TWO more years went by, and during those two years Mathieu and Marianne
had yet another daughter; and this time, as the family increased,
Chantebled also was increased by all the woodland extending eastward of
the plateau to the distant farms of Mareuil and Lillebonne. All the
northern part of the property was thus acquired: more than five hundred
acres of woods, intersected by clearings which roads soon connected
together. And those clearings, transformed into pasture-land, watered by
the neighboring springs, enabled Mathieu to treble his live-stock and
attempt cattle-raising on a large scale. It was the resistless conquest
of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was labor ever
incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and suffering,
making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy,
more health, and more joy in the veins of the world.
Since the Froments had become conquerors, busily founding a little
kingdom and building up a substantial fortune in land, the Beauchênes no
longer derided them respecting what they had once deemed their
extravagant idea in establishing themselves in the country. Astonished
and anticipating now the fullest success, they treated them as well-to-do
relatives, and occasionally visited them, delighted with the aspect of
that big, bustling farm, so full of life and prosperity. It was in the
course of these visits that Constance renewed her intercourse with her
former schoolfellow, Madame Angelin, the Froments' neighbor. A great
change had come over the Angelins; they had ended by purchasing a little
house at the end of the village, where they invariably spent the summer,
but their buoyant happiness seemed to have departed. They had long
desired to remain unburdened by children, and now they eagerly longed to
have a child, and none came, though Claire, the wife, was as yet but
six-and-thirty. Her husband, the once gay, handsome musketeer, was
already turning gray and losing his eyesight--to such a degree, indeed,
that he could scarcely see well enough to continue his profession as a
fan-painter.
When Madame Angelin went to Paris she often called on Constance, to whom,
before long, she confided all her worries. She had been in a doctor's
hands for three years, but all to no avail, and now during the last six
months she had been consulting a person in the Rue de Miromesnil, a
certain Madame Bourdieu, said she.
Constance at first made light of her friend's statements, and in part
declined to believe her. But when she found herself alone she felt
disquieted by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated the
matter as mere idle tittle-tattle, if she had not already regretted that
she herself had no second child. On the day when the unhappy Morange had
lost his only daughter, and had remained stricken down, utterly alone in
life, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish. Since that supreme
loss the wretched accountant had been living on in a state of imbecile
stupefaction, simply discharging his duties in a mechanical sort of way
from force of habit. Scarcely speaking, but showing great gentleness of
manner, he lived as one who was stranded, fated to remain forever at
Beauchêne's works, where his salary had now risen to eight thousand
francs a year. It was not known what he did with this amount, which was
considerable for a man who led such a narrow regular life, free from
expenses and fancies outside his home--that flat which was much too big
for him, but which he had, nevertheless, obstinately retained, shutting
himself up therein, and leading a most misanthropic life in fierce
solitude.
It was his grievous prostration which had at one moment quite upset and
affected Constance, so that she had even sobbed with the desolate
man--she whose tears flowed so seldom! No doubt a thought that she might
have had other children than Maurice came back to her in certain bitter
hours of unconscious self-examination, when from the depths of her being,
in which feelings of motherliness awakened, there rose vague fear, sudden
dread, such as she had never known before.
Yet Maurice, her son, after a delicate youth which had necessitated great
care, was now a handsome fellow of nineteen, still somewhat pale, but
vigorous in appearance. He had completed his studies in a fairly
satisfactory manner, and was already helping his father in the management
of the works. And his adoring mother had never set higher hopes upon his
head. She already pictured him as the master of that great establishment,
whose prosperity he would yet increase, thereby rising to royal wealth
and power.
Constance's worship for that only son, to-morrow's hero; increased the
more since his father day by day declined in her estimation, till she
regarded him in fact with naught but contempt and disgust. It was a
logical downfall, which she could not stop, and the successive phases of
which she herself fatally precipitated. At the outset she had overlooked
his infidelity; then from a spirit of duty and to save him from
irreparable folly she had sought to retain him near her; and finally,
failing in her endeavor, she had begun to feel loathing and disgust. He
was now two-and-forty, he drank too much, he ate too much, he smoked too
much. He was growing corpulent and scant of breath, with hanging lips and
heavy eyelids; he no longer took care of his person as formerly, but went
about slipshod, and indulged in the coarsest pleasantries. But it was
more particularly away from his home that he sank into degradation,
indulging in the low debauchery which had ever attracted him. Every now
and again he disappeared from the house and slept elsewhere; then he
concocted such ridiculous falsehoods that he could not be believed, or
else did not take the trouble to lie at all. Constance, who felt
powerless to influence him, ended by allowing him complete freedom.
The worst was, that the dissolute life he led grievously affected the
business. He who had been such a great and energetic worker had lost both
mental and bodily vigor; he could no longer plan remunerative strokes of
business; he no longer had the strength to undertake important contracts.
He lingered in bed in the morning, and remained for three or four days
without once going round the works, letting disorder and waste accumulate
there, so that his once triumphal stock-takings now year by year showed a
falling-off. And what an end it was for that egotist, that enjoyer, so
gayly and noisily active, who had always professed that money--capital
increased tenfold by the labor of others--was the only desirable source
of power, and whom excess of money and excess of enjoyment now cast with
appropriate irony to slow ruin, the final paralysis of the impotent.
But a supreme blow was to fall on Constance and fill her with horror of
her husband. Some anonymous letters, the low, treacherous revenge of a
dismissed servant, apprised her of Beauchêne's former intrigue with
Norine, that work-girl who had given birth to a boy, spirited away none
knew whither. Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence,
Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt. Whither had
that child been sent? Was he still alive? What ignominious existence was
he leading? She was vaguely jealous of the boy. The thought that her
husband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now that all her
motherly nature was aroused. But she devoted herself yet more ardently to
her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, and for his sake
even sacrificed her just rancor. She indeed came to the conclusion that
he must not suffer from his father's indignity, and so it was for him
that, with extraordinary strength of will, she ever preserved a proud
demeanor, feigning that she was ignorant of everything, never addressing
a reproach to her husband, but remaining, in the presence of others, the
same respectful wife as formerly. And even when they were alone together
she kept silence and avoided explanations and quarrels. Never even
thinking of the possibility of revenge, she seemed, in the presence of
her husband's profligacy, to attach herself more firmly to her home,
clinging to her son, and protected by him from thought of evil as much as
by her own sternness of heart and principles. And thus sorely wounded,
full of repugnance but hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of
that son who would purify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith
in his strength, and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once,
without reasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a
chill, affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which
she no longer remembered.
That little quiver came back while she listened to all that Madame
Angelin confided to her. And at last she became quite interested in her
friend's case, and offered to accompany her some day when she might be
calling on Madame Bourdieu. In the end they arranged to meet one Thursday
afternoon for the purpose of going together to the Rue de Miromesnil.
As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o'clock, Mathieu, who had
come to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchêne's works, was
quietly walking along the Rue La Boëtie when he met Cécile Moineaud, who
was carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string. She was
now nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, since
passing through the hands of Dr. Gaude. Mathieu had taken a great liking
to her during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled;
and later, knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he had regarded
her with deep compassion. He had busied himself to find her easy work,
and a friend of his had given her some cardboard boxes to paste together,
the only employment that did not tire her thin weak hands. So childish
had she remained that one would have taken her for a young girl suddenly
arrested in her growth. Yet her slender fingers were skilful, and she
contrived to earn some two francs a day in making the little boxes. And
as she suffered greatly at her parents' home, tortured by her brutal
surroundings there, and robbed of her earnings week by week, her dream
was to secure a home of her own, to find a little money that would enable
her to install herself in a room where she might live in peace and
quietness. It had occurred to Mathieu to give her a pleasant surprise
some day by supplying her with the small sum she needed.
"Where are you running so fast?" he gayly asked her.
The meeting seemed to take her aback, and she answered in an evasive,
embarrassed way: "I am going to the Rue de Miromesnil for a call I have
to make."
Noticing his kindly air, however, she soon told him the truth. Her
sister, that poor creature Norine, had just given birth to another child,
her third, at Madame Bourdieu's establishment. A gentleman who had been
protecting her had cast her adrift, and she had been obliged to sell her
few sticks of furniture in order to get together a couple of hundred
francs, and thus secure admittance to Madame Bourdieu's house, for the
mere idea of having to go to a hospital terrified her. Whenever she might
be able to get about again, however, she would find herself in the
streets, with the task of beginning life anew at one-and-thirty years of
age.
"She never behaved unkindly to me," resumed Cécile. "I pity her with all
my heart, and I have been to see her. I am taking her a little chocolate
now. Ah! if you only saw her little boy! he is a perfect love!"
The poor girl's eyes shone, and her thin, pale face became radiant with a
smile. The instinct of maternity remained keen within her, though she
could never be a mother.
"What a pity it is," she continued, "that Norine is so obstinately
determined on getting rid of the baby, just as she got rid of the others.
This little fellow, it's true, cries so much that she has had to give him
the breast. But it's only for the time being; she says that she can't see
him starve while he remains near her. But it quite upsets me to think
that one can get rid of one's children; I had an idea of arranging things
very differently. You know that I want to leave my parents, don't you?
Well, I thought of renting a room and of taking my sister and her little
boy with me. I would show Norine how to cut out and paste up those little
boxes, and we might live, all three, happily together."
"And won't she consent?" asked Mathieu.
"Oh! she told me that I was mad; and there's some truth in that, for I
have no money even to rent a room. Ah! if you only knew how it distresses
me."
Mathieu concealed his emotion, and resumed in his quiet way: "Well, there
are rooms to be rented. And you would find a friend to help you. Only I
am much afraid that you will never persuade your sister to keep her
child, for I fancy that I know her ideas on that subject. A miracle would
be needed to change them."
Quick-witted as she was, Cécile darted a glance at him. The friend he
spoke of was himself. Good heavens would her dream come true? She ended
by bravely saying: "Listen, monsieur; you are so kind that you really
ought to do me a last favor. It would be to come with me and see Norine
at once. You alone can talk to her and prevail on her perhaps. But let us
walk slowly, for I am stifling, I feel so happy."
Mathieu, deeply touched, walked on beside her. They turned the corner of
the Rue de Miromesnil, and his own heart began to beat as they climbed
the stairs of Madame Bourdieu's establishment. Ten years ago! Was it
possible? He recalled everything that he had seen and heard in that
house. And it all seemed to date from yesterday, for the building had not
changed; indeed, he fancied that he could recognize the very grease-spots
on the doors on the various landings.
Following Cécile to Norine's room, he found Norine up and dressed, but
seated at the side of her bed and nursing her babe.
"What! is it you, monsieur?" she exclaimed, as soon as she recognized her
visitor. "It is very kind of Cécile to have brought you. Ah! _mon Dieu_
what a lot of things have happened since I last saw you! We are none of
us any the younger."
He scrutinized her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged. She was one
of those blondes who fade rapidly after their thirtieth year. Still, if
her face had become pasty and wore a weary expression, she remained
pleasant-looking, and seemed as heedless, as careless as ever.
Cécile wished to bring matters to the point at once. "Here is your
chocolate," she began. "I met Monsieur Froment in the street, and he is
so kind and takes so much interest in me that he is willing to help me in
carrying out my idea of renting a room where you might live and work with
me. So I begged him to come up here and talk with you, and prevail on you
to keep that poor little fellow of yours. You see, I don't want to take
you unawares; I warn you in advance."
Norine started with emotion, and began to protest. "What is all this
again?" said she. "No, no, I don't want to be worried. I'm too unhappy as
it is."
But Mathieu immediately intervened, and made her understand that if she
reverted to the life she had been leading she would simply sink lower and
lower. She herself had no illusions on that point; she spoke bitterly
enough of her experiences. Her youth had flown, her good-looks were
departing, and the prospect seemed hopeless enough. But then what could
she do? When one had fallen into the mire one had to stay there.
"Ah! yes, ah! yes," said she; "I've had enough of that infernal life
which some folks think so amusing. But it's like a stone round my neck; I
can't get rid of it. I shall have to keep to it till I'm picked up in
some corner and carried off to die at a hospital."
She spoke these words with the fierce energy of one who all at once
clearly perceives the fate which she cannot escape. Then she glanced at
her infant, who was still nursing. "He had better go his way and I'll go
mine," she added. "Then we shan't inconvenience one another."
This time her voice softened, and an expression of infinite tenderness
passed over her desolate face. And Mathieu, in astonishment, divining the
new emotion that possessed her, though she did not express it, made haste
to rejoin: "To let him go his way would be the shortest way to kill him,
now that you have begun to give him the breast."
"Is it my fault?" she angrily exclaimed. "I didn't want to give it to
him; you know what my ideas were. And I flew into a passion and almost
fought Madame Bourdieu when she put him in my arms. But then how could I
hold out? He cried so dreadfully with hunger, poor little mite, and
seemed to suffer so much, that I was weak enough to let him nurse just a
little. I didn't intend to repeat it, but the next day he cried again,
and so I had to continue, worse luck for me! There was no pity shown me;
I've been made a hundred times more unhappy than I should have been, for,
of course, I shall soon have to get rid of him as I got rid of the
others."
Tears appeared in her eyes. It was the oft-recurring story of the
girl-mother who is prevailed upon to nurse her child for a few days, in
the hope that she will grow attached to the babe and be unable to part
from it. The chief object in view is to save the child, because its best
nurse is its natural nurse, the mother. And Norine, instinctively
divining the trap set for her, had struggled to escape it, and repeated,
sensibly enough, that one ought not to begin such a task when one meant
to throw it up in a few days' time. As soon as she yielded she was
certain to be caught; her egotism was bound to be vanquished by the wave
of pity, love, and hope that would sweep through her heart. The poor,
pale, puny infant had weighed but little the first time he took the
breast. But every morning afterwards he had been weighed afresh, and on
the wall at the foot of the bed had been hung the diagram indicating the
daily difference of weight. At first Norine had taken little interest in
the matter, but as the line gradually ascended, plainly indicating how
much the child was profiting, she gave it more and more attention. All at
once, as the result of an indisposition, the line had dipped down; and
since then she had always feverishly awaited the weighing, eager to see
if the line would once more ascend. Then, a continuous rise having set
in, she laughed with delight. That little line, which ever ascended, told
her that her child was saved, and that all the weight and strength he
acquired was derived from her--from her milk, her blood, her flesh. She
was completing the appointed work; and motherliness, at last awakened
within her, was blossoming in a florescence of love.
"If you want to kill him," continued Mathieu, "you need only take him
from your breast. See how eagerly the poor little fellow is nursing!"
This was indeed true. And Norine burst into big sobs: "_Mon Dieu_! you
are beginning to torture me again. Do you think that I shall take any
pleasure in getting rid of him now? You force me to say things which make
me weep at night when I think of them. I shall feel as if my very vitals
were being torn out when this child is taken from me! There, are you both
pleased that you have made me say it? But what good does it do to put me
in such a state, since nobody can remedy things, and he must needs go to
the foundlings, while I return to the gutter, to wait for the broom
that's to sweep me away?"
But Cécile, who likewise was weeping, kissed and kissed the child, and
again reverted to her dream, explaining how happy they would be, all
three of them, in a nice room, which she pictured full of endless joys,
like some Paradise. It was by no means difficult to cut out and paste up
the little boxes. As soon as Norine should know the work, she, who was
strong, might perhaps earn three francs a day at it. And five francs a
day between them, would not that mean fortune, the rearing of the child,
and all evil things forgotten, at an end? Norine, more weary than ever,
gave way at last, and ceased refusing.
"You daze me," she said. "I don't know. Do as you like--but certainly it
will be great happiness to keep this dear little fellow with me."
Cécile, enraptured, clapped her hands; while Mathieu, who was greatly
moved, gave utterance to these deeply significant words: "You have saved
him, and now he saves you."
Then Norine at last smiled. She felt happy now; a great weight had been
lifted from her heart. And carrying her child in her arms she insisted on
accompanying her sister and their friend to the first floor.
During the last half-hour Constance and Madame Angelin had been deep in
consultation with Madame Bourdieu. The former had not given her name, but
had simply played the part of an obliging friend accompanying another on
an occasion of some delicacy. Madame Bourdieu, with the keen scent
characteristic of her profession, divined a possible customer in that
inquisitive lady who put such strange questions to her. However, a rather
painful scene took place, for realizing that she could not forever
deceive Madame Angelin with false hopes, Madame Bourdieu decided to tell
the truth--her case was hopeless. Constance, however, at last made a sign
to entreat her to continue deceiving her friend, if only for charity's
sake. The other, therefore, while conducting her visitors to the landing,
spoke a few hopeful words to Madame Angelin: "After all, dear madame,"
said she, "one must never despair. I did wrong to speak as I did just
now. I may yet be mistaken. Come back to see me again."
At this moment Mathieu and Cécile were still on the landing in
conversation with Norine, whose infant had fallen asleep in her arms.
Constance and Madame Angelin were so surprised at finding the farmer of
Chantebled in the company of the two young women that they pretended they
did not see him. All at once, however, Constance, with the help of
memory, recognized Norine, the more readily perhaps as she was now aware
that Mathieu had, ten years previously, acted as her husband's
intermediary. And a feeling of revolt and the wildest fancies instantly
arose within her. What was Mathieu doing in that house? whose child was
it that the young woman carried in her arms? At that moment the other
child seemed to peer forth from the past; she saw it in swaddling
clothes, like the infant there; indeed, she almost confounded one with
the other, and imagined that it was indeed her husband's illegitimate son
that was sleeping in his mother's arms before her. Then all the
satisfaction she had derived from what she had heard Madame Bourdieu say
departed, and she went off furious and ashamed, as if soiled and
threatened by all the vague abominations which she had for some time felt
around her, without knowing, however, whence came the little chill which
made her shudder as with dread.
As for Mathieu, he saw that neither Norine nor Cécile had recognized
Madame Beauchêne under her veil, and so he quietly continued explaining
to the former that he would take steps to secure for her from the
Assistance Publique--the official organization for the relief of the
poor--a cradle and a supply of baby linen, as well as immediate pecuniary
succor, since she undertook to keep and nurse her child. Afterwards he
would obtain for her an allowance of thirty francs a month for at least
one year. This would greatly help the sisters, particularly in the
earlier stages of their life together in the room which they had settled
to rent. When Mathieu added that he would take upon himself the
preliminary outlay of a little furniture and so forth, Norine insisted
upon kissing him.
"Oh! it is with a good heart," said she. "It does one good to meet a man
like you. And come, kiss my poor little fellow, too; it will bring him
good luck."
On reaching the Rue La Boëtie it occurred to Mathieu, who was bound for
the Beauchêne works, to take a cab and let Cécile alight near her
parents' home, since it was in the neighborhood of the factory. But she
explained to him that she wished, first of all, to call upon her sister
Euphrasie in the Rue Caroline. This street was in the same direction, and
so Mathieu made her get into the cab, telling her that he would set her
down at her sister's door.
She was so amazed, so happy at seeing her dream at last on the point of
realization, that as she sat in the cab by the side of Mathieu she did
not know how to thank him. Her eyes were quite moist, all smiles and
tears.
"You must not think me a bad daughter, monsieur," said she, "because I'm
so pleased to leave home. Papa still works as much as he is able, though
he does not get much reward for it at the factory. And mamma does all she
can at home, though she hasn't much strength left her nowadays. Since
Victor came back from the army, he has married and has children of his
own, and I'm even afraid that he'll have more than he can provide for,
as, while he was in the army, he seems to have lost all taste for work.
But the sharpest of the family is that lazy-bones Irma, my younger
sister, who's so pretty and so delicate-looking, perhaps because she's
always ill. As you may remember, mamma used to fear that Irma might turn
out badly like Norine. Well, not at all! Indeed, she's the only one of us
who is likely to do well, for she's going to marry a clerk in the
post-office. And so the only ones left at home are myself and Alfred. Oh!
he is a perfect bandit! That is the plain truth. He committed a theft the
other day, and one had no end of trouble to get him out of the hands of
the police commissary. But all the same, mamma has a weakness for him,
and lets him take all my earnings. Yes, indeed, I've had quite enough of
him, especially as he is always terrifying me out of my wits, threatening
to beat and even kill me, though he well knows that ever since my illness
the slightest noise throws me into a faint. And as, all considered,
neither papa nor mamma needs me, it's quite excusable, isn't it, that I
should prefer living quietly alone. It is my right, is it not, monsieur?"
She went on to speak of her sister Euphrasie, who had fallen into a most
wretched condition, said she, ever since passing through Dr. Gaude's
hands. Her home had virtually been broken up, she had become decrepit, a
mere bundle of rags, unable even to handle a broom. It made one tremble
to see her. Then, after a pause, just as the cab was reaching the Rue
Caroline, the girl continued: "Will you come up to see her? You might say
a few kind words to her. It would please me, for I'm going on a rather
unpleasant errand. I thought that she would have strength enough to make
some little boxes like me, and thus earn a few pence for herself; but she
has kept the work I gave her more than a month now, and if she really
cannot do it I must take it back."
Mathieu consented, and in the room upstairs he beheld one of the most
frightful, poignant spectacles that he had ever witnessed. In the centre
of that one room where the family slept and ate, Euphrasie sat on a
straw-bottomed chair; and although she was barely thirty years of age,
one might have taken her for a little old woman of fifty; so thin and so
withered did she look that she resembled one of those fruits, suddenly
deprived of sap, that dry up on the tree. Her teeth had fallen, and of
her hair she only retained a few white locks. But the more characteristic
mark of this mature senility was a wonderful loss of muscular strength,
an almost complete disappearance of will, energy, and power of action, so
that she now spent whole days, idle, stupefied, without courage even to
raise a finger.
When Cécile told her that her visitor was M. Froment, the former chief
designer at the Beauchêne works, she did not even seem to recognize him;
she no longer took interest in anything. And when her sister spoke of the
object of her visit, asking for the work with which she had entrusted
her, she answered with a gesture of utter weariness: "Oh! what can you
expect! It takes me too long to stick all those little bits of cardboard
together. I can't do it; it throws me into a perspiration."
Then a stout woman, who was cutting some bread and butter for the three
children, intervened with an air of quiet authority: "You ought to take
those materials away, Mademoiselle Cécile. She's incapable of doing
anything with them. They will end by getting dirty, and then your people
won't take them back."
This stout woman was a certain Madame Joseph, a widow of forty and a
charwoman by calling, whom Bénard, the husband, had at first engaged to
come two hours every morning to attend to the housework, his wife not
having strength enough to put on a child's shoes or to set a pot on the
fire. At first Euphrasie had offered furious resistance to this intrusion
of a stranger, but, her physical decline progressing, she had been
obliged to yield. And then things had gone from bad to worse, till Madame
Joseph became supreme in the household. Between times there had been
terrible scenes over it all; but the wretched Euphrasie, stammering and
shivering, had at last resigned herself to the position, like some little
old woman sunk into second childhood and already cut off from the world.
That Bénard and Madame Joseph were not bad-hearted in reality was shown
by the fact that although Euphrasie was now but an useless encumbrance,
they kept her with them, instead of flinging her into the streets as
others would have done.
"Why, there you are again in the middle of the room!" suddenly exclaimed
the fat woman, who each time that she went hither and thither found it
necessary to avoid the other's chair. "How funny it is that you can never
put yourself in a corner! Auguste will be coming in for his four o'clock
snack in a moment, and he won't be at all pleased if he doesn't find his
cheese and his glass of wine on the table."
Without replying, Euphrasie nervously staggered to her feet, and with the
greatest trouble dragged her chair towards the table. Then she sat down
again limp and very weary.
Just as Madame Joseph was bringing the cheese, Bénard, whose workshop was
near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovial fellow,
and began to jest with his sister-in-law while showing great politeness
towards Mathieu, whom he thanked for taking interest in his unhappy
wife's condition. "_Mon Dieu_, monsieur," said he, "it isn't her fault;
it is all due to those rascally doctors at the hospital. For a year or so
one might have thought her cured, but you see what has now become of her.
Ah! it ought not to be allowed! You are no doubt aware that they treated
Cécile just the same. And there was another, too, a baroness, whom you
must know. She called here the other day to see Euphrasie, and, upon my
word, I didn't recognize her. She used to be such a fine woman, and now
she looks a hundred years old. Yes, yes, I say that the doctors ought to
be sent to prison."
He was about to sit down to table when he stumbled against Euphrasie's
chair. She sat watching him with an anxious, semi-stupefied expression.
"There you are, in my way as usual!" said he; "one is always tumbling up
against you. Come, make a little room, do."
He did not seem to be a very terrible customer, but at the sound of his
voice she began to tremble, full of childish fear, as if she were
threatened with a thrashing. And this time she found strength enough to
drag her chair as far as a dark closet, the door of which was open. She
there sought refuge, ensconcing herself in the gloom, amid which one
could vaguely espy her shrunken, wrinkled face, which suggested that of
some very old great-grandmother, who was taking years and years to die.
Mathieu's heart contracted as he observed that senile terror, that
shivering obedience on the part of a woman whose harsh, dry, aggressively
quarrelsome disposition he so well remembered. Industrious, self-willed,
full of life as she had once been, she was now but a limp human rag. And
yet her case was recorded in medical annals as one of the renowned
Gaude's great miracles of cure. Ah! how truly had Boutan spoken in saying
that people ought to wait to see the real results of those victorious
operations which were sapping the vitality of France.
Cécile, however, with eager affection, kissed the three children, who
somehow continued to grow up in that wrecked household. Tears came to her
eyes, and directly Madame Joseph had given her back the work-materials
entrusted to Euphrasie she hurried Mathieu away. And, as they reached the
street, she said: "Thank you, Monsieur Froment; I can go home on foot
now--. How frightful, eh? Ah! as I told you, we shall be in Paradise,
Norine and I, in the quiet room which you have so kindly promised to rent
for us."
On reaching Beauchêne's establishment Mathieu immediately repaired to the
workshops, but he could obtain no precise information respecting his
threshing-machine, though he had ordered it several months previously. He
was told that the master's son, Monsieur Maurice, had gone out on
business, and that nobody could give him an answer, particularly as the
master himself had not put in an appearance at the works that week. He
learnt, however, that Beauchêne had returned from a journey that very
day, and must be indoors with his wife. Accordingly, he resolved to call
at the house, less on account of the threshing-machine than to decide a
matter of great interest to him, that of the entry of one of his twin
sons, Blaise, into the establishment.
This big fellow had lately left college, and although he had only
completed his nineteenth year, he was on the point of marrying a
portionless young girl, Charlotte Desvignes, for whom he had conceived a
romantic attachment ever since childhood. His parents, seeing in this
match a renewal of their own former loving improvidence, had felt moved,
and unwilling to drive the lad to despair. But, if he was to marry, some
employment must first be found for him. Fortunately this could be
managed. While Denis, the other of the twins, entered a technical school,
Beauchêne, by way of showing his esteem for the increasing fortune of his
good cousins, as he now called the Froments, cordially offered to give
Blaise a situation at his establishment.
On being ushered into Constance's little yellow _salon_, Mathieu found her
taking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her from
the Rue de Miromesnil. Beauchêne's unexpected arrival on the scene had
disagreeably interrupted their private converse. He had returned from one
of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under the pretext of
making a short business journey, and, still slightly intoxicated, with
feverish, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he was wearying the two women
with his impudent, noisy falsehoods.
"Ah! my dear fellow!" he exclaimed on seeing Mathieu, "I was just telling
the ladies of my return from Amiens----. What wonderful duck _pâtés_ they
have there!"
Then, on Mathieu speaking to him of Blaise, he launched out into
protestations of friendship. It was understood, the young fellow need
only present himself at the works, and in the first instance he should be
put with Morange, in order that he might learn something of the business
mechanism of the establishment. Thus talking, Beauchêne puffed and
coughed and spat, exhaling meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, and
musk, which he always brought back from his "sprees," while his wife
smiled affectionately before the others as was her wont, but directed at
him glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turned
her head.
As Beauchêne continued talking too much, owning for instance that he did
not know how far the thresher might be from completion, Mathieu noticed
Constance listening anxiously. The idea of Blaise entering the
establishment had already rendered her grave, and now her husband's
apparent ignorance of important business matters distressed her. Besides,
the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she remembered the girl's
child, and almost feared some fresh understanding between Beauchêne and
Mathieu. All at once, however, she gave a cry of great relief: "Ah! here
is Maurice."
Her son was entering the room--her son, the one and only god on whom she
now set her affection and pride, the crown-prince who to-morrow would
become king, who would save the kingdom from perdition, and who would
exalt her on his right hand in a blaze of glory. She deemed him handsome,
tall, strong, and as invincible in his nineteenth year as all the knights
of the old legends. When he explained that he had just profitably
compromised a worrying transaction in which his father had rashly
embarked, she pictured him repairing disasters and achieving victories.
And she triumphed more than ever on hearing him promise that the
threshing-machine should be ready before the end of that same week.
"You must take a cup of tea, my dear," she exclaimed. "It would do you
good; you worry your mind too much."
Maurice accepted the offer, and gayly replied: "Oh! do you know, an
omnibus almost crushed me just now in the Rue de Rivoli!"
At this his mother turned livid, and the cup which she held escaped from
her hand. Ah! God, was her happiness at the mercy of an accident? Then
once again the fearful threat sped by, that icy gust which came she knew
not whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones.
"Why, you stupid," said Beauchêne, laughing, "it was he who crushed the
omnibus, since here he is, telling you the tale. Ah! my poor Maurice,
your mother is really ridiculous. I know how strong you are, and I'm
quite at ease about you."
That day Madame Angelin returned to Janville with Mathieu. They found
themselves alone in the railway carriage, and all at once, without any
apparent cause, tears started from the young woman's eyes. At this she
apologized, and murmured as if in a dream: "To have a child, to rear him,
and then lose him--ah! certainly one's grief must then be poignant. Yet
one has had him with one; he has grown up, and one has known for years
all the joy of having him at one's side. But when one never has a
child--never, never--ah! come rather suffering and mourning than such a
void as that!"
And meantime, at Chantebled, Mathieu and Marianne founded, created,
increased, and multiplied, again proving victorious in the eternal battle
which life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase both of
offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, their
joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame, desire divine
and fruitful, since they possessed the power of love, of kindliness, and
health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that quiet
bravery in the presence of the labor that is necessary, the labor that
has made and that regulates the world. Yet even during those two years it
was not without constant struggling that they achieved victory. True,
victory was becoming more and more certain as the estate expanded. The
petty worries of earlier days had disappeared, and the chief question was
now one of ruling sensibly and equitably. All the land had been purchased
northward on the plateau, from the farm of Mareuil to the farm of
Lillebonne; there was not a copse that did not belong to the Froments,
and thus beside the surging sea of corn there rose a royal park of
centenarian trees. Apart from the question of felling portions of the
wood for timber, Mathieu was not disposed to retain the remainder for
mere beauty's sake; and accordingly avenues were devised connecting the
broad clearings, and cattle were then turned into this part of the
property. The ark of life, increased by hundreds of animals, expanded,
burst through the great trees. There was a fresh growth of fruitfulness:
more and more cattle-sheds had to be built, sheepcotes had to be created,
and manure came in loads and loads to endow the land with wondrous
fertility. And now yet other children might come, for floods of milk
poured forth, and there were herds and flocks to clothe and nourish them.
Beside the ripening crops the woods waved their greenery, quivering with
the eternal seeds that germinated in their shade, under the dazzling sun.
And only one more stretch of land, the sandy slopes on the east, remained
to be conquered in order that the kingdom might be complete. Assuredly
this compensated one for all former tears, for all the bitter anxiety of
the first years of toil.
Then, while Mathieu completed his conquest, there came to Marianne during
those two years the joy of marrying one of her children even while she
was again _enceinte_, for, like our good mother the earth, she also
remained fruitful. 'Twas a delightful _fête_, full of infinite hope, that
wedding of Blaise and Charlotte; he a strong young fellow of nineteen,
she an adorable girl of eighteen summers, each loving the other with a
love of nosegay freshness that had budded, even in childhood's hour,
along the flowery paths of Chantebled. The eight other children were all
there: first the big brothers, Denis, Ambroise, and Gervais, who were now
finishing their studies; next Rose, the eldest girl, now fourteen, who
promised to become a woman of healthy beauty and happy gayety of
disposition; then Claire, who was still a child, and Grégoire, who was
only just going to college; without counting the very little ones, Louise
and Madeleine.
Folks came out of curiosity from the surrounding villages to see the gay
troop conduct their big brother to the municipal offices. It was a
marvellous _cortège_, flowery like springtide, full of felicity, which
moved every heart. Often, moreover, on ordinary holidays, when for the
sake of an outing the family repaired in a band to some village market,
there was such a gallop in traps, on horseback, and on bicycles, while
the girls' hair streamed in the wind and loud laughter rang out from one
and all, that people would stop to watch the charming cavalcade. "Here
are the troops passing!" folks would jestingly exclaim, implying that
nothing could resist those Froments, that the whole countryside was
theirs by right of conquest, since every two years their number
increased. And this time, at the expiration of those last two years it
was again to a daughter, Marguerite, that Marianne gave birth. For a
while she remained in a feverish condition, and there were fears, too,
that she might be unable to nurse her infant as she had done all the
others. Thus, when Mathieu saw her erect once more and smiling, with her
dear little Marguerite at her breast, he embraced her passionately, and
triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child,
yet more wealth and power, yet an additional force born into the world,
another field ready for to-morrow's harvest!
And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness
spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over
destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child
was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering,
and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope.