Fruitfulness: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

XI

ON the day when the first blow with the pick was dealt, Marianne, with
Gervais in her arms, came and sat down close by, full of happy emotion at
this work of faith and hope which Mathieu was so boldly undertaking. It
was a clear, warm day in the middle of June, with a pure, broad sky that
encouraged confidence. And as the children had been given a holiday, they
played about in the surrounding grass, and one could hear the shrill
cries of little Rose while she amused herself with running after the
three boys.

"Will you deal the first blow?" Mathieu gayly asked his wife.

But she pointed to her baby. "No, no, I have my work. Deal it yourself,
you are the father."

He stood there with two men under his orders, but ready himself to
undertake part of the hard manual toil in order to help on the
realization of his long thought of, ripening scheme. With great prudence
and wisdom he had assured himself a modest livelihood for a year of
effort, by an intelligent scheme of association and advances repayable
out of profits, which would enable him to wait for his first harvest. And
it was his life that he risked on that future crop, should the earth
refuse his worship and his labor. But he was a faithful believer, one who
felt certain of conquering, since love and determination were his.

"Well then, here goes!" he gallantly cried. "May the earth prove a good
mother to us!"

Then he dealt the first blow with his pick.

The work was begun to the left of the old pavilion, in a corner of that
extensive marshy tableland, where little streams coursed on all sides
through the reeds which sprang up everywhere. It was at first simply a
question of draining a few acres by capturing these streams and turning
them into canals, in order to direct them afterwards over the dry sandy
slopes which descended towards the railway line. After an attentive
examination Mathieu had discovered that the work might easily be
executed, and that water-furrows would suffice, such was the disposition
and nature of the ground. This, indeed, was his real discovery, not to
mention the layer of humus which he felt certain would be found amassed
on the plateau, and the wondrous fertility which it would display as soon
as a ploughshare had passed through it. And so with his pick he now began
to open the trench which was to drain the damp soil above, and fertilize
the dry, sterile, thirsty ground below.

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

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

Then she gave him the breast and he became quiet, simply purring like a
happy little kitten. The beneficent source had begun to flow once more,
as if it were inexhaustible. The trickling milk murmured unceasingly. One
might have said that it could be heard descending and spreading, while
Mathieu on his side continued opening his trench, assisted by the two men
whose apprenticeship was long since past.

He rose up at last, wiped his brow, and with his air of quiet certainty
exclaimed: "It's only a trade to learn. In a few months' time I shall be
nothing but a peasant. Look at that stagnant pond there, green with
water-plants. The spring which feeds it is yonder in that big tuft of
herbage. And when this trench has been opened to the edge of the slope,
you will see the pond dry up, and the spring gush forth and take its
course, carrying the beneficent water away."

"Ah!" said Marianne, "may it fertilize all that stony expanse, for
nothing can be sadder than dead land. How happy it will be to quench its
thirst and live again!"

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

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

Four months later, when Mathieu and his men had finished the autumn
ploughing, there came the sowing on the same spot. Marianne was there
again, and it was such a very mild gray day that she was still able to
sit down, and once more gayly give the breast to little Gervais. He was
already eight months old and had become quite a personage. He grew a
little more every day, always in his mother's arms, on that warm breast
whence he sucked life. He was like the seed which clings to the seed-pod
so long as it is not ripe. And at that first quiver of November, that
approach of winter through which the germs would slumber in the furrows,
he pressed his chilly little face close to his mother's warm bosom, and
nursed on in silence as if the river of life were lost, buried deep
beneath the soil.

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

Just then Mathieu, with his sower's bag at his waist, was returning
towards them, scattering the seed with broad rhythmical gestures. He had
heard his wife, and he paused to say to her: "Let him nurse and sleep
till the sun comes back. He will be a man by harvest time." And, pointing
to the great field which he was sowing with his assistants, he added:
"All this will grow and ripen when our Gervais has begun to walk and
talk--just look, see our conquest!"

He was proud of it. From ten to fifteen acres of the plateau were now rid
of the stagnant pools, cleared and levelled; and they spread out in a
brown expanse, rich with humus, while the water-furrows which intersected
them carried the streams to the neighboring slopes. Before cultivating
those dry lands one must yet wait until the moisture should have
penetrated and fertilized them. That would be the work of the future, and
thus, by degrees, life would be diffused through the whole estate.

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

Then he set off again, throwing the seed with his broad rhythmical
gesture. And while Marianne, gravely smiling, watched him go, it occurred
to little Rose to follow in his track, and take up handfuls of earth,
which she scattered to the wind. The three boys perceived her, and Blaise
and Denis then hastened up, followed by Ambroise, all gleefully imitating
their father's gesture, and darting hither and thither around him. And
for a moment it was almost as if Mathieu with the sweep of his arm not
only cast the seed of expected corn into the furrows, but also sowed
those dear children, casting them here and there without cessation, so
that a whole nation of little sowers should spring up and finish
populating the world.

Two months more went by, and January had arrived with a hard frost, when
one day the Froments unexpectedly received a visit from Seguin and
Beauchene, who had come to try their luck at wild-duck shooting, among
such of the ponds on the plateau as had not yet been drained. It was a
Sunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheered
by a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading
countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal
casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April's resurrection. And,
that day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also was
slumbering in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, but
plump even as larks are in the cold weather, and waiting, he also, simply
for life's revival, in order to reappear in all the triumph of his
acquired strength.

The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, the
four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbed in a
playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, the twins,
Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces of
cardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, a
church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch the scissors,
presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself even to her hair.
In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang at intervals,
their father and mother had remained seated side by side in front of the
blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace after the week's hard
work.

They lived there very simply, like genuine peasants, without any luxury,
any amusement, save that of being together. Their gay, bright kitchen was
redolent of that easy primitive life, lived so near the earth, which
frees one from fictitious wants, ambition, and the longing for pleasure.
And no fortune, no power could have brought such quiet delight as that
afternoon of happy intimacy, while the last-born slept so soundly and
quietly that one could not even hear him breathe.

Beauchene and Seguin broke in upon the quiet like unlucky sportsmen, with
their limbs weary and their faces and hands icy cold. Amid the
exclamations of surprise which greeted them, they complained of the folly
that had possessed them to venture out of Paris in such bleak weather.

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

Seguin, who was in even a worse humor, stood before the fire trying to
thaw himself; and while Marianne made haste to warm some wine, he began
to speak of the cleared fields which he had skirted. Under the icy
covering, however, beneath which they stiffly slumbered, hiding the seed
within them, he had guessed nothing of the truth, and already felt
anxious about this business of Mathieu's, which looked anything but
encouraging. Indeed, he already feared that he would not be paid his
purchase money, and so made bold to speak ironically.

"I say, my dear fellow, I am afraid you have lost your time," he began;
"I noticed it all as I went by, and it did not seem promising. But how
can you hope to reap anything from rotten soil in which only reeds have
been growing for centuries?"

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

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

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

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

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

The two visitors followed his gesture, and gazed in amazement at the
walls covered with utensils, at the rough furniture, and at the table on
which the children were still building their village after offering their
cheeks to be kissed. No doubt they were unable to understand what
pleasure there could possibly be there, for, suppressing a jeering laugh,
they shook their heads. To them it was really an extraordinary life, a
life of most singular taste.

"Come and see my little Gervais," said Marianne softly. "He is asleep;
mind, you must not wake him."

For politeness' sake they both bent over the cradle, and expressed
surprise at finding a child but ten months old so big. He was very good,
too. Only, as soon as he should wake, he would no doubt deafen everybody.
And then, too, if a fine child like that sufficed to make life happy, how
many people must be guilty of spoiling their lives! The visitors came
back to the fireside, anxious only to be gone now that they felt
enlivened.

"So it's understood," said Mathieu, "you won't stay to dinner with us?"

"Oh, no, indeed!" they exclaimed in one breath.

Then, to attenuate the discourtesy of such a cry, Beauchene began to
jest, and accepted the invitation for a later date when the warm weather
should have arrived.

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

Then came more kisses and hand-shakes, and the two men disappeared. And
when the gentle silence had fallen once more Mathieu and Marianne again
found themselves in front of the bright fire, while the children
completed the building of their village with a great consumption of
paste, and Gervais continued sleeping soundly. Had they been dreaming?
Mathieu wondered. What sudden blast from all the shame and suffering of
Paris had blown into their far-away quiet? Outside, the country retained
its icy rigidity. The fire alone sang the song of hope in life's future
revival. And, all at once, after a few minutes' reverie the young man
began to speak aloud, as if he had at last just found the answer to all
sorts of grave questions which he had long since put to himself.

"But those folks don't love; they are incapable of loving! Money, power,
ambition, pleasure--yes, all those things may be theirs, but not love!
Even the husbands who deceive their wives do not really love their
mistresses. They have never glowed with the supreme desire, the divine
desire which is the world's very soul, the brazier of eternal life. And
that explains everything. Without desire there is no love, no courage,
and no hope. By love alone can one create. And if love be restricted in
its mission there is but failure. Yes, they lie and deceive, because they
do not love. Then they suffer and lapse into moral and physical
degradation. And at the end lies the collapse of our rotten society,
which breaks up more and more each day before our eyes. That, then, is
the truth I was seeking. It is desire and love that save. Whoever loves
and creates is the revolutionary saviour, the maker of men for the new
world which will shortly dawn."

Never before had Mathieu so plainly understood that he and his wife were
different from others. This now struck him with extraordinary force.
Comparisons ensued, and he realized that their simple life, free from the
lust of wealth, their contempt for luxury and worldly vanities, all their
common participation in toil which made them accept and glorify life and
its duties, all that mode of existence of theirs which was at once their
joy and their strength, sprang solely from the source of eternal energy:
the love with which they glowed. If, later on, victory should remain with
them, if they should some day leave behind them work of value and health
and happiness, it would be solely because they had possessed the power of
love and the courage to love freely, harvesting, in an ever-increasing
family, both the means of support and the means of conquest. And this
sudden conviction filled Mathieu with such a glow that he leant towards
his wife, who sat there deeply moved by what he said, and kissed her
ardently upon the lips. It was divine love passing like a flaming blast.
But she, though her own eyes were sparkling, laughingly scolded him,
saying: "Hush, hush, you will wake Gervais."

Then they remained there hand in hand, pressing each other's fingers amid
the silence. Evening was coming on, and at last the children, their
village finished, raised cries of rapture at seeing it standing there
among bits of wood, which figured trees. And then the softened glances of
the parents strayed now through the window towards the crops sleeping
beneath the crystalline rime, and now towards their last-born's cradle,
where hope was likewise slumbering.

Again did two long months go by. Gervais had just completed his first
year, and fine weather, setting in early, was hastening the awaking of
the earth. One morning, when Marianne and the children went to join
Mathieu on the plateau, they raised shouts of wonder, so completely had
the sun transformed the expanse in a single week. It was now all green
velvet, a thick endless carpet of sprouting corn, of tender, delicate
emerald hue. Never had such a marvellous crop been seen. And thus, as the
family walked on through the mild, radiant April morning, amid the
country now roused from winter's sleep, and quivering with fresh youth,
they all waxed merry at the sight of that healthfulness, that progressing
fruitfulness, which promised the fulfilment of all their hopes. And their
rapture yet increased when, all at once, they noticed that little Gervais
also was awaking to life, acquiring decisive strength. As he struggled in
his little carriage and his mother removed him from it, behold! he took
his flight, and, staggering, made four steps; then hung to his father's
legs with his little fists. A cry of extraordinary delight burst forth.

"Why! he walks, he walks!"

Ah! those first lispings of life, those successive flights of the dear
little ones; the first glance, the first smile, the first step--what joy
do they not bring to parents' hearts! They are the rapturous _etapes_ of
infancy, for which father and mother watch, which they await impatiently,
which they hail with exclamations of victory, as if each were a conquest,
a fresh triumphal entry into life. The child grows, the child becomes a
man. And there is yet the first tooth, forcing its way like a
needle-point through rosy gums; and there is also the first stammered
word, the "pa-pa," the "mam-ma," which one is quite ready to detect amid
the vaguest babble, though it be but the purring of a kitten, the
chirping of a bird. Life does its work, and the father and the mother are
ever wonderstruck with admiration and emotion at the sight of that
efflorescence alike of their flesh and their souls.

"Wait a moment," said Marianne, "he will come back to me. Gervais!
Gervais!"

And after a little hesitation, a false start, the child did indeed
return, taking the four steps afresh, with arms extended and beating the
air as if they were balancing-poles.

"Gervais! Gervais!" called Mathieu in his turn. And the child went back
to him; and again and again did they want him to repeat the journey, amid
their mirthful cries, so pretty and so funny did they find him.

Then, seeing that the four other children began playing rather roughly
with him in their enthusiasm, Marianne carried him away. And once more,
on the same spot, on the young grass, did she give him the breast. And
again did the stream of milk trickle forth.

Close by that spot, skirting the new field, there passed a crossroad, in
rather bad condition, leading to a neighboring village. And on this road
a cart suddenly came into sight, jolting amid the ruts, and driven by a
peasant--who was so absorbed in his contemplation of the land which
Mathieu had cleared, that he would have let his horse climb upon a heap
of stones had not a woman who accompanied him abruptly pulled the reins.
The horse then stopped, and the man in a jeering voice called out: "So
this, then, is your work, Monsieur Froment?"

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

"So you think it will grow, eh? Well, one can't say that it hasn't come
up. Only one must see if it can stand and ripen." And as Mathieu quietly
smiled with hope and confidence, he added, striving to poison his joy:
"Ah! when you know the earth you'll find what a hussy she is. I've seen
plenty of crops coming on magnificently, and then a storm, a gust of
wind, a mere trifle, has reduced them to nothing! But you are young at
the trade as yet; you'll get your experience in misfortune."

His wife, who nodded approval on hearing him talk so finely, then
addressed herself to Marianne: "Oh! my man doesn't say that to discourage
you, madame. But the land you know, is just like children. There are some
who live and some who die; some who give one pleasure, and others who
kill one with grief. But, all considered, one always bestows more on them
than one gets back, and in the end one finds oneself duped. You'll see,
you'll see."

Without replying, Marianne, moved by these malicious predictions, gently
raised her trustful eyes to Mathieu. And he, though for a moment
irritated by all the ignorance, envy, and imbecile ambition which he felt
were before him, contented himself with jesting. "That's it, we'll see.
When your son Antoine becomes a prefect, and I have twelve peasant
daughters ready, I'll invite you to their weddings, for it's your mill
that ought to be rebuilt, you know, and provided with a fine engine, so
as to grind all the corn of my property yonder, left and right,
everywhere!"

The sweep of his arm embraced such a far expanse of ground that the
miller, who did not like to be derided, almost lost his temper. He lashed
his horse with his whip, and the cart jolted on again through the ruts.

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

"Thanks, au revoir."

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

And it was thus, indeed, three months later, when the Beauchenes and the
Seguins, keeping their promise, came--husbands, wives, and children--to
spend a Sunday afternoon at Chantebled. The Froments had even prevailed
on Morange to be of the party with Reine, in their desire to draw him for
a day, at any rate, from the dolorous prostration in which he lived. As
soon as all these fine folks had alighted from the train it was decided
to go up to the plateau to see the famous fields, for everybody was
curious about them, so extravagant and inexplicable did the idea of
Mathieu's return to the soil, and transformation into a peasant, seem to
them. He laughed gayly, and at least he succeeded in surprising them when
he waved his hand towards the great expanse under the broad blue sky,
that sea of tall green stalks whose ears were already heavy and undulated
at the faintest breeze. That warm splendid afternoon, the far-spreading
fields looked like the very triumph of fruitfulness, a growth of germs
which the humus amassed through centuries had nourished with prodigious
sap, thus producing this first formidable crop, as if to glorify the
eternal source of life which sleeps in the earth's flanks. The milk had
streamed, and the corn now grew on all sides with overflowing energy,
creating health and strength, bespeaking man's labor and the kindliness,
the solidarity of the world. It was like a beneficent, nourishing ocean,
in which all hunger would be appeased, and in which to-morrow might
arise, amid that tide of wheat whose waves were ever carrying good news
to the horizon.

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

Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformed
into a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pending
dinner-time, the conversation fell upon children. Marianne, as it
happened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among the
ladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going from
one to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or his nose.
He was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtless because
his health was so good. His big clear eyes were ever laughing; he offered
his little hands in a friendly way, and was very white, very pink, and
very sturdy--quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen and a half
months old. Constance and Valentine admired him, while Marianne jested
and turned him away each time that he greedily put out his little hands
towards her.

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

"Weaning is such a terrible business," then remarked Constance. "Did he
let you sleep last night?"

"Oh! yes, he had good habits, you know; he never troubled me at night.
But this morning he was stupefied and began to cry. Still, you see, he is
fairly well behaved already. Besides, I never had more trouble than this
with the other ones."

Beauchene was standing there, listening, and, as usual, smoking a cigar.
Constance appealed to him:

"You are lucky. But you, dear, remember--don't you?--what a life Maurice
led us when his nurse went away. For three whole nights we were unable to
sleep."

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

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

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

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

These words had scarcely passed his lips when he must have regretted
them. His eyelids quivered and a little chill came over him as his glance
met that of his former designer. For in the latter's clear eyes he
beheld, as it were, a vision of that other son, Norine's ill-fated child,
who had been cast into the unknown. Then there came a pause, and amid the
shrill cries of the boys and girls playing at hide-and-seek a number of
little shadows flitted through the sunlight: they were the shadows of the
poor doomed babes who scarce saw the light before they were carried off
from homes and hospitals to be abandoned in corners, and die of cold, and
perhaps even of starvation!

Mathieu had been unable to answer a word. And his emotion increased when
he noticed Morange huddled up on a chair, and gazing with blurred,
tearful eyes at little Gervais, who was laughingly toddling hither and
thither. Had a vision come to him also? Had the phantom of his dead wife,
shrinking from the duties of motherhood and murdered in a hateful den,
risen before him in that sunlit garden, amid all the turbulent mirth of
happy, playful children?

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

Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter. And a smile
returned to his eyes, still moist with tears. Day by day his adoration
increased. As Reine grew up he found her more and more like her mother,
and all his thoughts became centred in her. His one yearning was that she
might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich. That would be a sign that
he was forgiven--that would be the only joy for which he could yet hope.
And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at the thought that
a husband would some day take her from him, and that he would remain
alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his dead wife.

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

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

"As a matter of fact," resumed her father, feeling flattered, "she has
already been asked in marriage. You know that the Baroness de Lowicz is
kind enough to take her out now and then. Well, she told me that an
arch-millionnaire had fallen in love with Reine--but he'll have to wait!
I shall still be able to keep her to myself for another five or six years
at least!"

He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction,
without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine's name;
for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companion for a
young girl.

Then Marianne, anxious at seeing the conversation drop, began,
questioning Valentine, while Gervais at last slyly crept to her knees.

"Why did you not bring your little Andree?" she inquired. "I should have
been so pleased to kiss her. And she would have been able to play with
this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment's peace."

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

Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved. She had
been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, after
terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged it by her
departure into anarchy. Ah! that Catiche, she might compliment herself on
all the money she had cost! Sent away almost by force, like a queen who
is bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded with presents for
herself and her husband, and her little girl at the village! And now it
had been of little use to take a dry-nurse in her place, for Andree did
not cease shrieking from morning till night. They had discovered, too,
that La Catiche had not only carried off with her a large quantity of
linen, but had left the other servants quite spoilt, disorganized, so
that a general clearance seemed necessary.

"Oh!" resumed Marianne, as if to smooth things, "when the children are
well one can overlook other worries."

"Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?" cried Seguin, giving way to
one of his brutal fits. "That Catiche certainly set her right at first,
but I don't know what happened afterwards, for now she is simply skin and
bones." Then, as his wife wished to protest, he lost his temper. "Do you
mean to say that I don't speak the truth? Why, look at our two others
yonder: they have papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that you don't
look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre has of
them!"

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

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

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

"Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you," said
Constance, turning towards the latter. "Your children are superb, and
nobody says the contrary."

Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free to make
fun of her if they pleased. But at this moment she perceived that
Gervais, profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his "paradise
lost." And thereupon she set him on the ground: "Ah, no, no, monsieur!"
she exclaimed. "I have told you that it is all over. Can't you see that
people would laugh at us?"

Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking at
her with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to
him, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her so
beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with the
triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something divine
had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed from her
bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of life,
glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail o'er. For
there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, responsible for
incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, in that glory, amid her
vigorous children, like the good goddess of Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt
that he adored her. Divine passion swept by--the glow which makes the
fields palpitate, which rolls on through the waters, and floats in the
wind, begetting millions and millions of existences. And 'twas delightful
the ecstasy into which they both sank, forgetfulness of all else, of all
those others who were there. They saw them no longer; they felt but one
desire, to say that they loved each other, and that the season had come
when love blossoms afresh. His lips protruded, she offered hers, and then
they kissed.

"Oh! don't disturb yourselves!" cried Beauchene merrily. "Why, what is
the matter with you?"

"Would you like us to move away?" added Seguin.

But while Valentine laughed wildly, and Constance put on a prudish air,
Morange, in whose voice tears were again rising, spoke these words,
fraught with supreme regret: "Ah! you are right!"

Astonished at what they had done, without intention of doing it, Mathieu
and Marianne remained for a moment speechless, looking at one another in
consternation. And then they burst into a hearty laugh, gayly excusing
themselves. To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies all
health, all will, and all power.

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