IV

AT half-past seven o'clock, when Mathieu arrived at the restaurant on the

Place de la Madeleine where he was to meet his employer, he found him

already there, drinking a glass of madeira with his customer, M.

Firon-Badinier. The dinner was a remarkable one; choice viands and the

best wines were served in abundance. But Mathieu was struck less by the

appetite which the others displayed than by Beauchêne's activity and

skill. Glass in hand, never losing a bite, he had already persuaded his

customer, by the time the roast arrived, to order not only the new

thresher but also a mowing machine. M. Firon-Badinier was to take the

train for Evreux at nine-twenty, and when nine o'clock struck, the other,

now eager to be rid of him, contrived to pack him off in a cab to the

St.-Lazare railway station.

For a moment Beauchêne remained standing on the pavement with Mathieu,

and took off his hat in order that the mild breezes of that delightful

May evening might cool his burning head.

"Well, that's settled," he said with a laugh. "But it wasn't so easily

managed. It was the Pommard which induced the beggar to make up his mind.

All the same, I was dreadfully afraid he would make me miss my

appointment."

These remarks, which escaped him amid his semi-intoxication, led him to

more confidential talk. He put on his hat again, lighted a fresh cigar,

and took Mathieu's arm. Then they walked on slowly through the

passion-stirred throng and the nightly blaze of the Boulevards.

"There's plenty of time," said Beauchêne. "I'm not expected till

half-past nine, and it's close by. Will you have a cigar? No? You never

smoke?"

"Never."

"Well, my dear fellow, it would be ridiculous to feign with you, since

you happened to see me this morning. Oh, it's a stupid affair! I'm quite

of that opinion; but, then, what would you have?"

Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his marital

life and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and that

girl Norine, old Moineaud's daughter. He professed the greatest respect

for his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance was

now beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyes

when it would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. She knew

very well that it was essential that the business should be kept together

and pass intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe of children

would have meant the ruin of all their plans.

Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began to ask

questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchêne laughed gayly,

like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extreme

volubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming a

semi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with an

air of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of the Rue

Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a little

bachelor's lodging, which was kept in order by the _concierge_ of the

house, who, being very well paid, proved an extremely discreet domestic.

As he hurried off, Mathieu, still standing at the corner of the street,

could not help thinking of the scenes which he had witnessed at the

Beauchêne works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whom he

again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women's workroom while his

daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchêne, and while

Norine, the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler's

children have grown up and gone to join, the lads the army of slaughter,

and the girls the army of vice, the father, degraded by the ills of life,

pays little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter of

indifference to what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings who fall

from the nest.

It was now half-past nine o'clock, and Mathieu had more than an hour

before him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry,

but strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunk far

more than usual, and Beauchêne's insidious confidential talk, still

buzzing in his ears, helped on his intoxication. His hands were hot, and

now and again a sudden glow passed over his face. And what a warm evening

it was, too, on those Boulevards, blazing with electric lights, fevered

by a swarming, jostling throng, amid a ceaseless rumble of cabs and

omnibuses! It was all like a stream of ardent life flowing away into the

night, and Mathieu allowed himself to be carried on by the torrent, whose

hot breath, whose glow of passion, he ever felt sweeping over him.

Then, in a reverie, he pictured the day he had just spent. First he was

at the Beauchênes' in the morning, and saw the father and mother

standing, like accomplices who fully shared one another's views, beside

the sofa on which Maurice, their only son, lay dozing with a pale and

waxen face. The works must never be exposed to the danger of being

subdivided. Maurice alone must inherit all the millions which the

business might yield, so that he might become one of the princes of

industry. And therefore the husband hurried off to sin while the wife

closed her eyes. In this sense, in defiance of morality and health, did

the capitalist _bourgeoisie_, which had replaced the old nobility,

virtually re-establish the law of primogeniture. That law had been

abolished at the Revolution for the _bourgeoisie's_ benefit; but now, also

for its own purposes, it revived it. Each family must have but one son.

Mathieu had reached this stage in his reflections when his thoughts were

diverted by several street hawkers who, in selling the last edition of an

evening print, announced a "drawing" of the lottery stock of some

enterprise launched by the Crédit National. And then he suddenly recalled

the Moranges in their dining-room, and heard them recapitulate their

dream of making a big fortune as soon as the accountant should have

secured a post in one of the big banking establishments, where the

principals raise men of value to the highest posts. Those Moranges lived

in everlasting dread of seeing their daughter marry a needy petty clerk;

succumbing to that irresistible fever which, in a democracy ravaged by

political equality and economic inequality, impels every one to climb

higher up the social ladder. Envy consumed them at the thought of the

luxury of others; they plunged into debt in order that they might imitate

from afar the elegance of the upper class, and all their natural honesty

and good nature was poisoned by the insanity born of ambitious pride. And

here again but one child was permissible, lest they should be

embarrassed, delayed, forever impeded in the attainment of the future

they coveted.

A crowd of people now barred Mathieu's way, and he perceived that he was

near the theatre, where a first performance was taking place that

evening. It was a theatre where free farcical pieces were produced, and

on its walls were posted huge portraits of its "star," a carroty wench

with a long flat figure, destitute of all womanliness, and seemingly

symbolical of perversity. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the bills, the

vilest remarks were heard, and Mathieu remembered that the Séguins and

Santerre were inside the house, laughing at the piece, which was of so

filthy a nature that the spectators at the dress rehearsal, though they

were by no means over-nice in such matters, had expressed their disgust

by almost wrecking the auditorium. And while the Séguins were gloating

over this horror, yonder, at their house in the Avenue d'Antin, Céleste

had just put the children, Gaston and Lucie, to bed, and had then hastily

returned to the kitchen, where a friend, Madame Menoux, who kept a little

haberdasher's shop in the neighborhood, awaited her. Gaston, having been

given some wine to drink, was already asleep; but Lucie, who again felt

sick, lay shivering in her bed, not daring to call Céleste, lest the

servant, who did not like to be disturbed, should ill-treat her. And, at

two o'clock in the morning, after offering Santerre an oyster supper at a

night restaurant, the Séguins would come home, their minds unhinged by

the imbecile literature and art to which they had taken for fashion's

sake, vitiated yet more by the ignoble performance they had witnessed,

and the base society they had elbowed at supper. They seemed to typify

vice for vice's sake, elegant vice and pessimism as a principle.

Indeed, when Mathieu tried to sum up his day, he found vice on every

side, in each of the spheres with which he had come in contact. And now

the examples he had witnessed filled him no longer with mere surprise;

they disturbed him, they shook his beliefs, they made him doubt whether

his notions of life, duty, and happiness might not after all be

inaccurate.

He stopped short and drew a long breath, seeking to drive away his

growing intoxication. He had passed the Grand Opera and was reaching the

crossway of the Rue Drouot. Perhaps his increase of fever was due to

those glowing Boulevards. The private rooms of the restaurants were still

ablaze, the cafés threw bright radiance across the road, the pavement was

blocked by their tables and chairs and customers. All Paris seemed to

have come down thither to enjoy that delightful evening. There was

endless elbowing, endless mingling of breath as the swelling crowd

sauntered along. Couples lingered before the sparkling displays of

jewellers' shops. Middle-class families swept under dazzling arches of

electric lamps into cafés concerts, whose huge posters promised the

grossest amusements. Hundreds and hundreds of women went by with trailing

skirts, and whispered and jested and laughed; while men darted in

pursuit, now of a fair chignon, now of a dark one. In the open cabs men

and women sat side by side, now husbands and wives long since married,

now chance couples who had met but an hour ago. But Mathieu went on

again, yielding to the force of the current, carried along like all the

others, a prey to the same fever which sprang from the surroundings, from

the excitement of the day, from the customs of the age. And he no longer

took the Beauchênes, the Moranges, the Séguins as isolated types; it was

all Paris that symbolized vice, all Paris that yielded to debauchery and

sank into degradation. There were the folks of high culture, the folks

suffering from literary neurosis; there were the merchant princes; there

were the men of liberal professions, the lawyers, the doctors, the

engineers; there were the people of the lower middle-class, the petty

tradesmen, the petty clerks; there were even the manual workers, poisoned

by the example of the upper spheres--all practising the doctrines of

egotism as vanity and the passion for money grew more and more

intense.... No more children! Paris was bent on dying. And Mathieu

recalled how Napoleon I., one evening after battle, on beholding a plain

strewn with the corpses of his soldiers, had put his trust in Paris to

repair the carnage of that day. But times had changed. Paris would no

longer supply life, whether it were for slaughter or for toil.

And as Mathieu thought of it all a sudden weakness came upon him. Again

he asked himself whether the Beauchênes, the Moranges, the Séguins, and

all those thousands and thousands around him were not right, and whether

he were not the fool, the dupe, the criminal, with his belief in life

ever renascent, ever growing and spreading throughout the world. And

before him arose, too, the image of Séraphine, the temptress, opening her

perfumed arms to him and carrying him off to the same existence of

pleasure and baseness which the others led.

Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in his

pocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, though

out of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. The

remainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jam for

the youngsters' bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, the

others, the Beauchênes and the Séguins, were rich. He bitterly recalled

their wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildings

covering a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmen ever

increasing the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomely

appointed pavilion and whose only son was growing up for future

sovereignty, under his mother's vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, the

Séguins' luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, the great hall, the

magnificent staircase, the vast room above, crowded with marvels; he

pictured all the refinement, all the train of wealth, all the tokens of

lavish life, the big dowry which would be given to the little girl, the

high position which would be purchased for the son. And he, bare and

empty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not even a stone at the edge of

a field, would doubtless always possess nothing, neither factory buzzing

with workmen, nor mansion rearing its proud front aloft. And he was the

imprudent one, and the others were the sensible, the wise. What would

ever become of himself and his troop of children? Would he not die in

some garret? would they not lead lives of abject wretchedness? Ah! it was

evident the others were right, the others were sensible. And he felt

unhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, like a fool who has allowed

himself to be duped.

Then once more the image of Séraphine arose before his eyes, more

tempting than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blaze

of the Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic around it.

Wild fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchêne. Why

should he not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding to

sudden madness, turned his back upon the station and retraced his steps

towards the Boulevards. Séraphine, he said to himself, was doubtless

waiting for him; she had told him that he would always be welcome. As for

his wife, he would tell her he had missed his train.

At last a block in the traffic made him pause, and on raising his eyes he

saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still

streamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu's temples were

beating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the same

life as the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it. But the

block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and while he

stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that increasing

obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all at once the

image of Séraphine faded from before his mind's eye and he beheld

another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all smiles and

trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could he deceive

her?... Then all at once he again rushed off towards the railway

station, in fear lest he should lose his train. He was determined that he

would listen to no further promptings, that he would cast no further glance

upon glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reached the station just in time to

climb into a car. The train started and he journeyed on, leaning out of

his compartment and offering his face to the cool night breeze in order

that it might calm and carry off the evil fever that had possessed him.

The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowing stars

that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a soft bluish

radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Marianne found herself on

the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway between Chantebled, the

pavilion where she and her husband lived, and the station of Janville.

The children were fast asleep; she had left them in the charge of Zoé,

the servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, the light of which could be

seen from afar, showing like a bright spark amid the black line of the

woods.

Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o'clock train, as was his

wont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she brought

her two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legs moved

but slowly on the return journey when, in retracing their steps, a

thousand yards or more, they had to climb a rather steep hillside. And

that evening, late though the hour was, Marianne had yielded to that

pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forward

through the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never went

further than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seated

herself on its broad, low parapet, as on some rustic bench, and thence

she overlooked the whole plain as far as the houses of Janville, before

which passed the railway line. And from afar she could see her husband

approaching along the road which wound between the cornfields.

That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety sky spangled

with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitude she turned

towards the bright little light shining on the verge of the sombre woods,

a light telling of the quietude of the room in which it burnt, the

servant's tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of the children in the

adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wander all around her, over

the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to the Séguins. The dilapidated

pavilion stood at the extreme edge of the woods whose copses, intersected

by patches of heath, spread over a lofty plateau to the distant farms of

Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was not all, for to the west of the

plateau lay more than two hundred and fifty acres of land, a marshy

expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, vast uncultivated tracts,

where one went duck-shooting in winter. And there was yet a third part of

the estate, acres upon acres of equally sterile soil, all sand and

gravel, descending in a gentle slope to the embankment of the railway

line. It was indeed a stretch of country lost to culture, where the few

good patches of loam remained unproductive, inclosed within the waste

land. But the spot had all the beauty and exquisite wildness of solitude,

and was one that appealed to healthy minds fond of seeing nature in

freedom. And on that lovely night one could nowhere have found more

perfect and more balmy quiet.

Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded the

woodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, and

descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over the expanse,

divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though the darkness now

prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woods an owl raised

its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the right ascended a faint

croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like the vibration of

crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, there came a growing

rumble which, little by little, rose above all the other sounds of the

night. She heard it, and at last lent ear to nothing else. It was the

train, for whose familiar roar she waited every evening. As soon as it

left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token of its coming,

but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguish its rumble

amid the other sounds rising from the country side. For her part, she

heard it immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancy through every

phase of its journey. And never had she been better able to do so than on

that splendid night, amid the profound quietude of the earth's slumber.

It had left Monval, it was turning beside the brickworks, it was skirting

St. George's fields. In another two minutes it would be at Janville. Then

all at once its white light shone out beyond the poplar trees of Le

Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of the engine grew louder, like that of

some giant racer drawing near. On that side the plain spread far away

into a dark, unknown region, beneath the star-spangled sky, which on the

very horizon showed a ruddy reflection like that of some brasier, the

reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazing and smoking in the darkness like a

volcano.

Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then its

rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of

Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes and

ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the dark

patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover the

thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little

bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but on

that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could

distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim

figure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erect

under the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. The

milky whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her beautiful black hair,

caught up in a huge coil, and her big black eyes, which beamed with all

the gentleness of spouse and mother. Her straight brow, her nose, her

mouth, her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed like

savory fruit, her delightful little ears--the whole of her face, full of

love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety which

comes from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that by

loving life she would live as she ought to live.

"What! so you've come then!" Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was near

her. "But I begged you not to come out so late. Are you not afraid at

being alone on the roads at this time of night?"

She began to laugh. "Afraid," said she, "when the night is so mild and

healthful? Besides, wouldn't you rather have me here to kiss you ten

minutes sooner?"

Those simple words brought tears to Mathieu's eyes. All the murkiness,

all the shame through which he had passed in Paris horrified him. He

tenderly took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, the

most human of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields. After the

scorching pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the day and

the degrading spectacles of the night, how reposeful was that

far-spreading silence, that faint bluish radiance, that endless unrolling

of plains, steeped in refreshing gloom and dreaming of fructification by

the morrow's sun! And what suggestions of health, and rectitude, and

felicity rose from productive Nature, who fell asleep beneath the dew of

night solely that she might reawaken in triumph, ever and ever

rejuvenated by life's torrent, which streams even through the dust of her

paths.

Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more. He

kept her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neither

could forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them from

the stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields.

"What a splendid night!" murmured Mathieu. "How beautiful and how

pleasant to live in it!"

Then, after a moment's rapture, during which they both heard their hearts

beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him with loving

interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie.

"No, the Beauchênes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never cared

much for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in the

legs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed

again. I will tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Moranges

have promised to come. You can't have an idea of the delight and vanity

they displayed in showing me their new flat. What with their eagerness to

make a big fortune I'm much afraid that those worthy folks will do

something very foolish. Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord,

and though I had a good deal of difficulty over it, he ended by

consenting to have the roof entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, those

Séguins have! I came away feeling quite scared. But I will tell you all

about it by and by with the rest."

Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited his

confidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and the

children.

"You received your salary, didn't you?" she asked.

"Yes, yes, you need not be afraid about that."

"Oh! I'm not afraid, it's only our little debts which worry me."

Then she asked again: "And did your business dinner go off all right? I

was afraid that Beauchêne might detain you and make you miss your train."

He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke he

flushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion he

affected sudden gayety.

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

sous?"

"My thirty sous!" she gayly responded, "why, I was much too rich; we

fared like princes, all five of us, and I have six sous left."

Then, in her turn, she gave an account of her day, her daily life, pure

as crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; she

related how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutest

details respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day was

like another; each morning she set herself to live the same life afresh,

with never-failing happiness.

"To-day, though, we had a visit," said she; "Madame Lepailleur, the woman

from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some fine

chickens for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, I

believe that she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told her

that I would go to her place to-morrow."

While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a big black

pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill which was

still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it for three

generations. The last of them, François Lepailleur, who considered

himself to be no fool, had come back from his military service with

little inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrich

him, any more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It then

occurred to him to marry a peasant farmer's daughter, Victoire Cornu,

whose dowry consisted of some neighboring fields skirting the Yeuse. And

the young couple then lived fairly at their ease, on the produce of those

fields and such small quantities of corn as the peasants of the district

still brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquated and badly

repaired mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modern appliances,

and if the land, instead of being impoverished by adherence to

old-fashioned practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligent man

who believed in progress, there would no doubt have been a fortune in it

all. But Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treated the soil

with contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grown weary of his

eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers loved too much.

Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilize the soil, it

had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hating it. All his

faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of having lost its

fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some old cow which one

sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, everything went

wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, the weather was

never such as it should be, the seasons no longer came in their proper

order. Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster brought about by some

evil power which had a spite against the peasantry, who were foolish to

give their sweat and their blood to such a thankless creature.

"Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow three years

old, called Antonin," resumed Marianne, "and we fell to talking of

children together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, used

to have such large families. But she declared that one child was quite

enough. Yet she's only twenty-four, and her husband not yet

twenty-seven."

These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu's mind all

day. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, "She gave you her

reasons, no doubt?"

"Give reasons--she, with her head like a horse's, her long freckled face,

pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth--I think she's simply a fool, ever in

admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa and reads the

newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that children cost one a

good deal more than they bring in. But the husband, no doubt, has ideas

of his own. You have seen him, haven't you? A tall, slim fellow, as

carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, green eyes, and

prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had never felt in a good

humor in his life. And I understand that he is always complaining of his

father-in-law, because the other had three daughters and a son. Of course

that cut down his wife's dowry; she inherited only a part of her father's

property. And, besides, as the trade of a miller never enriched his

father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning till night, and declares

that he won't prevent his boy Antonin from going to eat white bread in

Paris, if he can find a good berth there when he grows up."

Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small family the

rule. Among the causes were the fear of having to split up an

inheritance, the desire to rise in the social system, the disgust of

manual toil, and the thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since the soil

was becoming bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when one knew that

one would never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on the point of

explaining these things to his wife, but he hesitated, and then simply

said: "Lepailleur does wrong to complain; he has two cows and a horse,

and when there is urgent work he can take an assistant. We, this morning,

had just thirty sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, no scrap of

land. For my part I think his mill superb; I envy him every time I cross

this bridge. Just fancy! we two being the millers--why, we should be very

rich and very happy!"

This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seated

there, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between the

willows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully,

scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made it

ripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed sheltering the

wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, and

creepers, the whole forming a spot of romantic prettiness. And at night,

especially when the mill slept, without a light at any of its windows,

there was nothing of more dreamy, more gentle charm.

"Why!" remarked Mathieu, lowering his voice, "there is somebody under the

willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise."

"Yes, I know," replied Marianne with tender gayety. "It must be the young

couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder a fortnight ago.

You know whom I mean--Madame Angelin, that schoolmate of Constance's."

The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments.

The wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hair and

fine eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And the

husband was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much in

love, with moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of a

musketeer. They had married with sudden passion for one another, having

between them an income of some ten thousand francs a year, which the

husband, a fan painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had it

not been for the spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage had

thrown him. And that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desert

of Janville, that they might love freely, passionately, in the midst of

nature. They were always to be met, holding each other by the waist, on

the secluded paths in the woods; and at night they loved to stroll across

the fields, beside the hedges, along the shady banks of the Yeuse,

delighted when they could linger till very late near the murmuring water,

in the thick shade of the willows.

But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentioned it

to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appeared that

the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, and did

not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu's worrying thoughts

once more came back to him, and again at this fresh example he wondered

who was right--he who stood alone in his belief, or all the others.

"Well," he muttered at last, "we all live according to our fancy. But

come, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them."

They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where the lamp

shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front door they

groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little house

comprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of the hall,

and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there were four

bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those big rooms;

but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed at this. By way

of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains of red stuff at the

windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangings seemed to them to

impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home.

They found Zoé, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting beside

the lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her as

quietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp and entered the

children's room to kiss them and make sure that they were comfortable. It

was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placed the lamp on the

mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the three little beds when

Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at one end of the room

lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellows six years of age;

while in the second bed against the opposite wall was Ambroise, now

nearly four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, a cradle, was

occupied by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age and weaned for three

weeks past. She lay there half naked, showing her white flowerlike skin,

and her mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, which she had

thrust aside with her self-willed little fists. Meantime the father

busied himself with Ambroise's pillow, which had slipped aside. Both

husband and wife came and went very gently, and bent again and again over

the children's faces to make sure that they were sleeping peacefully.

They kissed them and lingered yet a little longer, fancying that they had

heard Blaise and Denis stirring. At last the mother took up the lamp and

they went off, one after the other, on tiptoe.

When they were in their room again Marianne exclaimed: "I didn't want to

worry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I did

not find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at ease

about her." Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she went

on: "Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt the

least fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free from

anxiety."

She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu,

instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, and

drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket. When he had

counted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a

bitter, jesting way, "The money hasn't grown on the road. Here it is; you

can pay our debts to-morrow."

This remark gave him a fresh idea. Taking his pencil he began to jot down

the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary. "We

say twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk. How much do you

owe the butcher?" he asked.

"The butcher," replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes;

"well, say twenty francs."

"And the grocer and the baker?"

"I don't know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether. There is

nobody else."

Then Mathieu added up the items: "That makes sixty-two francs," said he.

"Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and

thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a nice

month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if little

Rose should fall ill."

The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, saying:

"Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to be

almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as full

of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life if

one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the little

ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!"

At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and

mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great

length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty

and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchênes, the Moranges,

the Séguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they had

said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident

starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never have

factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand francs a

year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had been their own

work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, improvident. And he

went on with his recollections, telling Marianne that he feared nothing

for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn her and the little ones

to want and poverty. She was surprised at first, and by degrees became

colder, more constrained, as he told her all that he had upon his mind.

Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, however lovingly he

spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but burst into sobs. She did

not question what he said, she spoke no words of revolt, but it was

evident that her whole being rebelled, and that her heart was sorely

grieved.

He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to her

own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with

himself. "Do not weep, my darling!" he exclaimed as he pressed her to

him: "it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that way.

Don't distress yourself, I beg you; we'll think it all over and talk

about it some other time."

She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her

head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving,

trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and more

confused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heed

to the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basis

of their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which had

possessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have been

instilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honor and

rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fast

returning. Through the window, which had remained open, all the sounds of

the lovely spring night poured into the room. It was spring, the season

of love, and beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, from

fields and forests and waters came the murmur of germinating life. And

never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss may result,

whatever difficulty may arise, whatever fate may be in store, all the

creative powers of the world, whether of the animal order, whether of the

order of the plants, for ever and ever wage life's great incessant battle

against death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased among all the other

denizens of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, seeks death

for death's sake, the annihilation of his species. Then Mathieu again

caught his wife in a close embrace, printing on her lips a long, ardent

kiss.

"Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would be impossible

for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let the others

hold us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us love and live as

nature tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdom and true

courage."

V

MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside the

large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at her, and

saw that she was awake and smiling.

"What! you are not asleep?" said he. "I hardly dared to stir for fear of

waking you. It is nearly nine o'clock, you know."

It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris.

During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful

at Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This

rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was

again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to accept

Beauchêne's amiable offer to place at his disposal the little pavilion in

the Rue de la Fédération, where the founder of the works had lived before

building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who had occupied

this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture of former days,

had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be near their friend,

worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, and did not intend to

return to Chantebled until the first fine days in April.

"Wait a moment," resumed Mathieu; "I will let the light in."

He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow,

wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. "Ah! there's the sun! And it's

splendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for a

little while with the children this afternoon."

Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the

bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: "Well, I hadn't been sleeping

either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn't move because I wanted

you to lie in bed a little late, as it's Sunday. How amusing to think

that we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide

open!"

"Oh!" said he, "I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one delight

on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and spend the

whole day with you and the children." Then he uttered a cry of surprise

and remorse: "Why! I haven't kissed you yet."

She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. In

the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked

radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown

tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with

gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face all

kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of

Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of

sovereign dignity.

They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which

enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne's pillows,

set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had tidied

the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up the

sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped a

cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoé, the servant

whom they had brought from the country, could very well do all those

things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, and that

he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that there was to do.

Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the room was cold,

and blamed himself for not having already lighted the fire. Some logs and

some small wood were piled in a corner, near the chimney-piece.

"How stupid of me!" he exclaimed; "here am I leaving you to freeze."

Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: "What an

idea! Leave all that, and call Zoé."

"No, no, she doesn't know how to light the fire properly, and besides, it

amuses me."

He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle,

filling the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a little

paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and dressing when

the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous thumping.

"Ah! the rascals," he gayly exclaimed. "They are awake, you see! Oh!

well, we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday."

For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion in

the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts of

laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters

flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition

as if it were a drum.

"Yes, yes," said the mother, smiling and anxious, "answer them; tell them

to come. They will be breaking everything if you don't."

Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious

outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And

Mathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling

could be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of

them wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they

trotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their

faces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise,

though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the

boldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and

Denis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught the

others to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the

dreamer of them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose,

who looked like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left

amid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily

erect.

"Ah! mamma," cried Ambroise, "it's dreadfully cold, you know; do make me

a little room."

Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and

nestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine

curly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of

war, and rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel.

"Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back,

mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!"

Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and

indignant. She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back.

"And me, mamma, and me," she pleaded.

It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with

her little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that she

might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat

anxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him

not to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled

there was so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled.

"It's very nice, it's so warm," said Ambroise, who was fond of taking his

ease.

But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it was

they had made so much noise "Blaise said that he had seen a spider. And

then he felt frightened."

This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: "It isn't

true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it."

"So did I! so did I!" stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. "I threw my

pillow like that--houp! houp!"

They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. The

truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence of

killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This

unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole

brood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their

father could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here

and there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into

perfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts.

"Oh! what fun! what fun!"

"All the same," Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herself

somewhat from the embraces of the children, "all the same, you know, I

want to get up. I mustn't idle, for it does me no good. And besides, you

little ones need to be washed and dressed."

They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly ten

o'clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where the

earthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamed upon

the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-room and a

drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a study on the

left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlooked the Rue

de la Fédération, and was filled every morning with cheerfulness by the

rising sun.

The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, when

a ring at the street door was heard. And it was Dr. Boutan who came in.

His arrival brought a renewal of noisy mirth, for the youngsters were

fond of his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at their

births, and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity is

allowable. And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to dart

towards the doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them.

"Now, please just leave the doctor quiet," said she, adding gayly, "Good

morning, doctor. I'm much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, for

I'm sure you ordered it so that I might go for a walk this afternoon."

"Why, yes, of course I ordered it--I was passing this way, and thought I

would look in to see how you were getting on."

Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieu

explained to him that they had remained late in bed.

"Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as much

exercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see that she

has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to be a

doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call."

Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busy

breakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in the

conversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, some

train of thought which he did not explain: "I hear that you are to lunch

with the Séguins next Thursday," said he. "Ah! poor little woman! That is

a terrible affair of hers."

With a gesture he expressed his feelings concerning the drama that had

just upset the Séguins' household. Valentine, like Marianne, was to

become a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husband

had given way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, they

had continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spent her

days on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor's

life. It was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes that

Marianne, on the occasion of her visit to the Séguins, might bring some

good influence to bear on them.

He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack which had

all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedly rising

from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, and now they

opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found the twins upon

his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round the waist and the

little girl clung to his legs.

"Puff! puff! do the railway train, do the railway train, please do."

They pushed and shook him, amid peal after peal of flute-like laughter,

while their father and mother rushed to his assistance, scolding and

angry. But he calmed the parents by saying: "Let them be! they are simply

wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, you know, since,

as our friend Beauchêne says, it is a little bit my fault if they are in

the world. What charms me with your children is that they enjoy such good

health, just like their mother. For the present, at all events, one can

ask nothing more of them."

When he had set them down on the floor, and given each a smacking kiss,

he took hold of Marianne's hands and said to her that everything was

going on beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off,

escorted to the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting and

laughing gayly.

Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order that

Marianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had been

dressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcely

more than one o'clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de la

Fédération and found itself upon the quays.

This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and the densely

populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspect all its

own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almost deserted

streets running at right angles and fringed by factories with lofty,

interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes along these

streets, and on raising one's head one sees only lofty chimneys belching

forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings with dusty window

panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be open one may espy

deep yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. The only sounds

are the strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumbling of machinery,

and the sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the carts to the pavement.

But on Sundays the factories do not work, and the district then falls

into death-like silence. In summer time there is but bright sunshine

heating the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden wind rushing down the

lonely streets. The population of Grenelle is said to be the worst of

Paris, both the most vicious and the most wretched. The neighborhood of

the École Militaire attracts thither a swarm of worthless women, who

bring in their train all the scum of the populace. In contrast to all

this the gay _bourgeois_ district of Passy rises up across the Seine; while

the rich aristocratic quarters of the Invalides and the Faubourg St.

Germain spread out close by. Thus the Beauchêne works on the quay, as

their owner laughingly said, turned their back upon misery and looked

towards all the prosperity and gayety of this world.

Mathieu was very partial to the avenues, planted with fine trees, which

radiate from the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides, supplying

great gaps for air and sunlight. But he was particularly fond of that

long diversified Quai d'Orsay, which starts from the Rue du Bac in the

very centre of the city, passes before the Palais Bourbon, crosses first

the Esplanade des Invalides, and then the Champ de Mars, to end at the

Boulevard de Grenelle, in the black factory region. How majestically it

spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were round that bend of the

Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden of the Eiffel Tower! The

river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; the avenue stretches out

under superb foliage. You can really saunter there amid delicious

quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm and power of Paris.

It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little ones

that Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety was felt

respecting Rose's little legs. She was intrusted to Ambroise, who,

although the youngest of the boys, was already energetic and determined.

These two opened the march; then came Blaise and Denis, the twins, the

parents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well:

they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winter

afternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very cold in

the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of bright

light. There were a great many people out of doors--all the idle folks,

clad in their Sunday best, whom the faintest sunshine draws in crowds to

the promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herself

up as if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed the

whole extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And her

three brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneath

their steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In other

cities of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by four

children would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectacle

was so unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and even compassion

were exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if they did not

actually hear, these comments, but they cared nothing for them. They

bravely went their way, smiling at one another, and feeling convinced

that the course they had taken in life was the right one, whatever other

folks might think or say.

It was three o'clock when they turned their steps homeward; and Marianne,

feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa in the

drawing-room, where Zoé had previously lighted a good fire. The children,

quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, listening to a

tale which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitor was announced.

This proved to be Constance, who, after driving out with Maurice, had

thought of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom she saw only once or

twice a week, although the little pavilion was merely separated by a

garden from the large house on the quay.

"Oh! are you poorly, my dear?" she inquired as she entered the room and

perceived Marianne on the sofa.

"Oh! dear, no," replied the other, "but I have been out walking for the

last two hours and am now taking some rest."

Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife's rich, vain cousin,

who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appear amiable. She

apologized for not being able to call more frequently, and explained what

a number of duties she had to discharge as mistress of her home. Meantime

Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round her petticoats, gazing from a

distance at the other children, who one and all returned his scrutiny.

"Well, Maurice," exclaimed his mother, "don't you wish your little

cousins good-day?"

He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all five

remained embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunity

to quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost out

of their element in the presence of this young Parisian with _bourgeois_

manners.

"And are all your little folks quite well?" resumed Constance, who, with

her sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. "Ambroise has

grown; his elder brothers also look very strong."

Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice's advantage. The

latter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion.

Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full of

irony, disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Marianne

was likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of her

disapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever.

Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussed

the subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. She

inquired after Beauchêne. "And Alexandre," said she, "why did you not

bring him with you? I haven't seen him for a week!"

"Why," broke in Mathieu, "I told you he had gone shooting yesterday

evening. He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled,

so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won't

be home till to-morrow."

"Ah! yes, I remember now. Well, it's nice weather to be in the woods."

This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted

having broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchêne

might really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availed himself

so often of this pretext to absent himself from home that Constance was

doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of that household,

whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show a brave front.

"Well, you know," said she, "it is I who compel him to go about and take

as much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the open

air. Shooting is very good for him."

At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing

another visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the

room, with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight of

Madame Beauchêne, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model of

wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance,

however, profited by the diversion of Valérie's arrival to declare that

she unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be

waiting for her at home.

"Well, at all events, leave us Maurice," suggested Mathieu. "Here's Reine

here now, and all six children can play a little while together. I will

bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack."

But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother's

skirts. And she refused the invitation. "Oh! no, no!" said she. "He has

to keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away

from home. Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after you all

in passing. Keep well; good-by."

Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valérie, but simply shaking

hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other

considered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiled

at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful that

day in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy

black tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed

to be the latter's younger sister.

Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: "Come and kiss me, my

dear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautiful

and tall. How old is she?"

"Nearly thirteen," Valérie replied.

She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu

noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes.

After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries,

and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, she

relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who thanked

her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave her with

his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on her mind, and

perhaps she wished to make a _confidante_ of Marianne.

"My dear Reine," said he, "come with these little ones into the

dining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay the

cloth."

This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the children

trooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later,

when everything was ready there, and Valérie came in, the latter's eyes

looked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, when

Mathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was.

Morange's scheme of leaving the Beauchêne works and entering the service

of the Crédit National, where he would speedily rise to a high and

lucrative position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry and marrying

her off to advantage--all the ambitious dreams of rank and wealth in

which his wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihood of

fulfilment, since it seemed probable that Valérie might again have a

child. Both she and her husband were in despair over it, and though

Marianne had done her utmost to pacify her friend and reconcile her to

circumstances, there were reasons to fear that in her distracted

condition she might do something desperate.

Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Séguins du Hordel at

the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, they came upon similar

trouble there. Séguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple to

accuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite a

bachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had never

fully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like a

fire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night at

his club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ring at

every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society and

appeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite and

jealousy upon his ailing wife.

She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferred

against her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part to

give up her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as long as

possible. And now she was really very ill, haunted too by an unreasoning,

irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. Mathieu, who had

seen her but a few months previously looking so fair and fresh, was

amazed to find her such a wreck. And on her side Valentine gazed, all

astonishment, at Marianne, noticing with surprise how calm and strong the

young woman seemed, and how limpid her clear and smiling eyes remained.

On the day of the Froments' visit Séguin had gone out early in the

morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch

was for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Céleste, the

maid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was

stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine

turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied:

"No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my village

is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, Sophie

Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings nurses to

Paris?"

"Well, what of it?" exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering Céleste

to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be disturbed

in this manner.

"Well, madame, she's here; and as I told you before, if you would intrust

her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for you in

the country, and bring her here whenever she's wanted."

La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained ajar,

and scarcely had Céleste finished than, without waiting for an

invitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened

woman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her

frequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed

nose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression of good

nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of

artfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her black cape,

black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her the appearance

of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sunday best.

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

"Yes, madame," replied La Couteau, "but that was ten years ago, when I

was only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn't likely to make much money

by remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring

others to Paris."

As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those

who give their services as wet nurses to _bourgeois_ families are simply

fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much on

the point, and so she added: "But one does what one can, eh, madame? The

doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so I thought

that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another manner."

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

"Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more

particularly Madame Broquette's office in the Rue Roquépine. It's a very

respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived--And so, if

you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you--the

pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you can

rely on me."

As her mistress did not immediately reply, Céleste ventured to intervene,

and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had called that

day.

"When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes a

baby with her, sometimes a nurse's child, and sometimes the child of

people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she

takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now

came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby

she is to take away with her."

Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the

neighborhood and a great friend of Céleste's. She had married a former

soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty

francs a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, and

had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled their

income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at their

ease. Céleste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to spend

hours gossiping in Madame Menoux's little shop, was forever being scolded

for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full of anxiety

and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud at being

questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux's baby was a

fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a certain

Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.

"It was I who recommended her," continued the servant, "for a friend of

mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt

she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome

a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very

kind and obliging."

Then Céleste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu's

eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself,

made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no

confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who,

it seemed to him, knew far too much.

Marianne joined in the conversation. "But why," asked she, "why does not

this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?"

Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor,

who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to

prevent others from doing business.

"Oh! it's impossible," exclaimed Céleste, well pleased with the

diversion. "Madame Menoux's shop is no bigger than my pocket-handkerchief,

and at the back of it there is only one little room where she

and her husband take their meals and sleep. And that room, too,

overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe. The

baby would not live a week in such a place. And, besides, Madame Menoux

would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had a servant,

and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in time for

her husband's return from the museum, she never has a moment to spare.

Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little fellow with

her."

"It is true," said Marianne sadly; "there are some poor mothers whom I

pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and

yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be

able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown

spot and given to another woman."

La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. Assuming

the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which she

always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: "Oh,

Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it's not far from Bayeux,

so that folks are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, too,

that people come there to recruit their health. And, besides, the little

ones who are confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. One would

have to be heartless to do otherwise than love such little angels."

However, like Céleste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how

significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her rustic

ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. Besides,

of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the region, since

that lady, Madame Séguin, wished to have a nurse at her house? So she

resumed: "Then it's understood, madame, I will bring you the best we

have, a real treasure."

Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found

strength to speak out. "No, no, I won't pledge myself in advance. I will

send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if there

is one to suit me."

Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to

Marianne, and asked: "Shall you nurse your baby yourself?"

"Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on

that point, my husband and I."

"No doubt. I understand you: I should much like to do the same myself;

but it is impossible."

La Couteau had remained there motionless, vexed at having come on a

fruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she would

have earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all her

spite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, was

evidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, at a

sign which Céleste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in the

company of the maid.

A few minutes afterwards, Séguin arrived, and, repairing to the

dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious

meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and white

Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and Marianne

would never have met with Dr. Boutan's approval; but Séguin declared the

doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could ever please.

He, Séguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day

to be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and

even galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at

times that tears came to the unfortunate woman's eyes. Now that he

scarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was going

wrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him,

entirely his wife's fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon

earth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place

remark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu

and Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a

harsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to

apologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of the

Vaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in her

haughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on him

for his treatment.

However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last

turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the game

in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such wise

that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that his

income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret of

the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could he

possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile

plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel?

Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks in

the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. "Are you

really of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?" he asked. "It's pitiful

to see all that land lying waste and idle."

"Cultivate it!" cried Séguin. "Ah! I should like to see such a miracle!

The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs."

They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table

Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss

her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on

account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors arrived

in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the

novelist, who of late had seldom called on the Séguins, and the other,

much to Mathieu's dislike, proved to be Beauchêne's sister, Séraphine,

the Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, provoking,

significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly glance of mocking

contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the novelist between them

soon turned the conversation on to subjects that appealed to their

vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he had lately seen Doctor Gaude

perform several operations at the Marbeuf Hospital. He had found there

the usual set of society men who attend first performances at the

theatres, and indeed there were also some women present.

And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most

precise particulars, much to the delight of Séguin, who every now and

again interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne

grew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with

amazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to

the evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last

book, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with

its theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she at last

glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the semi-society

and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would like to go

off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the sunlit quays.

He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity rife amid those

wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it was indeed time to

take leave.

"What! are you going already!" Valentine then exclaimed. "Well, I dare

not detain you if you feel tired." However, when Marianne begged her to

kiss the children for her, she added: "Why, yes, it's true you have not

seen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself."

But when Céleste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced that

Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their governess.

And this made Séguin explode once more. All his rancor against his wife

revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She spent her days lying

on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave to go out with the

children without saying anything? One could not even see the children now

in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of things. They were left to

the servants; in fact, it was the servants now who controlled the house.

Thereupon Valentine began to cry.

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself out of

doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaning on

his arm; "why, they are quite mad, the people in that house."

"Yes," Mathieu responded, "they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity them,

for they know not what happiness is."