Denis, who had hastened up to tell him of the unexplainable misfortune, thetwo men falling one atop of the other, first the old mad accountant, andthen the young fellow whom nobody knew and who seemed to have droppedfrom heaven. 

Mathieu, for his part, had immediately recognized Alexandre, and if, pale and terrified, he kept silent on the subject, it was because hedesired to take nobody, not even his son, into his confidence, given thefresh suppositions, the frightful suppositions, which now arose in hismind from out of all the darkness. He listened with growing anxiety tothe enumeration of the few points which were certain: the extinguishingof the electric lights in the gallery and the opening of the balustradedoor, which was always kept closed and could only have been openedby some habitue, since, to turn the handle, one had to press a secretspring which kept it from moving. And, all at once, as Victor Moineaudpointed 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 Moineaudpicking up Blaise on the very spot where Victor, the son, had justpicked up Morange and Alexandre. Blaise! At the thought of his dead boyfresh light came to Mathieu, a frightful suspicion blazed up amid theterrible obscurity in which he had been groping and doubting. And, thereupon, leaving Denis to settle everything down below, he decided tosee Constance. 

Up above, however, when Mathieu was on the point of turning into thecommunicating passage, he paused once more, this time near the lift. It was there, fourteen years previously, that Morange, finding the trapopen, 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 dimgallery, plunged into the gulf. Everybody had eventually acceptedthat narrative as being accurate, but Mathieu now felt that it wasmendacious. He could recall various glances, various words, variousspells of silence; and sudden certainty came upon him, a certainty basedon all the petty things which he had not then understood, but whichnow assumed the most frightful significance. Yes, it was certain, eventhough 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 itsgaps 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 middleof her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously hadbegun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxietythat she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, nosound of footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could behappening then? Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely anightmare after all? Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she hadfully understood him. Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reachedher ears? And now, had not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It wasdeath, the factory silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once herheart ceased beating as she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearerand nearer with increased rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieuwho came in. 

She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? Howwas it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the onewhom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she wouldnot have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition ofthe father. 

She did not speak. He simply said: "They made the plunge, they are bothdead--like Blaise. "

Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a momenttheir eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder wasbegun afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead, one atop of the other. 

"Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And howmuch blood there is upon you!"

By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up andeven increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud thatshe was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, andwould ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a finalrevelation. 

"You don't know, then, that that ruffian, Alexandre, was one of themurderers of your friend, Madame Angelin, the poor woman who was robbedand 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 tospeak to-day you would be there too!"

That was the hatchet-stroke. She did not speak, but dropped, all of alump, upon the carpet, like a tree which has been felled. This time herdefeat was complete; destiny, which she awaited, had turned against herand thrown her to the ground. A mother the less, perverted by thelove which she had set on her one child, a mother duped, robbed, and maddened, who had glided into murder amid the dementia born ofinconsolable motherliness! And now she lay there, stretched out, scraggyand withered, poisoned by the affection which she had been unable tobestow. 

Mathieu became anxious, and summoned the old servant, who, afterprocuring assistance, carried her mistress to her bed and then undressedher. Meantime, as Constance gave no sign of life, seized as she wasby one of those fainting fits which often left her quite breathless, Mathieu himself went for Boutan, and meeting him just as he wasreturning home for dinner, was luckily able to bring him back at once. 

Boutan, who was now nearly seventy-two, and was quietly spendinghis last years in serene cheerfulness, born of his hope in life, hadvirtually ceased practising, only attending a very few old patients, his friends. However, he did not refuse Mathieu's request. When he hadexamined Constance he made a gesture of hopelessness, the meaning ofwhich was so plain that Mathieu, his anxiety increasing, bethoughthimself of trying to find Beauchene in order that the latter might, atleast, be present if his wife should die. But the old servant, on beingquestioned, began by raising her arms to heaven. She did not know whereMonsieur might be, Monsieur never left any address. At last, feelingfrightened herself, she made up her mind to hasten to the abode of thetwo women, aunt and niece, with whom Beauchene spent the greater partof his time. She knew their address perfectly well, as her mistress hadeven sent her thither in pressing emergencies. But she learnt that theladies had gone with Monsieur to Nice for a holiday; whereupon, notdesiring to return without some member of the family, she was seizedon her way back with the fine idea of calling on Monsieur's sister, theBaroness de Lowicz, whom she brought, almost by force, in her cab. 

It was in vain that Boutan attempted treatment. When Constance openedher eyes again, she looked at him fixedly, recognized him, no doubt, andthen lowered her eyelids. And from that moment she obstinately refusedto reply to any question that was put to her. She must have heard andhave known that people were there, trying to succor her. But she wouldhave none of their succor, she was stubbornly intent on dying, on givingno further sign of life. Neither did she raise her eyelids, nor did herlips part again. It was as if she had already quitted the world amid themute agony of her defeat. 

That evening Seraphine's manner was extremely strange. She reekedof ether, for she drank ether now. When she heard of the two-fold"accident, " the death of Morange and that of Alexandre, which hadbrought 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 herselfin an armchair, where she sat waiting, with her eyes wide open andstaring straight before her--those brown eyes flecked with gold, whoseliving light was all that she had retained of her massacred beauty. Atsixty-two she looked like a centenarian; her bold, insolent face wasravined, as it were, by her stormy life, and the glow of her sun-likehair had been extinguished by a shower of ashes. And time went on, midnight approached, and she was still there, near that death-bed ofwhich she seemed to be ignorant, in that quivering chamber where sheforgot herself, similar to a mere thing, apparently no longer evenknowing why she had been brought thither. 

Mathieu and Boutan had been unwilling to retire. Since Monsieur wasat Nice in the company of those ladies, the aunt and the niece, theydecided to spend the night there in order that Constance might not beleft alone with the old servant. And towards midnight, while they werechatting together in undertones, they were suddenly stupefied at hearingSeraphine 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-roomstruck down by sudden death, the cause of which was not clearly known. In fact, the strangest, the most horrible and tragical stories werecurrent on the subject. According to one of them a patient had wreakedvengeance on the doctor; and Mathieu, full of emotion, recalled that oneday, long ago, Seraphine herself had suggested that all Gaude's unhappypatients ought to band themselves together and put an end to him. 

When Seraphine perceived that Mathieu was gazing at her, as in anightmare, moved by the shuddering silence of that death-watch, she oncemore 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 itfalse? A cold, terrifying quiver swept by, the icy quiver of mystery, ofthat which one knows not, which one will never know. 

Boutan leant towards Mathieu and whispered in his ear: "She will beraving 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 straightwaistcoat. In her case Dr. Gaude's treatment had led to absoluteinsanity. 

Mathieu and Boutan watched beside Constance until daybreak. She neveropened her lips, nor raised her eyelids. As the sun rose up, she turnedtowards the wall, and then she died. 

XXII

STILL more years passed, and Mathieu was already sixty-eight andMarianne sixty-five, when amid the increasing good fortune which theyowed to their faith in life, and their long courageous hopefulness, alast battle, the most dolorous of their existence, almost struck themdown and sent them to the grave, despairing and inconsolable. 

One evening Marianne went to bed, quivering, utterly distracted. Quite arending was taking place in the family. A disastrous and hateful quarrelhad set the mill, where Gregoire reigned supreme, against the farm whichwas managed by Gervais and Claire. And Ambroise, on being selectedas arbiter, had fanned the flames by judging the affair in a purelybusiness way from his Paris counting-house, without taking into accountthe various passions which were kindled. 

It was on returning from a secret application to Ambroise, prompted by amaternal longing for peace, that Marianne had taken to her bed, woundedto the heart, and terrified by the thought of the future. Ambroise hadreceived her roughly, almost brutally, and she had gone back home in astate of intense anguish, feeling as if her own flesh were laceratedby the quarrelling of her ungrateful sons. And she had kept her bed, begging Mathieu to say nothing, and explaining that a doctor's serviceswould be useless, since she did not suffer from any malady. She wasfading away, however, as he could well detect; she was day by day takingleave of him, carried off by her bitter grief. Was it possible that allthose loving and well-loved children, who had grown up under their careand their caresses, who had become the joy and pride of their victory, all those children born of their love, united in their fidelity, asacred brotherly, sisterly battalion gathered close around them, was itpossible that they should now disband and desperately seek to destroyone another? If so, it was true, then, that the more a family increases, the greater is the harvest of ingratitude. And still more accuratebecame the saying, that to judge of any human being's happiness orunhappiness in life, one must wait until he be dead. 

"Ah!" said Mathieu, as he sat near Marianne's bed, holding her feverishhand, "to think of it! To have struggled so much, and to have triumphedso much, and then to encounter this supreme grief, which will bringus more pain than all the others. Decidedly it is true that one mustcontinue battling until one's last breath, and that happiness is onlyto be won by suffering and tears. We must still hope, still triumph, andconquer 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 alwaysable to heal the wounds which came from without, but this wound comesfrom my own blood; my blood pours forth within me and stifles me. Allour work is destroyed. Our joy, our health, our strength, have at thelast day become mere lies. "

Then Mathieu, whom her grievous fears of a disaster gained, went off toweep in the adjoining room, already picturing his wife dead and himselfin utter solitude. 

It was with reference to Lepailleur's moorland, the plots intersectingthe Chantebled estate, that the wretched quarrel had broken out betweenthe mill and the farm. For many years already, the romantic, ivy-coveredold mill, with its ancient mossy wheel, had ceased to exist. Gregoire, at last putting his father's ideas into execution, had thrown it downto replace it by a large steam mill, with spacious meal-stores whicha light railway-line connected with Janville station. And he himself, since he had been making a big fortune--for all the wheat of thedistrict was now sent to him--had greatly changed, with nothing of hisyouthful turbulence left save a quick temper, which his wife Theresewith her brave, loving heart alone could somewhat calm. On a score ofoccasions he had almost broken off all relations with his father-in-law, Lepailleur, who certainly abused his seventy years. Though the oldmiller, in spite of all his prophecies of ruin, had been unable toprevent the building of the new establishment, he none the less sneeredand 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 theprodigious crops of Chantebled disprove his theory of the bankruptcyof the earth, that villainous earth in which, like an obstinate peasantweary of toil and eager for speedy fortune, he asserted nothing morewould grow; but now that mill of his, which he had so disdained, wasborn as it were afresh, growing to a gigantic size, and becoming in hisson-in-law's hands an instrument of great wealth. 

The worst was that Lepailleur so stubbornly lived on, experiencingcontinual defeats, but never willing to acknowledge that he was beaten. One sole delight remained to him, the promise given and kept by Gregoirethat he would not sell the moorland enclosure to the farm. The old manhad even prevailed on him to leave it uncultivated, and the sight ofthat sterile tract intersecting the wavy greenery of the beautifulestate of Chantebled, like a spot of desolation, well pleased hisspiteful nature. He was often to be seen strolling there, like an oldking of the stones and the brambles, drawing up his tall, scraggy figureas if he were quite proud of the poverty of that soil. In going thitherone of his objects doubtless was to find a pretext for a quarrel; for itwas he who in the course of one of these promenades, when he displayedsuch provoking insolence, discovered an encroachment on the part of thefarm--an encroachment which his comments magnified to such a degree thatdisastrous consequences seemed probable. As it was, all the happiness ofthe Froments was for a time destroyed. 

In business matters Gregoire invariably showed the rough impulsivenessof a man of sanguine temperament, obstinately determined to part withno fraction of his rights. When his father-in-law told him that thefarm had impudently cleared some seven acres of his moorland, with theintention no doubt of carrying this fine robbery even further, if itwere not promptly stopped, Gregoire at once decided to inquire into thematter, 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 inall good faith, or even that they had remained within their limits. ButLepailleur ragefully maintained the contrary, entered into particulars, and traced what he declared to be the proper frontier line with hisstick, swearing that within a few inches it was absolutely correct. However, matters went altogether from bad to worse after an interviewbetween the brothers, Gervais and Gregoire, in the course of which thelatter lost his temper and indulged in unpardonable language. On themorrow, too, he began an action-at-law, to which Gervais replied bythreatening that he would not send another grain of corn to be groundat the mill. And this rupture of business relations meant seriousconsequences for the mill, which really owed its prosperity to thecustom of Chantebled. 

From that moment matters grew worse each day, and conciliation soonseemed to be out of the question; for Ambroise, on being solicited tofind a basis of agreement, became in his turn impassioned, and evenended by enraging both parties. Thus the hateful ravages of thatfratricidal war were increased: there were now three brothers up in armsagainst one another. And did not this forebode the end of everything;might not this destructive fury gain the whole family, overwhelming itas with a blast of folly and hatred after so many years of sterling goodsense and strong and healthy affection?

Mathieu naturally tried to intervene. But at the very outset he feltthat 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 goodaccount. At the same time, each successive day of discord increased hisanxiety. It was really all his own life-work, the little people whichhad sprung from him, the little kingdom which he had founded under thebenevolent sun, that was threatened with sudden ruin. A work such asthis can only live by force of love. The love which created it can aloneperpetuate it; it crumbles as soon as the bond of fraternal solidarityis broken. Thus it seemed to Mathieu that instead of leaving his workbehind him in full florescence of kindliness, joy, and vigor, he wouldsee it cast to the ground in fragments, soiled, and dead even before hewere dead himself. Yet what a fruitful and prosperous work had hithertobeen that estate of Chantebled, whose overflowing fertility increasedat each successive harvest; and that mill too, so enlarged and soflourishing, which was the outcome of his own inspiring suggestions, to say nothing of the prodigious fortunes which his conquering sons hadacquired in Paris! Yet it was all this admirable work, which faith inlife had created, that a fratricidal onslaught upon life was about todestroy!

One evening, in the mournful gloaming of one of the last days ofSeptember, the couch on which Marianne lay dying of silent grief was, byher desire, rolled to the window. Charlotte alone nursed her, and ofall her sons she had but the last one, Benjamin, beside her in the nowover-spacious house which had replaced the old shooting-box. Since thefamily had been at war she had kept the doors closed, intent on openingthem only to her children when they became reconciled, if they shouldthen seek to make her happy by coming to embrace one another beneath herroof. But she virtually despaired of that sole cure for her grief, theonly joy that would make her live again. 

That evening, as Mathieu came to sit beside her, and they lingered therehand in hand according to their wont, they did not at first speak, butgazed straight before them at the spreading plain; at the estate, whoseinterminable fields blended with the mist far away; at the mill yonderon the banks of the Yeuse, with its tall, smoking chimney; and at Parisitself on the horizon, where a tawny cloud was rising as from the hugefurnace of some forge. 

The minutes slowly passed away. During the afternoon Mathieu had takena 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 lowvoice, as if speaking to himself, he at last said:

"The ploughing could not take place under better conditions. Yonder onthe plateau the quality of the soil has been much improved by the recentmethods of cultivation; and here, too, on the slopes, the sandy soilhas been greatly enriched by the new distribution of the springs whichGervais devised. The estate has almost doubled in value since it hasbeen 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 theYeuse, and from a distance I saw that Gregoire had received the newmachine which Denis has just built for him. It was being unloaded in theyard. It seems that it imparts a certain movement to the mill-stones, which saves a good third of the power needed. With such appliances theearth may produce seas of corn for innumerable nations, they will allhave 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 aresolution which he had formed during his walk, he told his wife thathe 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, thesettlement of an old account. But the truth was, that he could no longerendure the spectacle of his wife's lingering agony, which brought himso much suffering. He wished to act, to make a supreme effort atreconciliation. 

At ten o'clock on the following morning, when Mathieu alighted from thetrain at the Paris terminus, he drove direct to the factory at Grenelle. Before everything else he wished to see Denis, who had hitherto taken nopart in the quarrel. For a long time now, indeed ever since Constance'sdeath, Denis had been installed in the house on the quay with hiswife Marthe and their three children. This occupation of the luxuriousdwelling set apart for the master had been like a final entry intopossession, with respect to the whole works. True, Beauchene had livedseveral years longer, but his name no longer figured in that of thefirm. He had surrendered his last shred of interest in the business foran annuity; and at last one evening it was learnt that he had died thatday, 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 hadpreviously been sinking into a state of second childhood, the outcomeof his life of fast and furious pleasure. And this, then, was the endof the egotistical debauchee, ever going from bad to worse, and finallyswept into the gutter. 

"Why! what good wind has blown you here?" cried Denis gayly, when heperceived his father. "Have you come to lunch? I'm still a bachelor, youknow; for it is only next Monday that I shall go to fetch Marthe and thechildren from Dieppe, where they have spent a delightful September. "

Then, on hearing that his mother was ailing, even in danger, he becomeserious and anxious. 

"Mamma ill, and in danger! You amaze me. I thought she was simplytroubled with some little indisposition. But come, father, what isreally the matter? Are you hiding something? Is something worrying you?"

Thereupon he listened to the plain and detailed statement which Mathieufelt obliged to make to him. And he was deeply moved by it, as if thedread of the catastrophe which it foreshadowed would henceforth upsethis life. "What!" he angrily exclaimed, "my brothers are up to thesefine pranks with their idiotic quarrel! I knew that they did not geton well together. I had heard of things which saddened me, but I neverimagined that matters had gone so far, and that you and mamma were soaffected that you had shut yourselves up and were dying of it all! Butthings must be set to rights! One must see Ambroise at once. Let us goand lunch with him, and finish the whole business. "

Before starting he had a few orders to give, so Mathieu went down towait for him in the factory yard. And there, during the ten minuteswhich he spent walking about dreamily, all the distant past arose beforehis eyes. He could see himself a mere clerk, crossing that courtyardevery morning on his arrival from Janville, with thirty sous for hislunch in his pocket. The spot had remained much the same; there was thecentral building, with its big clock, the workshops and the sheds, quitea 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 theBoulevard de Grenelle had been utilized for the erection of otherbuildings. And facing the quay there still stood the large brick housewith dressings of white stone, of which Constance had been so proud, and where, with the mien of some queen of industry, she had received herfriends in her little salon hung with yellow silk. Eight hundred men nowworked in the place; the ground quivered with the ceaseless trepidationof machinery; the establishment had grown to be the most importantof its kind in Paris, the one whence came the finest agriculturalappliances, the most powerful mechanical workers of the soil. And itwas his, Mathieu's, son whom fortune had made prince of that branch ofindustry, and it was his daughter-in-law who, with her three strong, healthy children near her, received her friends in the little salon hungwith yellow silk. 

As Mathieu, moved by his recollections, glanced towards the right, towards the pavilion where he had dwelt with Marianne, and where Gervaishad 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 yearsold, and aged, and wrecked by labor to even a greater degree than hisfather had been at the time when mother Moineaud had come to offer theMonster her children's immature flesh. Entering the works at sixteenyears of age, Victor, like his father, had spent forty years betweenthe forge and the anvil. It was iniquitous destiny beginning afresh:the most crushing toil falling upon a beast of burden, the son hebetatedafter the father, ground to death under the millstones of wretchednessand injustice. 

"Good day, Victor, " said Mathieu, "are you well?"

"Oh, I'm no longer young, Monsieur Froment, " the other replied. "I shallsoon have to look somewhere for a hole to lie in. Still, I hope it won'tbe under an omnibus. "

He alluded to the death of his father, who had finally been picked upunder an omnibus in the Rue de Grenelle, with his skull split and bothlegs broken. 

"But after all, " resumed Victor, "one may as well die that way as anyother! It's even quicker. The old man was lucky in having Norine andCecile to look after him. If it hadn't been for them, it's starvationthat 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 canunderstand, we don't often see one another. Them and me, that's aboutall that's left out of our lot; for Irma won't have anything more to dowith us since she's become one of the toffs. Euphrasie was lucky enoughto die, and that brigand Alfred disappeared, which was real relief, Iassure you; for I feared that I should be seeing him at the galleys. AndI 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 shewas always strong, and her boy, it seems, looks after her. Both she andCecile still work; yes, Cecile still lives on, though one used to thinkthat a fillip would have killed her. It's a pretty home, that one oftheirs; 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 andmothers. "

The old workman waved his hand vaguely. 

"Yes, " said he, "I had eight, one more than my father. They've allgone 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 aresome 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 totake me in, as Norine and Cecile took my father. But when everything'ssaid, 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 theworks, 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 proposedto him that they should go on foot to the Avenue d'Antin. On the way hewarned him that they would certainly find Ambroise alone, for hiswife and four children were still at Dieppe, where, indeed, the twosisters-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 businessleft him by old Du Hordel, transforming it into a really universal_comptoir_, through which passed merchandise from all parts of theworld. Frontiers did not exist for Ambroise, he enriched himself withthe spoils of the earth, particularly striving to extract from thecolonies all the wealth they were able to yield, and carrying on hisoperations with such triumphant audacity, such keen perception, that themost 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 oftheir fortune, the dispersal of the home and family, he had carved ashare for himself by securing possession of the house in the Avenued'Antin. Seguin himself had not resided there for years, he had thoughtit original to live at his club, where he secured accommodation after heand his wife had separated by consent. Two of the children had also goneoff; Gaston, now a major in the army, was on duty in a distant garrisontown, and Lucie was cloistered in an Ursuline convent. Thus, Valentine, left to herself and feeling very dreary, no longer able, moreover, tokeep up the establishment on a proper footing, in her turn quittedthe mansion for a cheerful and elegant little flat on the BoulevardMalesherbes, where she finished her life as a very devout old lady, presiding over a society for providing poor mothers with baby-linen, andthus devoting herself to the children of others--she who had not knownhow to bring up her own. And, in this wise, Ambroise had simply had totake possession of the empty mansion, which was heavily mortgaged, tosuch an extent, indeed, that when the Seguins died their heirs wouldcertainly be owing him money. 

Many were the recollections which awoke when Mathieu, accompanied byDenis, entered that princely mansion of the Avenue d'Antin! There, as atthe factory, he could see himself arriving in poverty, as a needy tenantbegging his landlord to repair a roof, in order that the rain might nolonger pour down on the four children, whom, with culpable improvidence, he already had to provide for. There, facing the avenue, was thesumptuous Renaissance facade with eight lofty windows on each of itsupper floors; there, inside, was the hall, all bronze and marble, conducting to the spacious ground-floor reception-rooms which a wintergarden prolonged; and there, up above, occupying all the central part ofthe first floor, was Seguin's former "cabinet, " the vast apartment withlofty windows of old stained glass. Mathieu could well rememberthat room with its profuse and amusing display of "antiquities, " oldbrocades, old goldsmith's ware and old pottery, and its richly boundbooks, and its famous modern pewters. And he remembered it also at alater date, in the abandonment to which it had fallen, the aspect ofruin which it had assumed, covered, as it was, with gray dust whichbespoke the slow crumbling of the home. And now he found it once moresuperb and cheerful, renovated with healthier and more substantialluxury by Ambroise, who had put masons and joiners and upholsterers intoit for a period of three months. The whole mansion now lived afresh, more luxurious than ever, filled at winter-time with sounds offestivity, enlivened by the laughter of four happy children, and theblaze of a living fortune which effort and conquest ever renewed. Andit was no longer Seguin, the idler, the artisan of nothingness, whomMathieu came to see there, it was his own son Ambroise, a man ofcreative energy, whose victory had been sought by the very forces oflife, which had made him triumph there, installed him as the master inthe home of the vanquished. 

When Mathieu and Denis arrived Ambroise was absent, but was expectedhome for lunch. They waited for him, and as the former again crossedthe ante-room the better to judge of some new arrangements that had beenmade, he was surprised at being stopped by a lady who was sitting therepatiently, 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, andwas certainly more than sixty years of age; but she evidently took careof her person, and had a smiling mien, with a long, full face andalmost 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 findingher so fortunately circumstanced at the close of her career. He hadimagined that she was buried in some sewer. 

In a gay, placid way she proceeded to recount her happiness: "Oh! I amvery pleased, " she said; "I had retired to Rougemont, my birth-place, and I ended by there marrying a retired naval officer, who has a verycomfortable pension, not to speak of a little fortune which his firstwife left him. As he has two big sons, I ventured to recommend theyounger one to Monsieur Ambroise, who was kind enough to take him intohis counting-house. And so I have profited by my first journey to Parissince 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 shehad hastened his first wife's death in order to marry him. All thingsconsidered, however, she rendered him very happy, and even rid him ofhis sons, who were in his way, thanks to the relations she had kept upin Paris. 

She continued smiling like a worthy woman, whose feelings softened atthe recollection of the past. "You can have no idea how pleased I feltwhen I saw you pass just now, Monsieur Froment, " she resumed. "Ah! itwas a long time ago that I first had the honor of seeing you here! Youremember 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 toa pretty little house of their own, with some little savings which theylive on very quietly. She is no longer young, but she has buried a goodmany in her time, and she'll bury more before she has finished! Forinstance, Madame Menoux--you must surely remember Madame Menoux, thelittle haberdasher close by--well, there was a woman now who never hadany luck! She lost her second child, and she lost that big fellow, herhusband, whom she was so fond of, and she herself died of grief sixmonths 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 ninetyliving there. Take La Couteau, for instance, she will live as longas she likes! Oh! yes, it is a very pleasant part indeed, a perfectparadise. "

At these words the abominable Rougemont, the bloody Rougemont, arosebefore Mathieu's eyes, rearing its peaceful steeple above the lowplain, with its cemetery paved with little Parisians, where wild flowersbloomed and hid the victims of so many murders. 

But Celeste was rattling on again, saying: "You remember Madame Bourdieuwhom you used to know in the Rue de Miromesnil; she died very nearour village on some property where she went to live when she gave upbusiness, a good many years ago. She was luckier than her colleague LaRouche, who was far too good-natured with people. You must have readabout her case in the newspapers, she was sent to prison with a medicalman named Sarraille. "

"La Rouche! Sarraille!" Yes, Mathieu had certainly read the trial ofthose two social pests, who were fated to meet at last in their work ofiniquity. And what an echo did those names awaken in the past: ValerieMorange! Reine Morange! Already in the factory yard Mathieu had fanciedthat he could see the shadow of Morange gliding past him--the punctual, timid, soft-hearted accountant, whom misfortune and insanity had carriedoff into the darkness. And suddenly the unhappy man here again appearedto Mathieu, like a wandering phantom, the restless victim of all theimbecile ambition, all the desperate craving for pleasure which animatedthe period; a poor, weak, mediocre being, so cruelly punished for thecrimes of others, that he was doubtless unable to sleep in the tombinto which he had flung himself, bleeding, with broken limbs. And beforeMathieu's eyes there likewise passed the spectre of Seraphine, withthe fierce and pain-fraught face of one who is racked and killed byinsatiate desire. 

"Well, excuse me for having ventured to stop you, Monsieur Froment, "Celeste concluded; "but I am very, very pleased at having met youagain. "

He was still looking at her; and as he quitted her he said, with theindulgence born of his optimism: "May you keep happy since you arehappy. Happiness must know what it does. "

Nevertheless, Mathieu remained disturbed, as he thought of the apparentinjustice of impassive nature. The memory of his Marianne, struck downby such deep grief, pining away through the impious quarrels of hersons, returned to him. And as Ambroise at last came in and gaylyembraced him, after receiving Celeste's thanks, he felt a thrill ofanguish, for the decisive moment which would save or wreck the familywas now at hand. 

Indeed, Denis, after inviting himself and Mathieu to lunch, promptlyplunged 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 illlike this ever since she came to speak to you about the quarrel betweenGregoire and Gervais, when it seems that you treated her very roughly. "

"I treated her roughly? We simply talked business, and perhaps I spoketo 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 tohis emotion, even as Denis had done at the works immediately on learningthe truth. 

"But dash it all, " he said; "this affair is becoming quite idiotic! Inmy opinion Gregoire is right and Gervais wrong. Only I don't care a figabout that; they must make it up at once, so that poor mamma may nothave another moment's suffering. But then, why did you shut yourselvesup? Why did you not let us know how grieved you were? Every one wouldhave reflected and understood things. "

Then, all at once, Ambroise embraced his father with that promptness ofdecision which he displayed to such happy effect in business as soon asever a ray of light illumined his mind. 

"After all, father, " said he; "you are the cleverest; you understandthings and foresee them. Even if Gregoire were within his rights inbringing an action against Gervais, it would be idiotic for him to doso, because far above any petty private interest, there is the interestof all of us, the interest of the family, which is to remain, united, compact, and unattackable, if it desires to continue invincible. Oursovereign strength lies in our union--And so it's simple enough. Wewill lunch as quickly as possible and take the first train. We shallgo, Denis and I, to Chantebled with you. Peace must be concluded thisevening. I will see to it. "

Laughing, and well pleased to find his own feelings shared by his twosons, Mathieu returned Ambroise's embrace. And while waiting for lunchto be served, they went down to see the winter garden, which was beingenlarged for some fetes which Ambroise wished to give. He took pleasurein adding to the magnificence of the mansion, and in reigning there withprincely pomp. At lunch he apologized for only offering his fatherand brother a bachelor's pot-luck, though, truth to tell, the fare wasexcellent. Indeed, whenever Andree and the children absented themselves, Ambroise still kept a good cook to minister to his needs, for he heldthe cuisine of restaurants in horror. 

"Well, for my part, " said Denis, "I go to a restaurant for my meals; forsince Marthe and all the others have been at Dieppe, I have virtuallyshut 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 anddrink your coffee, and we will start. "

They reached Janville by the two o'clock train. Their plan was to repairto Chantebled in the first instance, in order that Ambroise and Denismight begin by talking to Gervais, who was of a gentler nature thanGregoire, and with whom they thought they might devise some means ofconciliation. Then they intended to betake themselves to the mill, lecture Gregoire, and impose on him such peace conditions as they mighthave agreed upon. As they drew nearer and nearer to the farm, however, the difficulties of their undertaking appeared to them, and seemed toincrease in magnitude. An arrangement would not be arrived at so easilyas they had at first imagined. So they girded their loins in readinessfor a hard battle. 

"Suppose we begin by going to see mamma, " Denis suggested. "We shouldsee 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 havesome idea. "

They climbed to the first floor of the house, to the spacious roomwhere Marianne spent her days on a couch beside the window. And to theirstupefaction they found her seated on that couch with Gregoire standingby her and holding both her hands, while on the other side were Gervaisand Claire, laughing softly. 

"Why! what is this?" exclaimed Ambroise in amazement. "The work isdone!"

"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 thesurprise 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 broughtthem here to reconcile us all!"

A joyous peal of laughter resounded. The big brothers were toolate! Neither their wisdom nor their diplomacy had been needed. Theythemselves made merry over it, feeling the while greatly relieved thatthe victory should have been won without any battle. 

Marianne, whose eyes were moist, and who felt divinely happy, so happythat she seemed already well again, simply replied to Mathieu: "You see, my friend, it's done. But as yet I know nothing further. Gregoire camehere and kissed me, and wished me to send for Gervais and Claire atonce. Then, of his own accord, he told them that they were all threemad in causing me such grief, and that they ought to come to anunderstanding together. Thereupon they kissed one another. And now it'sdone; it's all over. "

But Gregoire gayly intervened. "Wait a moment; just listen; I cut toofine a figure in the story as mamma relates it, and I must tell you thetruth. I wasn't the first to desire the reconciliation; the first wasmy wife, Therese. She has a good sterling heart and the very brains of amule, in such wise that whenever she is determined on anything I alwayshave to do it in the end. Well, yesterday evening we had a bit of aquarrel, for she had heard, I don't know how, that mamma was ill withgrief. And this pained her, and she tried to prove to me how stupid thequarrel was, for we should all of us lose by it. This morning she beganagain, and of course she convinced me, more particularly as, with thethought of poor mamma lying ill through our fault, I had hardly sleptall night. But father Lepailleur still had to be convinced, and Thereseundertook to do that also. She even hit upon something extraordinary, sothat the old man might imagine that he was the conqueror of conquerors. She persuaded him at last to sell you that terrible enclosure at suchan insane price that he will be able to shout 'victory!' over all thehouse-tops. "

Then turning to his brother and sister, Gregoire added, in a joculartone; "My dear Gervais, my dear Claire, let yourselves be robbed, I begof you. The peace of my home is at stake. Give my father-in-law the lastjoy of believing that he alone has always been in the right, and that wehave 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, streakingit with stones and brambles, like a nasty sore. We have long dreamtof seeing the property spotless, with its crops waving without a breakunder 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 themill to be ground, and the mother would get well again. It was the forceof life, the need of love, the union necessary for the whole family ifit were to continue victorious, that had imposed true brotherlinesson the sons, who for a moment had been foolish enough to destroy theirpower by assailing one another. 

The delight of finding themselves once more together there, Denis, Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, the four big brothers, and Claire, the bigsister, all reconciled and again invincible, increased when Charlottearrived, bringing with her the other three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marthe, who had married and settled in the district. Louise, havingheard that her mother was ill, had gone to fetch her sisters, in orderthat they might repair to Chantebled together. And what a hearty laughthere was when the procession entered!

"Let them all come!" cried Ambroise, in a jocular way. "Let's have thefamily 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 yourknees, and unanimously decides that it can no longer allow you to haveeven a headache. "

Then, as Benjamin put in an appearance the very last, behind the threesisters, 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 Marianneaffectionately, in a low voice. "The others jest because you are thelast of the brood. But if I spoil you that only concerns ourselves, doesit not? Tell them that you spent the morning with me, and that if youwent out for a walk it was because I wished you to do so. "

Benjamin smiled with a gentle and rather sad expression. "But I wasdownstairs, mamma; I saw them go up one after the other. I waited forthem all to kiss, before coming up in my turn. "

He was already one-and-twenty and extremely handsome, with a brightface, 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 fondof him, both for his grace of person and the gentle charm of hisdisposition. He had grown up in a kind of dream, full of a desire whichhe could not put into words, ever seeking the unknown, something whichhe knew not, did not possess. And when his parents saw that he had notaste for any profession, and that even the idea of marrying didnot appeal to him, they evinced no anger, but, on the contrary, theysecretly plotted to keep this son, their last-born, life's final gift, to themselves. Had they not surrendered all the others? Would they notbe forgiven for yielding to the egotism of love by reserving one forthemselves, one who would be theirs entirely, who would never marry, ortoil and moil, but would merely live beside them and love them, and beloved in return? This was the dream of their old age, the share which, in return for long fruitfulness, they would have liked to snatchfrom devouring life, which, though it gives one everything, yet takeseverything away. 

"Oh! just listen, Benjamin, " Ambroise suddenly resumed, "you areinterested in our brave Nicolas, I know. Would you like to have somenews of him? I heard from him only the day before yesterday. And it'sright 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 hewritten 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 bysince then, yet the scene, with that eternal farewell, that flight, asit were, into the infinite of time and hope, was ever present in hismind. 

"You know that I have business relations with Nicolas, " resumedAmbroise. "Oh! if we had but a few fellows as intelligent and courageousas he is in our colonies, we should soon rake in all the scatteredwealth of those virgin lands. Well, Nicolas, as you are aware, went toSenegal 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 thefield was still too small for them, and that they dreamt of clearing andconquering a larger expanse. And now, all at once, Nicolas writes to methat he is starting for the Soudan, the valley of the Niger, which hasonly lately been opened. He is taking his wife and his four childrenwith him, and they are all going off to conquer as fortune may willit, like valiant pioneers beset by the idea of founding a new world. Iconfess that it amazes me, for it is a very hazardous enterprise. Butall 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 settingout for an almost unknown region, fully convinced that he will subjectand populate it. "

Silence fell. A great gust seemed to have swept by, the gust of theinfinite coming from the far away mysterious virgin plains. And thefamily could picture that young fellow, one of themselves, going offthrough the deserts, carrying the good seed of humanity under thespreading sky into unknown climes. 

"Ah!" said Benjamin softly, his eyes dilating and gazing far, far awayas if to the world's end; "ah! he's happy, for he sees other rivers, andother forests, and other suns than ours!"

But Marianne shuddered. "No, no, my boy, " said she; "there are no otherrivers than the Yeuse, no other forests but our woods of Lillebonne, no other sun but that of Chantebled. Come and kiss me again--let usall kiss once more, and I shall get well, and we shall never be partedagain. "

The laughter began afresh with the embraces. It was a great day, a dayof victory, the most decisive victory which the family had ever won byrefusing to let discord destroy it. Henceforth it would be invincible. 

At twilight, on the evening of that day, Mathieu and Marianne againfound themselves, as on the previous evening, hand in hand near thewindow whence they could see the estate stretching to the horizon; thathorizon behind which arose the breath of Paris, the tawny cloud of itsgigantic forge. But how little did that serene evening resemble theother, and how great was their present felicity, their trust in thegoodness of their work. 

"Do you feel better?" Mathieu asked his wife; "do you feel your strengthreturning; does your heart beat more freely?"

"Oh! my friend, I feel cured; I was only pining with grief. To-morrow Ishall be strong. "

Then Mathieu sank into a deep reverie, as he sat there face to face withhis conquest--that estate which spread out under the setting sun. And again, as in the morning, did recollections crowd upon him; heremembered a morning more than forty years previously when he hadleft Marianne, with thirty sous in her purse, in the little tumbledownshooting-box on the verge of the woods. They lived there on next tonothing; they owed money, they typified gay improvidence with the fourlittle mouths which they already had to feed, those children who hadsprung from their love, their faith in life. 

Then he recalled his return home at night time, the three hundredfrancs, a month's salary, which he had carried in his pocket, thecalculations which he had made, the cowardly anxiety which he had felt, disturbed as he was by the poisonous egotism which he had encounteredin Paris. There were the Beauchenes, with their factory, and their onlyson, Maurice, whom they were bringing up to be a future prince, theBeauchenes, who had prophesied to him that he and his wife and theirtroop of children could only expect a life of black misery, and death ina garret. There were also the Seguins, then his landlords, who had shownhim their millions, and their magnificent mansion, full of treasures, crushing him the while, treating him with derisive pity because he didnot behave sensibly like themselves, who were content with having buttwo children, a boy and a girl. And even those poor Moranges had talkedto him of giving a royal dowry to their one daughter Reine, dreaming atthat time of an appointment that would bring in twelve thousand francsa year, and full of contempt for the misery which a numerous familyentails. And then the very Lepailleurs, the people of the mill, hadevinced distrust because there were twelve francs owing to them for milkand eggs; for it had seemed to them doubtful whether a bourgeois, insaneenough to have so many children, could possibly pay his debts. Ah! theviews of the others had then appeared to be correct; he had repeated tohimself that he would never have a factory, nor a mansion, nor even amill, and that in all probability he would never earn twelve thousandfrancs a year. The others had everything and he nothing. The others, therich, behaved sensibly, and did not burden themselves with offspring;whereas, he, the poor man, already had more children than he couldprovide for. What madness it had seemed to be!

But forty years had rolled away, and behold his madness was wisdom! Hehad conquered by his divine improvidence; the poor man had vanquishedthe wealthy. He had placed his trust in the future, and now the wholeharvest was garnered. The Beauchene factory was his through his sonDenis; the Seguins' mansion was his through his son Ambroise; theLepailleurs' mill was his through his son Gregoire. Tragical, evenexcessive punishment, had blown those sorry Moranges away in a tempestof blood and insanity. And other social wastage had swept by and rolledinto the gutter; Seraphine, the useless creature, had succumbed toher passions; the Moineauds had been dispersed, annihilated by theirpoisonous environment. And he, Mathieu, and Marianne alone remainederect, face to face with that estate of Chantebled, which they hadconquered from the Seguins, and where their children, Gervais andClaire, at present reigned, prolonging the dynasty of their race. Thiswas their kingdom; as far as the eye could see the fields spread outwith wondrous fertility under the sun's farewell, proclaiming thebattles, the heroic creative labor of their lives. There was their work, there was what they had produced, whether in the realm of animate orinanimate nature, thanks to the power of love within them, and theirenergy of will. By love, and resolution, and action, they had created aworld. 

"Look, look!" murmured Mathieu, waving his arm, "all that has sprungfrom us, and we must continue to love, we must continue to be happy, inorder that it may all live. "

"Ah!" Marianne gayly replied, "it will live forever now, since we haveall become reconciled and united amid our victory. "

Victory! yes, it was the natural, necessary victory that is reaped bythe numerous family! Thanks to numbers they had ended by invading everysphere and possessing everything. Fruitfulness was the invincible, sovereign conqueress. Yet their conquest had not been meditated andplanned; ever serenely loyal in their dealings with others, they owedit simply to the fulfilment of duty throughout their long years of toil. And they now stood before it hand in hand, like heroic figures, gloriousbecause they had ever been good and strong, because they had createdabundantly, because they had given abundance of joy, and health, andhope to the world amid all the everlasting struggles and the everlastingtears. 

XXIII

AND Mathieu and Marianne lived more than a score of years longer, andMathieu was ninety years old and Marianne eighty-seven, when theirthree eldest sons, Denis, Ambroise, and Gervais, ever erect beside them, planned that they would celebrate their diamond wedding, the seventiethanniversary of their marriage, by a fete at which they would assembleall the members of the family at Chantebled. 

It was no little affair. When they had drawn up a complete list, theyfound that one hundred and fifty-eight children, grandchildren, andgreat-grandchildren had sprung from Mathieu and Marianne, withoutcounting a few little ones of a fourth generation. By adding to theabove those who had married into the family as husbands and wives theywould be three hundred in number. And where at the farm could they finda room large enough for the huge table of the patriarchal feast thatthey dreamt of? The anniversary fell on June 2, and the spring that yearwas one of incomparable mildness and beauty. So they decided that theywould lunch out of doors, and place the tables in front of the oldpavilion, on the large lawn, enclosed by curtains of superb elms andhornbeams, 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 tocelebrate. 

Thus the festival was settled and organized amid a great impulse oflove and joy. All were eager to take part in it, all hastened to thetriumphal gathering, from the white-haired old men to the urchins whostill sucked their thumbs. And the broad blue sky and the flaming sunwere bent on participating in it also, as well as the whole estate, thestreaming springs and the fields in flower, giving promise of bounteousharvests. Magnificent looked the huge horseshoe table set out amid thegrass, with handsome china and snowy cloths which the sunbeams fleckedathwart the foliage. The august pair, the father and mother, were tosit side by side, in the centre, under the oak tree. It was decidedalso that the other couples should not be separated, that it would becharming to place them side by side according to the generation theybelonged to. But as for the young folks, the youths and maidens, theurchins and the little girls, they, it was thought, might well be leftto 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 itfrom the four points of the compass. But alas! death's scythe had beenat 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 gonethither to sleep the eternal sleep, each time carrying away a littlemore of the family's heart, and making of that sacred spot a place ofworship and eternal souvenir. First Charlotte, after long illness, hadjoined Blaise, happy in leaving Berthe to replace her beside Mathieu andMarianne, who were heart-stricken by her death, as if indeed they werefor the second time losing their dear son. Afterwards their daughterClaire had likewise departed from them, leaving the farm to her husbandFrederic and her brother Gervais, who likewise had become a widowerduring the ensuing year. Then, too, Mathieu and Marianne had lost theirson Gregoire, the master of the mill, whose widow Therese still ruledthere amid a numerous progeny. And again they had to mourn another oftheir daughters, the kind-hearted Marguerite, Dr. Chambouvet's wife, who sickened and died, through having sheltered a poor workman's littlechildren, who were affected with croup. And the other losses could nolonger be counted among them were some who had married into the family, wives and husbands, and there were in particular many children, thetithe that death always exacts, those who are struck down by the stormswhich sweep over the human crop, all the dear little ones for whom theliving weep, and who sanctify the ground in which they rest. 

But if the dear departed yonder slept in deepest silence, how gay wasthe uproar and how great the victory of life that morning along theroads which led to Chantebled! The number of those who were bornsurpassed that of those who died. From each that departed, a wholeflorescence of living beings seemed to blossom forth. They sprang up indozens from the ground where their forerunners had laid themselves tosleep when weary of their work. And they flocked to Chantebled fromevery side, even as swallows return at spring to revivify their oldnests, filling the blue sky with the joy of their return. Outside thefarm, vehicles were ever setting down fresh families with troopsof children, whose sea of fair heads was always expanding. Great-grandfathers with snowy hair came leading little ones who couldscarcely toddle. There were very nice-looking old ladies whom younggirls of dazzling freshness assisted to alight. There were mothersexpecting the arrival of other babes, and fathers to whom the charmingidea had occurred of inviting their daughters' affianced lovers. Andthey were all related, they had all sprung from a common ancestry, theywere 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 everypossible degree, down to the fourth generation. And they were all onefamily; one sole little nation, assembling in joy and pride to celebratethat diamond wedding, the rare prodigious nuptials of two heroiccreatures whom life had glorified and from whom all had sprung! And whatan epic, what a Biblical numbering of that people suggested itself! Howeven name all those who entered the farm, how simply set forth theirnames, their ages, their degree of relationship, the health, thestrength, and the hope that they had brought into the world!

Before everybody else there were those of the farm itself, all those whohad been born and who had grown up there. Gervais, now sixty-two, washelped by his two eldest sons, Leon and Henri, who between them had tenchildren; while his three daughters, Mathilde, Leontine, and Julienne, who were married in the district, in like way numbered between themtwelve. Then Frederic, Claire's husband, who was five years older thanGervais, had surrendered his post as a faithful lieutenant to his sonJoseph, while his daughters Angele and Lucille, as well as a second sonJules, also helped on the farm, the four supplying a troop of fifteenchildren, some of them boys and some girls. 

Then, of all those who came from without, the mill claimed the firstplace. Therese, Gregoire's widow, arrived with her offspring, herson Robert, who now managed the mill under her control, and her threedaughters, Genevieve, Aline, and Natalie, followed by quite a train ofchildren, ten belonging to the daughters and four to Robert. Next cameLouise, 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, fourdaughters, of whom Colette was the eldest; in the second, five sons withHilary at the head of them; and in the third, a son and daughter only, Sebastien and Christine; the whole, however, forming quite an army, forthere 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 agreat-grandfather through his daughters Hortense and Marcelle, hadenjoyed the happy rest which follows accomplished labor ever since hehad handed his works over to his eldest sons Lucien and Paul, who wereboth men of more than forty, and whose own sons were already on the roadto every sort of fortune. And what with the mother and father, the fourchildren, the fifteen grandchildren, and the three great-grandchildren, two of whom were yet in swaddling clothes, this was really an invadingtribe packed into five vehicles. 

Then the final entry was that of the little nation which had sprung fromAmbroise, who to his great grief had early lost his wife Andree. His wassuch a green old age that at sixty-seven he still directed his business, in which his sons Leonce and Charles remained simple _employes_ likehis sons-in-law--the husbands of his daughters, Pauline and Sophie--whotrembled before him, uncontested king that he remained, obeyed by oneand all, grandfather of seven big bearded young men and nine strongyoung women, through four of whom he had become a great-grandfathereven before his elder, the wise Denis. For this troop six carriages wererequired. And the defile lasted two hours, and the farm was soon full ofa happy, laughing throng, holiday-making in the bright June sunlight. 

Mathieu and Marianne had not yet put in an appearance. Ambroise, who wasthe grand master of the ceremonies that day, had made them promise toremain in their room, like sovereigns hidden from their people, untilhe should go to fetch them. He desired that they should appear in allsolemnity. And when he made up his mind to summon them, the whole nationbeing assembled together, he found his brother Benjamin on the thresholdof the house defending the door like a bodyguard. 

He, Benjamin, had remained the one idler, the one unfruitful scion ofthat 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 companionto his father and a passionate worshipper of his mother, who with theegotism of love had set themselves upon keeping him for themselvesalone. At first they had not been opposed to his marrying, but whenthey had seen him refuse one match after another, they had secretly feltgreat delight. Nevertheless, as years rolled by, some unacknowledgedremorse had come to them amid their happiness at having him besidethem like some hoarded treasure, the delight of an avaricious old age, following a life of prodigality. Did not their Benjamin suffer at havingbeen thus monopolized, shut up for their sole pleasure within thefour walls of their house? He had at all times displayed an anxiousdreaminess, his eyes had ever sought far-away things, the unknown landwhere perfect satisfaction dwelt, yonder, behind the horizon. And nowthat age was stealing upon him his torment seemed to increase, as if hewere in despair at finding himself unable to try the possibilities ofthe 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 greetedthem. The gay excited throng, the whole swarming family cried aloud:"Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to theFather and the Mother!"

At ninety years of age Mathieu was still very upright and slim, closelybuttoned in a black frock-coat like a young bridegroom. Over his barehead fell a snowy fleece, for after long wearing his hair cut short hehad now in a final impulse of coquetry allowed it to grow, so that itseemed liked the _renouveau_ of an old but vigorous tree. Age might havewithered and worn and wrinkled his face, but he still retained the eyesof his young days, large lustrous eyes, at once smiling and pensive, which still bespoke a man of thought and action, one who was verysimple, very gay, and very good-hearted. And Marianne at eighty-sevenyears 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 alast glow under her silky tresses, she resembled one of those sacredmarbles whose features time has ravined, without, however, being able toefface from them the tranquil splendor of life. She seemed, indeed, likesome fruitful Cybele, retaining all firmness of contour, and livinganew in the broad daylight with gentle good humor sparkling in her largeblack eyes. 

Arm-in-arm close to one another, like a worthy couple who had come fromafar, who had walked on side by side without ever parting for seventylong years, Mathieu and Marianne smiled with tears of joy in their eyesat the whole swarming family which had sprung from their love, and whichstill acclaimed them:

"Long live the Father! Long live the Mother! Long life, long life to theFather 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 beenintrusted with this duty. She had been chosen because she was the eldestchild of the fourth generation. She was the daughter of Angeline, whowas the daughter of Berthe, who was the daughter of Charlotte, wife ofBlaise. And when the two ancestors saw her approach them with her bigbouquet, their emotion increased, happy tears again gathered in theireyes, 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 thechild in memory of the other long-mourned Rose, who had been the firstto leave them, and who slept yonder in the little cemetery. There in histurn had Blaise been laid, and thither Charlotte had followed them. ThenBerthe, Blaise's daughter, who had married Philippe Havard, had givenbirth to Angeline. And, later, Angeline, having married Georges Delmas, had given birth to Rose. Berthe and Philippe Havard, Angeline andGeorges Delmas stood behind the child. And she represented one and all, the dead, the living, the whole flourishing line, its many griefs, itsmany joys, all the valiant toil of creation, all the river of lifethat it typified, for everything ended in her, dear, frail, fair-hairedangel, with eyes bright like the dawn, in whose depths the futuresparkled. 

"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, andthat very morning she had recited it to her mother without making asingle mistake. But when she found herself there among all these peopleshe 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 herbouquet and sprang at the necks of Mathieu and Marianne, exclaiming inher 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 betterthan any compliment. Laughter and clapping of hands and acclamationsagain arose. Then they forthwith began to take their seats at table. 

This, however, was quite an affair, so large was the horse-shoe tablespread out under the oak on the short, freshly cut grass. First Mathieuand Marianne, still arm in arm, went ceremoniously to seat themselvesin the centre with their backs towards the trunk of the great tree. OnMathieu's left, Marthe and Denis, Louise and her husband, notary Mazaud, took their places, since it had been fittingly decided that the husbandsand wives should not be separated. On the right of Marianne cameAmbroise, Therese, Gervais, Dr. Chambouvet, three widowers and a widow, then another married couple, Madeleine and her husband, architectHerbette, and then Benjamin alone. The other married folks afterwardsinstalled themselves according to the generation they belonged to; andthen, as had been decided, youth and childhood, the whole troop ofyoung people and little ones took seats as they pleased amid no littleturbulence. 

What a moment of sovereign glory it was for Mathieu and Marianne! Theyfound themselves there in a triumph of which they would never have daredto dream. Life, as if to reward them for having shown faith in her, for having increased her sway with all bravery, seemed to have takenpleasure in prolonging their existences beyond the usual limits so thattheir eyes might behold the marvellous blossoming of their work. Thewhole of their dear Chantebled, everything good and beautiful that theyhad there begotten and established, participated in the festival. Fromthe cultivated fields that they had set in the place of marshes came thebroad quiver of great coming harvests; from the pasture lands amid thedistant woods came the warm breath of cattle and innumerable flockswhich ever increased the ark of life; and they heard, too, the loudbabble of the captured springs with which they had fertilized the nowfruitful moorlands, the flow of that water which is like the very bloodof 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 raceoffer them that festival! Those elms and hornbeams, which made the lawna great hall of greenery, had been planted by themselves; they had seenthem growing day by day like the most peaceable and most sturdy of theirchildren. And in particular that oak, now so gigantic, thanks to theclear waters of the adjoining basin through which one of the sourcesever streamed, was their own big son, one that dated from the day whenthey 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 royalsymbol of the whole family? Like that oak the family had grown andmultiplied, ever throwing out fresh branches which spread far overthe ground; and like that oak it now formed by itself a perfect forestsprung from a single trunk, vivified by the same sap, strong in the samehealth, and full of song, and breeziness, and sunlight. 

Leaning against that giant tree Mathieu and Marianne became merged inits sovereign glory and majesty, and was not their royalty akin toits own? Had they not begotten as many beings as the tree had begottenbranches? Did they not reign there over a nation of their children, wholived by them, even as the leaves above lived by the tree? The threehundred big and little ones seated around them were but a prolongationof themselves; they belonged to the same tree of life, they had sprungfrom their love and still clung to them by every fibre. Mathieu andMarianne divined how joyous they all were at glorifying themselves inmaking much of them; how moved the elder ones, how turbulently merry theyounger felt. They could hear their own hearts beating in the breasts ofthe fair-haired urchins who already laughed with ecstasy at the sight ofthe cakes and pastry on the table. And their work of human creation wasassembled in front of them and within them, in the same way as theoak's huge dome spread out above it; and all around they were likewiseencompassed by the fruitfulness of their other work, the fertility andgrowth of nature which had increased even as they themselves multiplied. 

Then was the true beauty which had its abode in Mathieu and Mariannemade manifest, that beauty of having loved one another for seventy yearsand of still worshipping one another now even as on the first day. Forseventy years had they trod life's pathway side by side and arm in arm, without a quarrel, without ever a deed of unfaithfulness. They couldcertainly recall great sorrows, but these had always come from without. And if they had sometimes sobbed they had consoled one another bymingling their tears. Under their white locks they had retained thefaith of their early days, their hearts remained blended, merged oneinto the other, even as on the morrow of their marriage, each havingthen been freely given and never taken back. In them the power of love, the will of action, the divine desire whose flame creates worlds, hadhappily met and united. He, adoring his wife, had known no otherjoy than the passion of creation, looking on the work that had tobe performed and the work that was accomplished as the sole why andwherefore of his being, his duty and his reward. She, adoring herhusband, had simply striven to be a true companion, spouse, mother, and good counsellor, one who was endowed with delicacy of judgment andhelped to overcome all difficulties. Between them they were reason, and health, and strength. If, too, they had always triumphed athwartobstacles and tears, it was only by reason of their long agreement, their common fealty amid an eternal renewal of their love, whosearmor rendered them invincible. They could not be conquered, they hadconquered by the very power of their union without designing it. Andthey ended heroically, as conquerors of happiness, hand in hand, pureas crystal is, very great, very handsome, the more so from their extremeage, their long, long life, which one love had entirely filled. And thesole strength of their innumerable offspring now gathered there, theconquering tribe that had sprung from their loins, was the strength ofunion inherited from them: the loyal love transmitted from ancestors tochildren, the mutual affection which impelled them to help one anotherand ever fight for a better life in all brotherliness. 

But mirthful sounds arose, the banquet was at last being served. All theservants of the farm had gathered to discharge this duty--they would notallow a single person from without to help them. Nearly all had grown upon the estate, and belonged, as it were, to the family. By and by theywould have a table for themselves, and in their turn celebrate thediamond wedding. And it was amid exclamations and merry laughter thatthey brought the first dishes. 

All at once, however, the serving ceased, silence fell, an unexpectedincident attracted all attention. A young man, whom none apparentlycould recognize, was stepping across the lawn, between the arms of thehorse-shoe table. He smiled gayly as he walked on, only stopping whenhe was face to face with Mathieu and Marianne. Then in a loud voicehe said: "Good day, grandfather! good day, grandmother! You must haveanother cover laid, for I have come to celebrate the day with you. "

The onlookers remained silent, in great astonishment. Who was this youngman whom none had ever seen before? Assuredly he could not belong to thefamily, for they would have known his name, have recognized his face?Why, then, did he address the ancestors by the venerated names ofgrandfather and grandmother? And the stupefaction was the greater byreason of his extraordinary resemblance to Mathieu. Assuredly, he was aFroment, he had the bright eyes and the lofty tower-like forehead ofthe race. Mathieu lived again in him, such as he appeared ina piously-preserved portrait representing him at the age ofseven-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 mymother, 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 ofthe 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 thebrick house which I have built, four children are already growing upunder 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 atfifty years of age had already proved a more valiant artisan of lifethan 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 beplaced for you; you are at home here. "

In four strides Dominique made the round of the tables, then cast hisstrong arms about the old people and embraced them--they the whilefeeling faint with happy emotion, so delightful was that surprise, yetanother child falling among them, and on that day, as from some distantsky, and telling them of the other family, the other nation whichhad sprung from them, and which was swarming yonder with increase offruitfulness amid the fiery glow of the tropics. 

That surprise was due to the sly craft of Ambroise, who merrilyexplained how he had prepared it like a masterly coup de theatre. Fora week past he had been lodging and hiding Dominique in his house inParis; the young man having been sent from the Soudan by his father tonegotiate certain business matters, and in particular to order of Denisa quantity of special agricultural machinery adapted to the soil ofthat far-away region. Thus Denis alone had been taken into the other'sconfidence. 

When all those seated at the table saw Dominique in the old people'sarms, and learnt the whole story, there came an extraordinary outburstof delight; deafening acclamations arose once more; and what with theirenthusiastic greetings and embraces they almost stifled the messengerfrom the sister family, that prince of the second dynasty of theFroments 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 powerfulempire. Remember that, apart from his father and mother, he representsnine brothers and seven sisters, without counting the four children thathe already has himself. There, my boy, sit down; and now let the servicecontinue. "

The feast proved a mirthful one under the big oak tree whose shade wasspangled by the sunbeams. Delicious freshness arose from the grass, friendly nature seemed to contribute its share of caresses. The laughternever ceased, old folks became playful children once more in presence ofthe ninety and the eighty-seven years of the bridegroom and the bride. Faces beamed softly under white and dark and sunny hair; the wholeassembly was joyful, beautiful with a healthy rapturous beauty; thechildren radiant, the youths superb, the maidens adorable, the marriedfolk united, side by side. And what good appetites there were! What agay tumult greeted the advent of each fresh dish! And how the good winewas honored to celebrate the goodness of life which had granted the twopatriarchs the supreme grace of assembling them all at their table onsuch a glorious occasion! At dessert came toasts and health-drinking andfresh acclamations. But, amid all the chatter which flew from one tothe other end of the table, the conversation invariably reverted tothe surprise at the outset: that triumphal entry of the brotherlyambassador. It was he, his unexpected presence, all that he had notyet said, all the adventurous romance which he surely personated, thatfanned the growing fever, the excitement of the family, intoxicatedby that open-air gala. And as soon as the coffee was served no end ofquestions arose on every side, and he had to speak out. 

"Well, what can I say?" he replied, laughing, to a question put to himby Ambroise, who wished to know what he thought of Chantebled, wherehe had taken him for a stroll during the morning. "I'm afraid that ifI speak in all frankness, you won't think me very complimentary. Cultivation, no doubt, is quite an art here, a splendid effort of willand science and organization, as is needed to draw from this old soilsuch crops as it can still produce. You toil a great deal, and youeffect prodigies. But, good heavens! how small your kingdom is! How canyou live here without hurting yourselves by ever rubbing against otherpeople's elbows? You are all heaped up to such a degree that you nolonger have the amount of air needful for a man's lungs. Your largeststretches of land, what you call your big estates, are mere clods ofsoil where the few cattle that one sees look to me like lost ants. Butah! 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 riverhad arrived, he had continued gazing at him, with passion rising in hisdreamy eyes. And on hearing him speak in this fashion he could no longerrestrain himself, but rose, went round the table, and sat down besidehim. 

"The Niger--the immense plains--tell us all about them, " he said. 

"The Niger, the good giant, the father of us all over yonder!" respondedDominique. "I was barely eight years old when my parents quittedSenegal, yielding to an impulse of reckless bravery and wild hope, possessed by a craving to plunge into the Soudan and conquer as chancemight will it. There are many days' march among rocks and scrub andrivers from St. Louis to our present farm, far beyond Djenny. And I nolonger remember the first journey. It seems to me as if I sprang fromgood father Niger himself, from the wondrous fertility of his waters. He is gentle but immense, rolling countless waves like the sea, and sobroad, so vast, that no bridge can span him as he flows from horizon tohorizon. He carries archipelagoes on his breast, and stretches out armscovered with herbage like pasture land. And there are the depths whereflotillas of huge fishes roam at their ease. Father Niger has histempests, too, and his days of fire, when his waters beget life in theburning clasp of the sun. And he has his delightful nights, his soft androsy nights, when peace descends on earth from the stars.... He is theancestor, the founder, the fertilizer of the Western Soudan, which hehas dowered with incalculable wealth, wresting it from the invasion ofneighboring Saharas, building it up of his own fertile ooze. It is hewho every year at regular seasons floods the valley like an ocean andleaves it rich, pregnant, as it were, with amazing vegetation. Evenlike the Nile, he has vanquished the sands; he is the father of untoldgenerations, the creative deity of a world as yet unknown, which inlater times will enrich old Europe.... And the valley of the Niger, thegood giant's colossal daughter. Ah! what pure immensity is hers; whata flight, so to say, into the infinite! The plain opens and expands, unbroken and limitless. Ever and ever comes the plain, fields aresucceeded by other fields stretching out of sight, whose end a ploughwould only reach in months and months. All the food needed for a greatnation will be reaped there when cultivation is practised with a littlecourage and a little science, for it is still a virgin kingdom suchas the good river created it, thousands of years ago. To-morrow thiskingdom will belong to the workers who are bold enough to take it, eachcarving for himself a domain as large as his strength of toil can dreamof; not an estate of acres, but leagues and leagues of ploughland wavywith eternal crops.... And what breadth of atmosphere there is in thatimmensity! What delight it is to inhale all the air of that space at onebreath, and how healthy and strong the life, for one is no longer piledone upon the other, but one feels free and powerful, master of that partof the earth which one has desired under the sun which shines for all. "

Benjamin listened and questioned, never satisfied. "How are youinstalled there?" he asked. "How do you live? What are your habits? Whatis your work?"

Dominique began to laugh again, conscious as he was that he wasastonishing, upsetting all these unknown relatives who pressed so closeto him, aglow with increasing curiosity. Women and old men had inturn left their places to draw near to him; even children had gatheredaround, as if to listen to a fine story. 

"Oh! we live in republican fashion, " said he; "every member of ourcommunity has to help in the common fraternal task. The family countsmore or less expert artisans of all kinds for the rough work. My fatherin particular has revealed himself to be a very skilful mason, forhe had to build a place for us when we arrived. He even made his ownbricks, thanks to some deposits of clayey soil which exist near Djenny. So our farm is now a little village: each married couple will have itsown house. Then, too, we are not only agriculturists, we are fishermenand hunters also. We have our boats; the Niger abounds in fish to anextraordinary degree, and there are wonderful hauls at times. And eventhe shooting and hunting would suffice to feed us; game is plentiful, there are partridges and wild guinea-fowl, not to mention theflamingoes, the pelicans, the egrets, the thousands of creatures whodo not prey on one another. Black lions visit us at times: eagles flyslowly over our heads; at dusk hippopotami come in parties of threeand four to gambol in the river with the clumsy grace of negro childrenbathing. But, after all, we are more particularly cultivators, kingsof the plain, especially when the waters of the Niger withdraw afterfertilizing our fields. Our estate has no limits; it stretches as far aswe can labor. And ah! if you could only see the natives, who do not evenplough, but have few if any appliances beyond sticks, with which theyjust scratch the soil before confiding the seed to it! There is notrouble, no worry; the earth is rich, the sun ardent, and thus the cropwill always be a fine one. When we ourselves employ the plough, when webestow a little care on the soil which teems with life, what prodigiouscrops there are, an abundance of grain such as your barns could neverhold! As soon as we possess the agricultural machinery, which I havecome to order here in France, we shall need flotillas of boats in orderto send you the overplus of our granaries.... When the river subsides, when its waters fall, the crop we more particularly grow is rice; thereare, indeed, plains of rice, which occasionally yield two crops. Thencome millet and ground-beans, and by and by will come corn, when we cangrow 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 haveonions and pimentoes, and gourds and cucumbers. And I don't mention thenatural vegetation, the precious gum-trees, of which we possess quite aforest; the butter-trees, the flour-trees, the silk-trees, which growon our ground like briers alongside your roads.... Finally, we areshepherds; we own ever-increasing flocks, whose numbers we don't evenknow. Our goats, our bearded sheep may be counted by the thousand; ourhorses scamper freely through paddocks as large as cities, and whenour hunch-backed cattle come down to the Niger to drink at that hour ofserene splendor the sunset, they cover a league of the river banks.... And, above everything else, we are free men and joyous men, working forthe delight of living without restraint, and our reward is the thoughtthat our work is very great and good and beautiful, since it is thecreation of another France, the sovereign France of to-morrow. "

From that moment Dominique paused no more. There was no longer any needto question him, he poured forth all the beauty and grandeur in hismind. He spoke of Djenny, the ancient queen city, whose people andwhose monuments came from Egypt, the city which even yet reigns overthe valley. He spoke of four other centres, Bamakoo, Niamina, Segu, and Sansandig, big villages which would some day be great towns. And hespoke particularly of Timbuctoo the glorious, so long unknown, with aveil of legends cast over it as if it were some forbidden paradise, withits gold, its ivory, its beautiful women, all rising like a mirage ofinaccessible delight beyond the devouring sands. He spoke of Timbuctoo, the gate of the Sahara and the Western Soudan, the frontier town wherelife ended and met and mingled, whither the camel of the desertbrought the weapons and merchandise of Europe as well as salt, thatindispensable commodity, and where the pirogues of the Niger landed theprecious ivory, the surface gold, the ostrich feathers, the gum, thecrops, all the wealth of the fruitful valley. He spoke of Timbuctoo thestore-place, the metropolis and market of Central Africa, with itspiles of ivory, its piles of virgin gold, its sacks of rice, millet, and ground-nuts, its cakes of indigo, its tufts of ostrich plumes, itsmetals, its dates, its stuffs, its iron-ware, and particularly its slabsof rock salt, brought on the backs of beasts of burden from Taudeni, thefrightful 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 itserves as a medium of exchange, as money more precious even than gold. And finally, he spoke of Timbuctoo impoverished, fallen from its highestate, the opulent and resplendent city of former times now almost inruins, hiding remnants of its treasures behind cracked walls in fear ofthe robbers of the desert; but withal apt to become once more a cityof glory and fortune, royally seated as it is between the Soudan, thatgranary of abundance, and the Sahara, the road to Europe, as soon asFrance shall have opened that road, have connected the provinces of hernew empire, and have founded that huge new France of which the ancientfatherland will be but the directing mind. 

"That is the dream!" cried Dominique, "that is the gigantic work whichthe future will achieve! Algeria, connected with Timbuctoo by the Sahararailway line, over which electric engines will carry the whole of oldEurope through the far expanse of sand! Timbuctoo connected with Senegalby flotillas of steam vessels and yet other railways, all intersectingthe 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 whowill some day spring up there!... Doubtless these things cannot be donein a night. The trans-Saharian railway is not yet laid down; there aretwo thousand five hundred kilometres* of bare desert to be crossed whichcan hardly tempt railway companies; and a certain amount of prosperitymust be developed by starting cultivation, seeking and working mines, and increasing exportations before a pecuniary effort can be possibleon the part of the motherland. Moreover, there is the question of thenatives, mostly of gentle race, though some are ferocious bandits, whose savagery is increased by religious fanaticism, thus rendering thedifficulties of our conquest all the greater. Until the terrible problemof Islamism is solved we shall always be coming in conflict with it. Andonly life, long years of life, can create a new nation, adapt it to thenew 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 needsour blood--and some must be given it, in order that it may be peopledand be able to draw its incalculable wealth from the soil, and becomethe greatest, the strongest, and the mightiest in the world!"

 * About 1, 553 English miles. 

Transported with enthusiasm, quivering at the thought of the distantideal at last revealed to him, Benjamin sat there with tears in hiseyes. Ah! the healthy life! the noble life! the other life! the wholemission and work of which he had as yet but confusedly dreamt! Again heasked a question: "And are there many French families there, colonizinglike yours?"

Dominique burst into a loud laugh. "Oh, no, " said he, "there arecertainly a few colonists in our old possessions of Senegal, but yonderin 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 itall seems like defying common sense. Can you picture it? A French familyinstalled among savages, and unprotected, save for the vicinity of alittle fort, where a French officer commands a dozen native soldiers--aFrench family, which is sometimes called upon to fight in person, andwhich establishes a farm in a land where the fanaticism of some headtribesman may any day stir up trouble. It seems so insane that folksget angry at the mere thought of it, yet it enraptures us and gives usgayety and health, and the courage to achieve victory. We are openingthe road, we are giving the example, we are carrying our dear old Franceyonder, taking to ourselves a huge expanse of virgin land, which willbecome a province. We have already founded a village which in a hundredyears will be a great town. In the colonies no race is more fruitfulthan the French, though it seems to become barren on its own ancientsoil. 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 youlack air in your little fields and your overheated, pestilence-breedingtowns. There is room for everybody yonder; there are new lands, there isopen air that none has breathed, and there is a task to be accomplishedwhich will make all of you heroes, strong, sturdy men, well pleased tolive! Come with me. I will take the men, I will take all the women whoare willing, and you will carve for yourselves other provinces and foundother cities for the future glory and power of the great new France. "

He laughed so gayly, he was so handsome, so spirited, so robust, thatonce again the whole table acclaimed him. They would certainly notfollow him yonder, for all those married couples already had their ownnests; and all those young folks were already too strongly rooted to theold land by the ties of their race--a race which after displaying suchadventurous instincts has now fallen asleep, as it were, at its ownfireside. But what a marvellous story it all was--a story to which bigand little alike, had listened in rapture, and which to-morrow would, doubtless, arouse within them a passion for glorious enterprise faraway! The seed of the unknown was sown, and would grow into a crop offabulous magnitude. 

For the moment Benjamin was the only one who cried amid the enthusiasmwhich drowned his words: "Yes, yes, I want to live. Take me, take mewith 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 nameof Chantebled to our farm yonder. He often tells us how you founded yourestate here, in an impulse of far-seeing audacity, although everybodyjeered and shrugged their shoulders and declared that you must be mad. And, yonder, my father has to put up with the same derision, the samecontemptuous pity, for people declare that the good Niger will some daysweep away our village, even if a band of prowling natives does not killand eat us! But I'm easy in mind about all that, we shall conquer asyou conquered, for what seems to be the folly of action is really divinewisdom. There will be another kingdom of the Froments yonder, anotherhuge Chantebled, of which you and my grandmother will be the ancestors, the distant patriarchs, worshipped like deities.... And I drink to yourhealth, grandfather, and I drink to yours, grandmother, on behalf ofyour other future people, who will grow up full of spirit under theburning sun of the tropics!"

Then with great emotion Mathieu, who had risen, replied in a powerfulvoice: "To your health! my boy. To the health of my son Nicolas, hiswife, Lisbeth, and all who have been born from them! And to the healthof all who will follow, from generation to generation!"

And Marianne, who had likewise risen, in her turn said: "To the healthof your wives, and your daughters, your spouses and your mothers! To thehealth of those who will love and produce the greatest sum of life, inorder that the greatest possible sum of happiness may follow!"

Then, the banquet ended, they quitted the table and spread freely overthe lawn. There was a last ovation around Mathieu and Marianne, who wereencompassed by their eager offspring. At one and the same time a scoreof arms were outstretched, carrying children, whose fair or dark headsthey were asked to kiss. Aged as they were, returning to a divinestate of childhood, they did not always recognize those little lads andlasses. They made mistakes, used wrong names, fancied that one childwas another. Laughter thereupon arose, the mistakes were rectified, andappeals were made to the old people's memory. They likewise laughed, theerrors were amusing, but it mattered little if they no longer remembereda name, the child at any rate belonged to the harvest that had sprungfrom them. 

Then there were certain granddaughters and great-granddaughters whomthey themselves summoned and kissed by way of bringing good luck to thebabes that were expected, the children of their children's children, the race which would ever spread and perpetuate them through the far-offages. And there were mothers, also, who were nursing, mothers whoselittle ones, after sleeping quietly during the feast, had now awakened, shrieking their hunger aloud. These had to be fed, and the mothersmerrily seated themselves together under the trees and gave them thebreast in all serenity. Therein lay the royal beauty of woman, wife andmother; fruitful maternity triumphed over virginity by which life isslain. Ah! might manners and customs change, might the idea of moralityand the idea of beauty be altered, and the world recast, based on thetriumphant beauty of the mother suckling her babe in all the majesty ofher symbolism! From fresh sowings there ever came fresh harvests, thesun ever rose anew above the horizon, and milk streamed forth endlesslylike the eternal sap of living humanity. And that river of milk carriedlife through the veins of the world, and expanded and overflowed for thecenturies of the future. 

The greatest possible sum of life in order that the greatest possiblehappiness might result: that was the act of faith in life, the act ofhope in the justice and goodness of life's work. Victorious fruitfulnessremained the one true force, the sovereign power which alone mouldedthe future. She was the great revolutionary, the incessant artisan ofprogress, the mother of every civilization, ever re-creating her armyof innumerable fighters, throwing through the centuries millions aftermillions of poor and hungry and rebellious beings into the fight fortruth and justice. Not a single forward step in history has ever beentaken without numerousness having urged humanity forward. To-morrow, like yesterday, will be won by the swarming of the multitude whose questis happiness. And to-morrow will give the benefits which our age hasawaited; economic equality obtained even as political equality has beenobtained; a just apportionment of wealth rendered easy; and compulsorywork re-established as the one glorious and essential need. 

It is not true that labor has been imposed on mankind as punishmentfor sin, it is on the contrary an honor, a mark of nobility, the mostprecious of boons, the joy, the health, the strength, the very soul ofthe world, which itself labors incessantly, ever creating the future. And misery, the great, abominable social crime, will disappear amid theglorification of labor, the distribution of the universal task among oneand all, each accepting his legitimate share of duties and rights. Andmay children come, they will simply be instruments of wealth, they willbut increase the human capital, the free happiness of a life in whichthe children of some will no longer be beasts of burden, or food forslaughter or for vice, to serve the egotism of the children of others. And life will then again prove the conqueror; there will come therenascence of life, honored and worshipped, the religion of life so longcrushed beneath the hateful nightmare of Roman Catholicism, from whichon divers occasions the nations have sought to free themselves byviolence, and which they will drive away at last on the now nearday when cult and power, and sovereign beauty shall be vested in thefruitful earth and the fruitful spouse. 

In that last resplendent hour of eventide, Mathieu and Marianne reignedby virtue of their numerous race. They ended as heroes of life, becauseof the great creative work which they had accomplished amid battle andtoil and grief. Often had they sobbed, but with extreme old age had comepeace, deep smiling peace, made up of the good labor performed and thecertainty of approaching rest while their children and their children'schildren resumed the fight, labored and suffered, lived in their ownturn. And a part of Mathieu and Marianne's heroic grandeur sprang fromthe divine desire with which they had glowed, the desire which mouldsand regulates the world. They were like a sacred temple in which thegod had fixed his abode, they were animated by the inextinguishable firewith which the universe ever burns for the work of continual creation. Their radiant beauty under their white hair came from the light whichyet filled their eyes, the light of love's power, which age had beenunable to extinguish. Doubtless, as they themselves jestingly remarkedat times, they had been prodigals, their family had been such a largeone. But, after all, had they not been right? Their children haddiminished no other's share, each had come with his or her own meansof subsistence. And, besides, 'tis good to garner in excess when thegranaries of a country are empty. Many such improvidents are neededto combat the egotism of others at times of great dearth. Amid all thefrightful loss and wastage, the race is strengthened, the country ismade afresh, a good civic example is given by such healthy prodigalityas Mathieu and Marianne had shown. 

But a last act of heroism was required of them. A month after thefestival, when Dominique was on the point of returning to the Soudan, Benjamin one evening told them of his passion, of the irresistiblesummons from the unknown distant plains, which he could but obey. 

"Dear father, darling mother, let me go with Dominique! I havestruggled, I feel horrified with myself at quitting you thus, at yourgreat 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 notgo. "

They listened with breaking hearts. Their son's words did not surprisethem; they had heard them coming ever since their diamond wedding. Andthey trembled, and felt that they could not refuse; for they knew thatthey were guilty in having kept their last-born in the family nest aftersurrendering to life all the others. Ah! how insatiable life was--itwould not so much as suffer that tardy avarice of theirs; it demandedeven the precious, discreetly hidden treasure from which, with jealousegotism, they had dreamt of parting only when they might find themselvesupon the threshold of the grave. 

Deep silence reigned; but at last Mathieu slowly answered: "I cannotkeep 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 shouldthen escape this last great pang, and you would only carry our memoryaway 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. Nosadness tinged that thought, however; they hoped that they would liedown there together on the same day, for they could not imagine life, one without the other. And, besides, would they not forever live intheir children; forever be united, immortal, in their race?

"Dear father, darling mother, " Benjamin repeated; "it is I who will bedead to-morrow if I do not go. To wait for your death--good God! wouldnot that be to desire it? You must still live long years, and I wish tolive 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 waswhen they had to tear themselves from that flesh of their flesh, allthat remained to them, in order to hand over to life the supreme giftit demanded! The departure of Nicolas seemed to begin afresh; againcame the "never more" of the migratory child taking wing, given to thepassing wind for the sowing of unknown distant lands, far beyond thefrontiers. 

"Never more!" cried Mathieu in tears. 

And Marianne repeated in a great sob which rose from the very depths ofher being: "Never more! Never more!"

There was now no longer any mere question of increasing a family, ofbuilding up the country afresh, of re-peopling France for the strugglesof the future, the question was one of the expansion of humanity, of thereclaiming of deserts, of the peopling of the entire earth. After one'scountry came the earth; after one's family, one's nation, and thenmankind. And what an invading flight, what a sudden outlook upon theworld's immensity! All the freshness of the oceans, all the perfumesof virgin continents, blended in a mighty gust like a breeze from theoffing. Scarcely fifteen hundred million souls are to-day scatteredthrough the few cultivated patches of the globe, and is that not indeedpaltry, when the globe, ploughed from end to end, might nourish tentimes that number? What narrowness of mind there is in seeking to limitmankind to its present figure, in admitting simply the continuance ofexchanges among nations, and of capitals dying where they stand--asBabylon, Nineveh, and Memphis died--while other queens of the eartharise, inherit, and flourish amid fresh forms of civilization, and thiswithout population ever more increasing! Such a theory is deadly, fornothing remains stationary: whatever ceases to increase decreases anddisappears. Life is the rising tide whose waves daily continue the workof creation, and perfect the work of awaited happiness, which shall comewhen the times are accomplished. The flux and reflux of nations are butperiods of the forward march: the great centuries of light, which darkages at times replace, simply mark the phases of that march. Anotherstep forward is ever taken, a little more of the earth is conquered, alittle more life is brought into play. The law seems to lie in adouble phenomenon; fruitfulness creating civilization, and civilizationrestraining fruitfulness. And equilibrium will come from it all on theday when the earth, being entirely inhabited, cleared, and utilized, shall at last have accomplished its destiny. And the divine dream, thegenerous utopian thought soars into the heavens; families blended intonations, nations blended into mankind, one sole brotherly people makingof the world one sole city of peace and truth and justice! Ah! mayeternal fruitfulness ever expand, may the seed of humanity be carriedover the frontiers, peopling the untilled deserts afar, and increasingmankind through the coming centuries until dawns the reign of sovereignlife, 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 thework which they had so prodigally accomplished. Nothing more was theirs;nothing save the happiness of having given all to life. The "Nevermore" of separation became the "Still more" of life--life incessantlyincreasing, expanding beyond the limitless horizon. Candid andsmiling, those all but centenarian heroes triumphed in the overflowingflorescence of their race. The milk had streamed even athwart theseas--from the old land of France to the immensity of virgin Africa, theyoung and giant France of to-morrow. After the foundation of Chantebled, on a disdained, neglected spot of the national patrimony, anotherChantebled was rising and becoming a kingdom in the vast desertedtracts which life yet had to fertilize. And this was the exodus, humanexpansion throughout the world, mankind upon the march towards theInfinite. 

England. --August 1898-May 1899.