Fruitfulness: Chapter 16

Chapter 16

XVI

AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was to prove,
so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, it had
occurred to Mathieu's daughter Rose to gather the whole family together
one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for the ceremony. She and
her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were to repair to Janville
station in the morning to meet the other affianced pair, Ambroise and
Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to the farm where they would
all lunch together. It would be a kind of wedding rehearsal, she
exclaimed with her hearty laugh; they would be able to arrange the
programme for the great day. And her idea enraptured her to such a point,
she seemed to anticipate so much delight from this preliminary festival,
that Mathieu and Marianne consented to it.

Rose's marriage was like the supreme blossoming of years of prosperity,
and brought a finishing touch to the happiness of the home. She was the
prettiest of Mathieu's daughters, with dark brown hair, round gilded
cheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable of
dispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeed
to be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busy life.
But beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing from morning
till night there was much common sense and energy of affection, as her
choice of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu had engaged
the services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmer of the
neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionate interest in
the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working there with rare
activity and intelligence. He had no means of his own at all. Rose, who
had grown up near him, knew however that he was her father's preferred
assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expiration of his
military service she, divining that he loved her, forced him to
acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished to
remain near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all her
happiness. Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeply
touched, they signified their approval of a choice in which affection for
themselves had so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawn yet
closer, and increase of joy came to the home.

So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointed Sunday
Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, Madame Seguin,
to Janville by the ten o'clock train. A couple of hours previously Rose
had already begun a battle with the object of prevailing upon the whole
family to repair to the railway station to meet the affianced pair.

"But come, my children, it is unreasonable," Marianne gently exclaimed.
"It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolas
here, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouring
the roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take all the
others if you like, and your father shall lead the way."

Rose, however, still merrily laughing, clung to her plan. "No, no, mamma,
you must come as well; everybody must come; it was promised. Ambroise and
Andree, you see, are like a royal couple from a neighboring kingdom. My
brother Ambroise, having won the hand of a foreign princess, is going to
present her to us. And so, to do them the honors of our own empire, we,
Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the whole Court. You
form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah what a fine
sight it will be when we spread out through the country on our way home
again!"

Marianne, amused by her daughter's overflowing gayety, ended by laughing
and giving way.

"This will be the order of the march," resumed Rose. "Oh! I've planned
everything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go on
our bicycles--that is the most modern style. We will also take my maids
of honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, eleven,
nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very well
behind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, and
will do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort. All the
rest of the Court will have to pack itself into the chariot--I mean the
big family wagon, in which there is room for eight. You, as Queen Mother,
may keep your last little prince, Nicolas, on your knees. Papa will only
have to carry himself proudly, as befits the head of a dynasty. And my
brother Gervais, that young Hercules of seventeen, shall drive, with
Claire, who at fifteen is so remarkable for common sense, beside him on
the box-seat. As for the illustrious twins, those high and mighty lords,
Denis and Blaise, we will call for them at Janville, since they are
waiting for us there, at Madame Desvignes'."

Thus did Rose rattle on, exulting over the scheme she had devised. She
danced, sang, clapped her hands, and finally exclaimed: "Ah! for a pretty
cortege this will be fine indeed."

She was animated by such joyous haste that she made the party start much
sooner than was necessary, and they reached Janville at half-past nine.
It was true, however, that they had to call for the others there. The
house in which Madame Desvignes had taken refuge after her husband's
death, and which she had now occupied for some twelve years, living there
in a very quiet retired way on the scanty income she had managed to save,
was the first in the village, on the high road. For a week past her elder
daughter Charlotte, Blaise's wife, had come to stay there with her
children, Berthe and Christophe, who needed change of air; and on the
previous evening they had been joined by Blaise, who was well pleased to
spend Sunday with them.

Madame Desvignes' younger daughter, Marthe, was delighted whenever her
sister thus came to spend a few weeks in the old home, bringing her
little ones with her, and once more occupying the room which had belonged
to her in her girlish days. All the laughter and playfulness of the past
came back again, and the one dream of worthy Madame Desvignes, amid her
pride at being a grandmamma, was of completing her life-work, hitherto so
prudently carried on, by marrying off Marthe in her turn. As a matter of
fact it had seemed likely that there might be three instead of two
weddings at Chantebled that spring. Denis, who, since leaving a
scientific school had embarked in fresh technical studies, often slept at
the farm and nearly every Sunday he saw Marthe, who was of the same age
as Rose and her constant companion. The young girl, a pretty blonde like
her sister Charlotte, but of a less impulsive and more practical nature,
had indeed attracted Denis, and, dowerless though she was, he had made up
his mind to marry her, since he had discovered that she possessed the
sterling qualities that help one on to fortune. But in their chats
together both evinced good sense and serene confidence, without sign of
undue haste. Particularly was this the case with Denis, who was very
methodical in his ways and unwilling to place a woman's happiness in
question until he could offer her an assured position. Thus, of their own
accord, they had postponed their marriage, quietly and smilingly
resisting the passionate assaults of Rose, whom the idea of three
weddings on the same day had greatly excited. At the same time, Denis
continued visiting Madame Desvignes, who, on her side, equally prudent
and confident, received him much as if he were her son. That morning he
had even quitted the farm at seven o'clock, saying that he meant to
surprise Blaise in bed; and thus he also was to be met at Janville.

As it happened, the fete of Janville fell on Sunday, the second in May.
Encompassing the square in front of the railway station were roundabouts,
booths, shooting galleries, and refreshment stalls. Stormy showers during
the night had cleansed the sky, which was of a pure blue, with a flaming
sun, whose heat in fact was excessive for the season. A good many people
were already assembled on the square--all the idlers of the district,
bands of children, and peasants of the surrounding country, eager to see
the sights; and into the midst of this crowd fell the Froments--first the
bicyclists, next the wagon, and then the others who had been met at the
entry of the village.

"We are producing our little effect!" exclaimed Rose as she sprang from
her wheel.

This was incontestable. During the earlier years the whole of Janville
had looked harshly on those Froments, those bourgeois who had come nobody
knew whence, and who, with overweening conceit, had talked of making corn
grow in land where there had been nothing but crops of stones for
centuries past. Then the miracle, Mathieu's extraordinary victory, had
long hurt people's vanity and thereby increased their anger. But
everything passes away; one cannot regard success with rancor, and folks
who grow rich always end by being in the right. Thus, nowadays, Janville
smiled complacently on that swarming family which had grown up beside it,
forgetting that in former times each fresh birth at Chantebled had been
regarded as quite scandalous by the gossips. Besides, how could one
resist such a happy display of strength and power, such a merry invasion,
when, as on that festive Sunday, the whole family came up at a gallop,
conquering the roads, the streets, and the squares? What with the father
and mother, the eleven children--six boys and five girls--and two
grandchildren already, there were fifteen of them. The eldest boys, the
twins, were now four-and twenty, and still so much alike that people
occasionally mistook one for the other as in their cradle days, when
Marianne had been obliged to open their eyes to identify them, those of
Blaise being gray, and those of Denis black. Nicolas, the youngest boy,
at the other end of the family scale, was as yet but five years old; a
delightful little urchin was he, a precocious little man whose energy and
courage were quite amusing. And between the twins and that youngster came
the eight other children: Ambroise, the future husband, who was already
on the road to every conquest; Rose, so brimful of life; who likewise was
on the eve of marrying; Gervais, with his square brow and wrestler's
limbs, who would soon be fighting the good fight of agriculture; Claire,
who was silent and hardworking, and lacked beauty, but possessed a strong
heart and a housewife's sensible head. Next Gregoire, the undisciplined,
self-willed schoolboy, who was ever beating the hedges in search of
adventures; and then the three last girls: Louise, plump and good
natured; Madeleine, delicate and of dreamy mind; Marguerite, the least
pretty but the most loving of the trio. And when, behind their father and
their mother, the eleven came along one after the other, followed too by
Berthe and Christophe, representing yet another generation, it was a real
procession that one saw, as, for instance, on that fine Sunday on the
Grand Place of Janville, already crowded with holiday-making folks. And
the effect was irresistible; even those who were scarcely pleased with
the prodigious success of Chantebled felt enlivened and amused at seeing
the Froments galloping about and invading the place. So much health and
mirth and strength accompanied them, as if earth with her overflowing
gifts of life had thus profusely created them for to-morrow's everlasting
hopes.

"Let those who think themselves more numerous come forward!" Rose resumed
gayly. "And then we will count one another."

"Come, be quiet!" said her mother, who, after alighting from the wagon,
had set Nicolas on the ground. "You will end by making people hoot us."

"Hoot us! Why, they admire us: just look at them! How funny it is, mamma,
that you are not prouder of yourself and of us!"

"Why, I am so very proud that I fear to humiliate others."

They all began to laugh. And Mathieu, standing near Marianne, likewise
felt proud at finding himself, as he put it, among "the sacred battalion"
of his sons and daughters. To that battalion worthy Madame Desvignes
herself belonged, since her daughter Charlotte was adding soldiers to it
and helping it to become an army. Such as it was indeed, this was only
the beginning; later on the battalion would be seen ever increasing and
multiplying, becoming a swarming victorious race, great-grandchildren
following grandchildren, till there were fifty of them, and a hundred,
and two hundred, all tending to increase the happiness and beauty of the
world. And in the mingled amazement and amusement of Janville gathered
around that fruitful family there was certainly some of the instinctive
admiration which is felt for the strength and the healthfulness which
create great nations.

"Besides, we have only friends now," remarked Mathieu. "Everybody is
cordial with us!"

"Oh, everybody!" muttered Rose. "Just look at the Lepailleurs yonder, in
front of that booth."

The Lepailleurs were indeed there--the father, the mother, Antonin, and
Therese. In order to avoid the Froments they were pretending to take
great interest in a booth, where a number of crudely-colored china
ornaments were displayed as prizes for the winners at a "lucky-wheel."
They no longer even exchanged courtesies with the Chantebled folks; for
in their impotent rage at such ceaseless prosperity they had availed
themselves of a petty business dispute to break off all relations.
Lepailleur regarded the creation of Chantebled as a personal insult, for
he had not forgotten his jeers and challenges with respect to those
moorlands, from which, in his opinion, one would never reap anything but
stones. And thus, when he had well examined the china ornaments, it
occurred to him to be insolent, with which object he turned round and
stared at the Froments, who, as the train they were expecting would not
arrive for another quarter of an hour, were gayly promenading through the
fair.

The miller's bad temper had for the last two months been increased by the
return of his son Antonin to Janville under very deplorable
circumstances. This young fellow, who had set off one morning to conquer
Paris, sent there by his parents, who had a blind confidence in his fine
handwriting, had remained with Maitre Rousselet the attorney for four
years as a petty clerk, dull-witted and extremely idle. He had not made
the slightest progress in his profession, but had gradually sunk into
debauchery, cafe-life, drunkenness, gambling, and facile amours. To him
the conquest of Paris meant greedy indulgence in the coarsest pleasures
such as he had dreamt of in his village. It consumed all his money, all
the supplies which he extracted from his mother by continual promises of
victory, in which she implicitly believed, so great was her faith in him.
But he ended by grievously suffering in health, turned thin and yellow,
and actually began to lose his hair at three-and-twenty, so that his
mother, full of alarm, brought him home one day, declaring that he worked
too hard, and that she would not allow him to kill himself in that
fashion. It leaked out, however, later on, that Maitre Rousselet had
summarily dismissed him. Even before this was known his return home did
not fail to make his father growl. The miller partially guessed the
truth, and if he did not openly vent his anger, it was solely from pride,
in order that he might not have to confess his mistake with respect to
the brilliant career which he had predicted for Antonin. At home, when
the doors were closed, Lepailleur revenged himself on his wife, picking
the most frightful quarrels with her since he had discovered her frequent
remittances of money to their son. But she held her own against him, for
even as she had formerly admired him, so at present she admired her boy.
She sacrificed, as it were, the father to the son, now that the latter's
greater learning brought her increased surprise. And so the household was
all disagreement as a result of that foolish attempt, born of vanity, to
make their heir a Monsieur, a Parisian. Antonin for his part sneered and
shrugged his shoulders at it all, idling away his time pending the day
when he might be able to resume a life of profligacy.

When the Froments passed by, it was a fine sight to see the Lepailleurs
standing there stiffly and devouring them with their eyes. The father
puckered his lips in an attempt to sneer, and the mother jerked her head
with an air of bravado. The son, standing there with his hands in his
pockets, presented a sorry sight with his bent back, his bald head, and
pale face. All three were seeking to devise something disagreeable when
an opportunity presented itself.

"Why, where is Therese?" exclaimed La Lepailleur. "She was here just now:
what has become of her? I won't have her leave me when there are all
these people about!"

It was quite true, for the last moment Therese had disappeared. She was
now ten years old and very pretty, quite a plump little blonde, with wild
hair and black eyes which shone brightly. But she had a terribly
impulsive and wilful nature, and would run off and disappear for hours at
a time, beating the hedges and scouring the countryside in search of
birds'-nests and flowers and wild fruit. If her mother, however, made
such a display of alarm, darting hither and thither to find her, just as
the Froments passed by, it was because she had become aware of some
scandalous proceedings during the previous week. Therese's ardent dream
was to possess a bicycle, and she desired one the more since her parents
stubbornly refused to content her, declaring in fact that those machines
might do for bourgeois but were certainly not fit for well-behaved girls.
Well, one afternoon, when she had gone as usual into the fields, her
mother, returning from market, had perceived her on a deserted strip of
road, in company with little Gregoire Froment, another young wanderer
whom she often met in this wise, in spots known only to themselves. The
two made a very suitable pair, and were ever larking and rambling along
the paths, under the leaves, beside the ditches. But the abominable thing
was that, on this occasion, Gregoire, having seated Therese on his own
bicycle, was supporting her at the waist and running alongside, helping
her to direct the machine. Briefly it was a real bicycle lesson which the
little rascal was giving, and which the little hussy took with all the
pleasure in the world. When Therese returned home that evening she had
her ears soundly boxed for her pains.

"Where can that little gadabout have got to?" La Lepailleur continued
shouting. "One can no sooner take one's eyes off her than she runs away."

Antonin, however, having peeped behind the booth containing the china
ornaments, lurched back again, still with his hands in his pockets, and
said with his vicious sneer: "Just look there, you'll see something."

And indeed, behind the booth, his mother again found Therese and Gregoire
together. The lad was holding his bicycle with one hand and explaining
some of the mechanism of it, while the girl, full of admiration and
covetousness, looked on with glowing eyes. Indeed she could not resist
her inclination, but laughingly let Gregoire raise her in order to seat
her for a moment on the saddle, when all at once her mother's terrible
voice burst forth: "You wicked hussy! what are you up to there again?
Just come back at once, or I'll settle your business for you."

Then Mathieu also, catching sight of the scene, sternly summoned
Gregoire: "Please to place your wheel with the others. You know what I
have already said to you, so don't begin again."

It was war. Lepailleur impudently growled ignoble threats, which
fortunately were lost amid the strains of a barrel organ. And the two
families separated, going off in different directions through the growing
holiday-making crowd.

"Won't that train ever come, then?" resumed Rose, who with joyous
impatience was at every moment turning to glance at the clock of the
little railway station on the other side of the square. "We have still
ten minutes to wait: whatever shall we do?"

As it happened she had stopped in front of a hawker who stood on the
footway with a basketful of crawfish, crawling, pell-mell, at his feet.
They had certainly come from the sources of the Yeuse, three leagues
away. They were not large, but they were very tasty, for Rose herself had
occasionally caught some in the stream. And thus a greedy but also
playful fancy came to her.

"Oh, mamma!" she cried, "let us buy the whole basketful. It will be for
the feast of welcome, you see; it will be our present to the royal couple
we are awaiting. People won't say that Our Majesties neglect to do things
properly when they are expecting other Majesties. And I will cook them
when we get back, and you'll see how well I shall succeed."

At this the others began to poke fun at her, but her parents ended by
doing as she asked, big child as she was, who in the fulness of her
happiness hardly knew what amusement to seek. However, as by way of
pastime she obstinately sought to count the crawfish, quite an affair
ensued: some of them pinched her, and she dropped them with a little
shriek; and, amid it all, the basket fell over and then the crawfish
hurriedly crawled away. The boys and girls darted in pursuit of them,
there was quite a hunt, in which even the serious members of the family
at last took part. And what with the laughter and eagerness of one and
all, the big as well as the little, the whole happy brood, the sight was
so droll and gay that the folks of Janville again drew near and
good-naturedly took their share of the amusement.

All at once, however, arose a distant rumble of wheels and an engine
whistled.

"Ah, good Heavens! here they are!" cried Rose, quite scared; "quick,
quick, or the reception will be missed."

A scramble ensued, the owner of the crawfish was paid, and there was just
time to shut the basket and carry it to the wagon. The whole family was
already running off, invading the little station, and ranging itself in
good order along the arrival platform.

"No, no, not like that," Rose repeated. "You don't observe the right
order of precedence. The queen mother must be with the king her husband,
and then the princes according to their height. Frederic must place
himself on my right. And it's for me, you know, to make the speech of
welcome."

The train stopped. When Ambroise and Andree alighted they were at first
much surprised to find that everybody had come to meet them, drawn up in
a row with solemn mien. When Rose, however began to deliver a pompous
little speech, treating her brother's betrothed like some foreign
princess, whom she had orders to welcome in the name of the king, her
father, the young couple began to laugh, and even prolonged the joke by
responding in the same style. The railway men looked on and listened,
gaping. It was a fine farce, and the Froments were delighted at showing
themselves so playful on that warm May morning.

But Marianne suddenly raised an exclamation of surprise: "What! has not
Madame Seguin come with you? She gave me so many promises that she
would."

In the rear of Ambroise and Andree Celeste the maid had alone alighted
from the train. And she undertook to explain things: "Madame charged me,"
said she, "to say that she was really most grieved. Yesterday she still
hoped that she would be able to keep her promise. Only in the evening she
received a visit from Monsieur de Navarede, who is presiding to-day,
Sunday, at a meeting of his Society, and of course Madame could not do
otherwise than attend it. So she requested me to accompany the young
people, and everything is satisfactory, for here they are, you see."

As a matter of fact nobody regretted the absence of Valentine, who always
moped when she came into the country. And Mathieu expressed the general
opinion in a few words of polite regret: "Well, you must tell her how
much we shall miss her. And now let us be off."

Celeste, however, intervened once more. "Excuse me, monsieur, but I
cannot remain with you. No. Madame particularly told me to go back to her
at once, as she will need me to dress her. And, besides, she is always
bored when she is alone. There is a train for Paris at a quarter past
ten, is there not? I will go back by it. Then I will be here at eight
o'clock this evening to take Mademoiselle home. We settled all that in
looking through a time-table. Till this evening, monsieur."

"Till this evening, then, it's understood."

Thereupon, leaving the maid in the deserted little station, all the
others returned to the village square, where the wagon and the bicycles
were waiting.

"Now we are all assembled," exclaimed Rose, "and the real fete is about
to begin. Let me organize the procession for our triumphal return to the
castle of our ancestors."

"I am very much afraid that your procession will be soaked," said
Marianne. "Just look at the rain approaching!"

During the last few moments there had appeared in the hitherto spotless
sky a huge, livid cloud, rising from the west and urged along by a sudden
squall. It presaged a return of the violent stormy showers of the
previous night.

"Rain! Oh, we don't care about that," the girl responded with an air of
superb defiance. "It will never dare to come down before we get home."

Then, with a comical semblance of authority, she disposed her people in
the order which she had planned in her mind a week previously. And the
procession set off through the admiring village, amid the smiles of all
the good women hastening to their doorsteps, and then spread out along
the white road between the fertile fields, where bands of startled larks
took wing, carrying their clear song to the heavens. It was really
magnificent.

At the head of the party were Rose and Frederic, side by side on their
bicycles, opening the nuptial march with majestic amplitude. Behind them
followed the three maids of honor, the younger sisters, Louise,
Madeleine, and Marguerite, the tallest first, the shortest last, and each
on a wheel proportioned to her growth. And with berets* on their heads,
and their hair down their backs, waving in the breeze, they looked
adorable, suggesting a flight of messenger swallows skimming over the
ground and bearing good tidings onward. As for Gregoire the page, restive
and always ready to bolt, he did not behave very well; for he actually
tried to pass the royal couple at the head of the procession, a
proceeding which brought him various severe admonitions until he fell
back, as duty demanded, to his deferential and modest post. On the other
hand, as the three maids of honor began to sing the ballad of Cinderella
on her way to the palace of Prince Charming, the royal couple
condescendingly declared that the song was appropriate and of pleasing
effect, whatever might be the requirements of etiquette. Indeed, Rose,
Frederic, and Gregoire also ended by singing the ballad, which rang out
amid the serene, far-spreading countryside like the finest music in the
world.

* The beret is the Pyreneean tam-o'-shanter.

Then, at a short distance in the rear, came the chariot, the good old
family wagon, which was now crowded. According to the prearranged
programme it was Gervais who held the ribbons, with Claire beside him.
The two strong horses trotted on in their usual leisurely fashion, in
spite of all the gay whip-cracking of their driver, who also wished to
contribute to the music. Inside there were now seven people for six
places, for if the three children were small, they were at the same time
so restless that they fully took up their share of room. First, face to
face, there were Ambroise and Andree, the betrothed couple who were being
honored by this glorious welcome. Then, also face to face, there were the
high and mighty rulers of the region, Mathieu and Marianne, the latter of
whom kept little Nicolas, the last prince of the line, on her knees, he
braying the while like a little donkey, because he felt so pleased. Then
the last places were occupied by the rulers' granddaughter and grandson,
Mademoiselle Berthe and Monsieur Christophe, who were as yet unable to
walk long distances. And the chariot rolled on with much majesty, albeit
that for fear of the rain the curtains of stout white linen had already
been half-drawn, thus giving the vehicle, at a distance, somewhat of the
aspect of a miller's van.

Further back yet, as a sort of rear-guard, was a group on foot, composed
of Blaise, Denis, Madame Desvignes, and her daughters Charlotte and
Marthe. They had absolutely refused to take a fly, finding it more
pleasant to walk the mile and a half which separated Chantebled from
Janville. If the rain should fall, they would manage to find shelter
somewhere. Besides, Rose had declared that a suite on foot was absolutely
necessary to give the procession its full significance. Those five last
comers would represent the multitude, the great concourse of people which
follows sovereigns and acclaims them. Or else they might be the necessary
guard, the men-at-arms, who watched for the purpose of foiling a possible
attack from some felon neighbor. At the same time it unfortunately
happened that worthy Madame Desvignes could not walk very fast, so that
the rear-guard was soon distanced, to such a degree indeed that it became
merely a little lost group, far away.

Still this did not disconcert Rose, but rather made her laugh the more.
At the first bend of the road she turned her head, and when she saw her
rear-guard more than three hundred yards away she raised cries of
admiration. "Oh! just look, Frederic! What an interminable procession!
What a deal of room we take up! The cortege is becoming longer and
longer, and the road won't be long enough for it very soon."

Then, as the three maids of honor and the page began to jeer
impertinently, "just try to be respectful," she said. "Count a little.
There are six of us forming the vanguard. In the chariot there are nine,
and six and nine make fifteen. Add to them the five of the rear-guard,
and we have twenty. Wherever else is such a family seen? Why, the rabbits
who watch us pass are mute with stupor and humiliation."

Then came another laugh, and once more they all took up the song of
Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming.

It was at the bridge over the Yeuse that the first drops of rain, big
drops they were, began to fall. The big livid cloud, urged on by a
terrible wind, was galloping across the sky, filling it with the clamor
of a tempest. And almost immediately afterwards the rain-drops increased
in volume and in number, lashed by so violent a squall that the water
poured down as if by the bucketful, or as if some huge sluice-gate had
suddenly burst asunder overhead. One could no longer see twenty yards
before one. In two minutes the road was running with water like the bed
of a torrent.

Then there was a _sauve-qui-peut_ among the procession. It was learnt
later on that the people of the rear-guard had luckily been surprised
near a peasant's cottage, in which they had quietly sought refuge. Then
the folks in the wagon simply drew their curtains, and halted beneath the
shelter of a wayside tree for fear lest the horses should take fright
under such a downpour. They called to the bicyclists ahead of them to
stop also, instead of obstinately remaining in such a deluge. But their
words were lost amid the rush of water. However, the little girls and the
page took a proper course in crouching beside a thick hedge, though the
betrothed couple wildly continued on their way.

Frederic, the more reasonable of the two, certainly had sense enough to
say: "This isn't prudent on our part. Let us stop like the others, I beg
you."

But from Rose, all excitement, transported by her blissful fever, and
insensible, so it seemed, to the pelting of the rain, he only drew this
answer: "Pooh! what does it matter, now that we are soaking? It is by
stopping that we might do ourselves harm. Let us make haste, all haste.
In three minutes we shall be at home and able to make fine sport of those
laggards when they arrive in another quarter of an hour."

They had just crossed the Yeuse bridge, and they swept on side by side,
although the road was far from easy, being a continual ascent for a
thousand yards or so between rows of lofty poplars.

"I assure you that we are doing wrong," the young man repeated. "They
will blame me, and they will be right."

"Oh! well," cried she, "I'm amusing myself. This bicycle bath is quite
funny. Leave me, then, if you don't love me enough to follow me."

He followed her, however, pressed close beside her, and sought to shelter
her a little from the slanting rain. And it was a wild, mad race on the
part of that young couple, almost linked together, their elbows touching
as they sped on and on, as if lifted from the ground, carried off by all
that rushing, howling water which poured down so ragefully. It was as
though a thunder-blast bore them along. But at the very moment when they
sprang from their bicycles in the yard of the farm the rain ceased, and
the sky became blue once more.

Rose was laughing like a lunatic, and looked very flushed, but she was
soaked to such a point that water streamed from her clothes, her hair,
her hands. You might have taken her for some fairy of the springs who had
overturned her urn on herself.

"Well, the fete is complete," she exclaimed breathlessly. "All the same,
we are the first home."

She then darted upstairs to comb her hair and change her gown. But to
gain just a few minutes, eager as she was to cook the crawfish, she did
not take the trouble to put on dry linen. She wished the pot to be on the
fire with the water, the white wine, the carrots and spices, before the
family arrived. And she came and went, attending to the fire and filling
the whole kitchen with her gay activity, like a good housewife who was
glad to display her accomplishments, while her betrothed, who had also
come downstairs again after changing his clothes, watched her with a kind
of religious admiration.

At last, when the whole family had arrived, the folks of the brake and
the pedestrians also, there came a rather sharp explanation. Mathieu and
Marianne were angry, so greatly had they been alarmed by that rush
through the storm.

"There was no sense in it, my girl," Marianne repeated. "Did you at least
change your linen?"

"Why yes, why yes!" replied Rose. "Where are the crawfish?"

Mathieu meantime was lecturing Frederic. "You might have broken your
necks," said he; "and, besides, it is by no means good to get soaked with
cold water when one is hot. You ought to have stopped her."

"Well, she insisted on going on, and whenever she insists on anything,
you know, I haven't the strength to prevent her."

At last Rose, in her pretty way, put an end to the reproaches. "Come,
that's enough scolding; I did wrong, no doubt. But won't anybody
compliment me on my _court-bouillon_? Have you ever known crawfish to
smell as nice as that?"

The lunch was wonderfully gay. As they were twenty, and wished to have a
real rehearsal of the wedding feast, the table had been set in a large
gallery adjoining the ordinary dining-room. This gallery was still bare,
but throughout the meal they talked incessantly of how they would
embellish it with shrubs, garlands of foliage, and clumps of flowers.
During the dessert they even sent for a ladder with the view of
indicating on the walls the main lines of the decorations.

For a moment or so Rose, previously so talkative, had lapsed into
silence. She had eaten heartily, but all the color had left her face,
which had assumed a waxy pallor under her heavy hair, which was still
damp. And when she wished to ascend the ladder herself to indicate how
some ornament should be placed, her legs suddenly failed her, she
staggered, and then fainted away.

Everybody was in consternation, but she was promptly placed in a chair,
where for a few minutes longer she remained unconscious. Then, on coming
to her senses, she remained for a moment silent, oppressed as by a
feeling of pain, and apparently failing to understand what had taken
place. Mathieu and Marianne, terribly upset, pressed her with questions,
anxious as they were to know if she felt better. She had evidently caught
cold, and this was the fine result of her foolish ride.

By degrees the girl recovered her composure, and again smiled. She then
explained that she now felt no pain, but that it had suddenly seemed to
her as if a heavy paving-stone were lying on her chest; then this weight
had melted away, leaving her better able to breathe. And, indeed, she was
soon on her feet once more, and finished giving her views respecting the
decoration of the gallery, in such wise that the others ended by feeling
reassured, and the afternoon passed away joyously in the making of all
sorts of splendid plans. Little was eaten at dinner, for they had done
too much honor to the crawfish at noon. And at nine o'clock, as soon as
Celeste arrived for Andree, the gathering broke up. Ambroise was
returning to Paris that same evening. Blaise and Denis were to take the
seven o'clock train the following morning. And Rose, after accompanying
Madame Desvignes and her daughters to the road, called to them through
the darkness: "Au revoir, come back soon." She was again full of gayety
at the thought of the general rendezvous which the family had arranged
for the approaching weddings.

Neither Mathieu nor Marianne went to bed at once, however. Though they
did not even speak of it together, they thought that Rose looked very
strange, as if, indeed, she were intoxicated. She had again staggered on
returning to the house, and though she only complained of some slight
oppression, they prevailed on her to go to bed. After she had retired to
her room, which adjoined their own, Marianne went several times to see if
she were well wrapped up and were sleeping peacefully, while Mathieu
remained anxiously thoughtful beside the lamp. At last the girl fell
asleep, and the parents, leaving the door of communication open, then
exchanged a few words in an undertone, in their desire to tranquillize
each other. It would surely be nothing; a good night's rest would suffice
to restore Rose to her wonted health. Then in their turn they went to
bed, the whole farm lapsed into silence, surrendering itself to slumber
until the first cockcrow. But all at once, about four o'clock, shortly
before daybreak, a stifled call, "Mamma! mamma!" awoke both Mathieu and
Marianne, and they sprang out of bed, barefooted, shivering, and groping
for the candle. Rose was again stifling, struggling against another
attack of extreme violence. For the second time, however, she soon
regained consciousness and appeared relieved, and thus the parents, great
as was their distress, preferred to summon nobody but to wait till
daylight. Their alarm was caused particularly by the great change they
noticed in their daughter's appearance; her face was swollen and
distorted, as if some evil power had transformed her in the night. But
she fell asleep again, in a state of great prostration; and they no
longer stirred for fear of disturbing her slumber. They remained there
watching and waiting, listening to the revival of life in the farm around
them as the daylight gradually increased. Time went by; five and then six
o'clock struck. And at about twenty minutes to seven Mathieu, on looking
into the yard, and there catching sight of Denis, who was to return to
Paris by the seven o'clock train, hastened down to tell him to call upon
Boutan and beg the doctor to come at once. Then, as soon as his son had
started, he rejoined Marianne upstairs, still unwilling to call or warn
anybody. But a third attack followed, and this time it was the
thunderbolt.

Rose had half risen in bed, her arms thrown out, her mouth distended as
she gasped "Mamma! mamma!"

Then in a sudden fit of revolt, a last flash of life, she sprang from her
bed and stepped towards the window, whose panes were all aglow with the
rising sun. And for a moment she leant there, her legs bare, her
shoulders bare, and her heavy hair falling over her like a royal mantle.
Never had she looked more beautiful, more dazzling, full of strength and
love.

But she murmured: "Oh! how I suffer! It is all over, I am going to die."

Her father darted towards her; her mother sustained her, throwing her
arms around her like invincible armor which would shield her from all
harm.

"Don't talk like that, you unhappy girl! It is nothing; it is only
another attack which will pass away. Get into bed again, for mercy's
sake. Your old friend Boutan is on his way here. You will be up and well
again to-morrow."

"No, no, I am going to die; it is all over."

She fell back in their arms; they only had time to lay her on her bed.
And the thunderbolt fell: without a word, without a glance, in a few
minutes she died of congestion of the lungs.

Ah! the imbecile thunderbolt! Ah! the scythe, which with a single stroke
blindly cuts down a whole springtide! It was all so brutally sudden, so
utterly unexpected, that at first the stupefaction of Marianne and
Mathieu was greater than their despair. In response to their cries the
whole farm hastened up, the fearful news filled the place, and then all
sank into the deep silence of death--all work, all life ceasing. And the
other children were there, scared and overcome: little Nicolas, who did
not yet understand things; Gregoire, the page of the previous day;
Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the three maids of honor, and their
elders, Claire and Gervais, who felt the blow more deeply. And there were
yet the others journeying away, Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise, travelling
to Paris at that very moment, in ignorance of the unforeseen, frightful
hatchet-stroke which had fallen on the family. Where would the terrible
tidings reach them? In what cruel distress would they return! And the
doctor who would soon arrive too! But all at once, amid the terror and
confusion, there rang out the cries of Frederic, the poor dead girl's
affianced lover. He shrieked his despair aloud, he was half mad, he
wished to kill himself, saying that he was the murderer and that he ought
to have prevented Rose from so rashly riding home through the storm! He
had to be led away and watched for fear of some fresh misfortune. His
sudden frenzy had gone to every heart; sobs burst forth and lamentations
arose from the woful parents, from the brothers, the sisters, from the
whole of stricken Chantebled, which death thus visited for the first
time.

Ah, God! Rose on that bed of mourning, white, cold, and dead! She, the
fairest, the gayest, the most loved! She, before whom all the others were
ever in admiration--she of whom they were so proud, so fond! And to think
that this blow should fall in the midst of hope, bright hope in long life
and sterling happiness, but ten days before her wedding, and on the
morrow of that day of wild gayety, all jests and laughter! They could
again see her, full of life and so adorable with her happy youthful
fancies--that princely reception and that royal procession. It had seemed
as if those two coming weddings, celebrated the same day, would be like
the supreme florescence of the family's long happiness and prosperity.
Doubtless they had often experienced trouble and had even wept at times,
but they had drawn closer together and consoled one another on such
occasions; none had ever been cut off from the good-night embraces which
healed every sore. And now the best was gone, death had come to say that
absolute joy existed for none, that the most valiant, the happiest; never
reaped the fulness of their hopes. There was no life without death. And
they paid their share of the debt of human wretchedness, paid it the more
dearly since they had made for themselves a larger sum of life. When
everything germinates and grows around one, when one has determined on
unreserved fruitfulness; on continuous creation and increase, how awful
is the recall to the ever-present dim abyss in which the world is
fashioned, on the day when misfortune falls, digs its first pit, and
carries off a loved one! It is like a sudden snapping, a rending of the
hopes which seemed to be endless, and a feeling of stupefaction comes at
the discovery that one cannot live and love forever!

Ah! how terrible were the two days that followed: the farm itself
lifeless, without sound save that of the breathing of the cattle, the
whole family gathered together, overcome by the cruel spell of waiting,
ever in tears while the poor corpse remained there under a harvest of
flowers. And there was this cruel aggravation, that on the eve of the
funeral, when the body had been laid in the coffin, it was brought down
into that gallery where they had lunched so merrily while discussing how
magnificently they might decorate it for the two weddings. It was there
that the last funeral watch, the last wake, took place, and there were no
evergreen shrubs, no garlands of foliage, merely four tapers which burnt
there amid a wealth of white roses gathered in the morning, but already
fading. Neither the mother nor the father was willing to go to bed that
night. They remained, side by side, near the child whom mother-earth was
taking back from them. They could see her quite little again, but sixteen
months old, at the time of their first sojourn at Chantebled in the old
tumbledown shooting-box, when she had just been weaned and they were wont
to go and cover her up at nighttime. They saw her also, later on, in
Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbing up and pulling their
bed to pieces with triumphant laughter. And they saw her yet more
clearly, growing and becoming more beautiful even as Chantebled did, as
if, indeed, she herself bloomed with all the health and beauty of that
now fruitful land. Yet she was no more, and whenever the thought returned
to them that they would never see her again, their hands sought one
another, met in a woful clasp, while from their crushed and mingling
hearts it seemed as if all life, all future, were flowing away to
nihility. Now that a breach had been made, would not every other
happiness be carried off in turn? And though the ten other children were
there, from the little one five years old to the twins who were
four-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered in tears around their
sleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion rendering funeral
honors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted them: their
hearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, carrying
away with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare gallery
which the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose upon that
death watch, that last leave-taking.

Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread out along
the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, that road
over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All the
relations of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had come
to pay a tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, this
time, the cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped with
white and blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The whole
family was present; the mother and the sisters had declared that they
would only quit their loved one when she had been lowered into her last
resting-place. And after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, the
Seguins, and others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcome by
suffering, no longer recognized people amid their tears. They only
remembered on the morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed it
were really Morange--that silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman,
who had wept while pressing their hands. And in like fashion Mathieu
fancied that, in some horrible dream, he had seen Constance's spare
figure and bony profile drawing near to him in the cemetery after the
coffin had been lowered into the grave, and addressing vague words of
consolation to him, though he fancied that her eyes flashed the while as
if with abominable exultation.

What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her words
must have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourning
relative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which she had
spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then in bitter
fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebled might
continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, were now
stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhaps departed
forever! Mathieu shuddered; his faith in the future was shaken; he was
haunted by a fear of seeing prosperity and fruitfulness vanish, now that
there was that open breach.

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