Then she confessed that for a fortnight past she had been designing in
water colors a series of _menu_ cards for the wedding feast. And, prettily
and lovingly enough, her idea had been to depict children's games and
children's heads; indeed, all the members of the family in their childish
days. She had taken their likenesses from old photographs, and her sketch
of the oak tree was to serve as a background for the portraits of the two
youngest scions of the house--little Benjamin and little Guillaume.
Mathieu and Marianne were delighted with that fleet procession of little
faces all white and pink which they perfectly recognized as they saw them
pass before their eyes. There were the twins nestling in their cradle,
locked in one another's arms; there was Rose, the dear lost one, in her
little shift; there were Ambroise and Gervais, bare, and wrestling on a
patch of grass; there were Grégoire and Nicolas birdnesting; there were
Claire and the three other girls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite,
romping about the farm, quarrelling with the fowls, springing upon the
horses' backs. But what particularly touched Marianne was the sketch of
her last-born, little Benjamin, now nine months old, whom Charlotte had
depicted reclining under the oak tree in the same little carriage as her
own son Guillaume, who was virtually of the same age, having been born
but eight days later.
"The uncle and the nephew," said Mathieu jestingly. "All the same, the
uncle is the elder by a week."
As Marianne stood there smiling, soft tears came into her eyes, and the
sketch shook in her happy hands.
"The dears!" said she; "my son and grandson. With those dear little ones
I am once again a mother and a grandmother. Ah, yes! those two are the
supreme consolation; they have helped to heal the wound; it is they who
have brought us back hope and courage."
This was true. How overwhelming had been the mourning and sadness of the
early days when Charlotte, fleeing the factory, had sought refuge at the
farm! The tragedy by which Blaise had been carried off had nearly killed
her. Her first solace was to see that her daughter Berthe, who had been
rather sickly in Paris, regained bright rosy cheeks amid the open air of
Chantebled. Moreover, she had settled her life: she would spend her
remaining years, in that hospitable house, devoting herself to her two
children, and happy in having so affectionate a grandmother and
grandfather to help and sustain her. She had always shown herself to be
somewhat apart from life, possessed of a dreamy nature, only asking to
love and to be loved in return.
So by degrees she settled down once more, installed beside her
grandparents in the old pavilion, which Mathieu fitted up for the three
of them. And wishing to occupy herself, irrespective of her income from
the factory, she even set to work again and painted miniatures, which a
dealer in Paris readily purchased. But her grief was mostly healed by her
little Guillaume, that child bequeathed to her by her dead husband, in
whom he resuscitated. And it was much the same with Marianne since the
birth of Benjamin. A new son had replaced the one she had lost, and
helped to fill the void in her heart. The two women, the two mothers,
found infinite solace in nursing those babes. For them they forgot
themselves; they reared them together, watching them grow side by side;
they gave them the breast at the same hours, and it was their desire to
see them both become very strong, very handsome, and very good. Although
one mother was almost twice as old as the other, they became, as it were,
sisters. The same nourishing milk flowed from both their fruitful bosoms.
And gleams of light penetrated their mourning: they began to laugh when
they saw those little cherubs laugh, and nothing could have been gayer
than the sight of that mother-in-law and that daughter-in-law side by
side, almost mingling, having but one cradle between them, amid an
unceasing florescence of maternity.
"Be careful," Mathieu suddenly said to Charlotte; "hide your drawings,
here are Gervais and Claire coming about the table."
Gervais at nineteen years of age was quite a colossus, the tallest and
the strongest of the family, with short, curly black hair, large bright
eyes, and a full broad-featured face. He had remained his father's
favorite son, the son of the fertile earth, the one in whom Mathieu
fostered a love for the estate, a passion for skilful agriculture, in
order that later on the young man might continue the good work which had
been begun. Mathieu already disburdened himself on Gervais of a part of
his duties, and was only waiting to see him married to give him the
control of the whole farm. And he often thought of adjoining to him
Claire when she found a husband in some worthy, sturdy fellow who would
assume part of the labor. Two men agreeing well would be none too many
for an enterprise which was increasing in importance every day. Since
Marianne had again been nursing, Claire had been attending to her work.
Though she had no beauty, she was of vigorous health and quite strong for
her seventeen years. She busied herself more particularly with cookery
and household affairs, but she also kept the accounts, being
shrewd-witted and very economically inclined, on which account the
prodigals of the family often made fun of her.
"And so it's here that the table is to be set," said Gervais; "I shall
have to see that the lawn is mowed then."
On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be at table
and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having called to
Frédéric to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing the
arrangements. After Rose's death, Frédéric, her betrothed, had continued
working beside Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comrade
and helper. For some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed that
he was revolving around Claire, as though, since he had lost the elder
girl, he were willing to content himself with the younger one, who was
far less beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. This
had at first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget their dear
daughter? Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought came to them
that the family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the young fellow's
heart would not roam in search of love elsewhere, but would remain with
them. So closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, for in
Frédéric, when Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervais would find
the brother-in-law and partner that he needed.
The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasion
burst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, and
loose hair waved in the sunshine.
"Oh!" cried Louise, "there are no roses."
"No," repeated Madeleine, "not a single white rose."
"And," added Marguerite, "we have inspected all the bushes. There are no
white roses, only red ones."
Thirteen, eleven, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise,
plump and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim and pretty,
spent hours at her piano, her eyes full of dreaminess; Marguerite, whose
nose was rather too large and whose lips were thick, had beautiful golden
hair. She would pick up little birds at winter time and warm them with
her hands. And the three of, them, after scouring the back garden, where
flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up in despair at their
vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was the end of
everything! What could they offer to the bride? And what could they set
upon the table?
Behind the three girls, however, appeared Grégoire, with jeering mien,
and his hands in his pockets. At fifteen he was very malicious, the most
turbulent, worrying member of the family, a lad inclined to the most
diabolical devices. His pointed nose and his thin lips denoted also his
adventurous spirit, his will power, and his skill in effecting his
object. And, apparently much amused by his sisters' disappointment, he
forgot himself and exclaimed, by way of teasing them: "Why, I know where
there are some white roses, and fine ones, too."
"Where is that?" asked Mathieu.
"Why, at the mill, near the wheel, in the little enclosure. There are
three big bushes which are quite white, with roses as big as cabbages."
Then he flushed and became confused, for his father was eyeing him
severely.
"What! do you still prowl round the mill?" said Mathieu. "I had forbidden
you to do so. As you know that there are white roses in the enclosure you
must have gone in, eh?"
"No; I looked over the wall."
"You climbed up the wall, that's the finishing touch! So you want to land
me in trouble with those Lepailleurs, who are decidedly very foolish and
very malicious people. There is really a devil in you, my boy."
That which Grégoire left unsaid was that he repaired to the enclosure in
order that he might there join Thérèse, the miller's fair-haired daughter
with the droll, laughing face, who was also a terribly adventurous damsel
for her thirteen years. True, their meetings were but childish play, but
at the end of the enclosure, under the apple trees, there was a
delightful nook where one could laugh and chat and amuse oneself at one's
ease.
"Well, just listen to me," Mathieu resumed. "I won't have you going to
play with Thérèse again. She is a pretty little girl, no doubt. But that
house is not a place for you to go to. It seems that they fight one
another there now."
This was a fact. When that young scamp Antonin had recovered his health,
he had been tormented by a longing to return to Paris, and had done all
he could with that object, in view of resuming a life of idleness and
dissipation. Lepailleur, greatly irritated at having been duped by his
son, had at first violently opposed his plans. But what could he do in
the country with that idle fellow, whom he himself had taught to hate the
earth and to sneer at the old rotting mill. Besides, he now had his wife
against him. She was ever admiring her son's learning, and so stubborn
was her faith in him that she was convinced that he would this time
secure a good position in the capital. Thus the father had been obliged
to give way, and Antonin was now finally wrecking his life while filling
some petty employment at a merchant's in the Rue du Mail. But, on the
other hand, the quarrelling increased in the home, particularly whenever
Lepailleur suspected his wife of robbing him in order to send money to
that big lazybones, their son. From the bridge over the Yeuse on certain
days one could hear oaths and blows flying about. And here again was
family life destroyed, strength wasted, and happiness spoilt.
Carried off by perfect anger, Mathieu continued: "To think of it; people
who had everything needful to be happy! How can one be so stupid? How can
one seek wretchedness for oneself with such obstinacy? As for that idea
of theirs of an only son, and their vanity in wanting to make a gentleman
of him, ah! well, they have succeeded finely! They must be extremely
pleased to-day! It is just like Lepailleur's hatred of the earth, his
old-fashioned system of cultivation, his obstinacy in leaving his bit of
moorland barren and refusing to sell it to me, no doubt by way of
protesting against our success! Can you imagine anything so stupid? And
it's just like his mill; all folly and idleness he stands still, looking
at it fall into ruins. He at least had a reason for that in former times;
he used to say that as the region had almost renounced corn-growing, the
peasants did not bring him enough grain to set his mill-stones working.
But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows on all sides, surely he
ought to have pulled down his old wheel and have replaced it by a good
engine. Ah! if I were in his place I would already have a new and bigger
mill there, making all use of the water of the Yeuse, and connecting it
with Janville railway station by a line of rails, which would not cost so
much to lay down."
Grégoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall on
another than himself. And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters were
still greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying:
"Well, for the table to-morrow morning you must gather those which are
the lightest in color--the pale pink ones; they will do very well."
Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by adding
gayly: "Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find. They will
symbolize the blood of life!"
Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all the
preparations, when other little feet came tripping through the grass.
Nicolas, quite proud of his seven years, was leading his niece Berthe, a
big girl of six. They agreed very well together. That day they had
remained indoors playing at "fathers and mothers" near the cradle
occupied by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies. But
all at once the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment. And Nicolas
and Berthe, quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch the two
mothers.
"Mamma!" called Nicolas, "Benjamin's asking for you. He's thirsty."
"Mamma, mamma!" repeated Berthe, "Guillaume's thirsty. Come quick, he's
in a hurry."
Marianne and Charlotte laughed. True enough, the morrow's wedding had
made them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house.
On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated in affectionate
intimacy. There were but one-and-twenty at table under the oak tree in
the middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, seemed like
a hall of verdure. The whole family was present: first those of the farm,
then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wife Andrée, who had
brought their little Léonce with them. And apart from the family proper,
there were only the few invited relatives, Beauchêne and Constance,
Séguin and Valentine, with, of course, Madame Desvignes, the bride's
mother. There were twenty-one at table, as has been said; but besides
those one-and-twenty there were three very little ones present: Léonce,
who at fifteen months had just been weaned, and Benjamin and Guillaume,
who still took the breast. Their little carriages had been drawn up near,
so that they also belonged to the party, which was thus a round two
dozen. And the table, flowery with roses, sent forth a delightful perfume
under the rain of summer sunbeams which flecked it with gold athwart the
cool shady foliage. From one horizon to the other stretched the wondrous
tent of azure of the triumphant July sky. And Marthe's white bridal gown,
and the bright dresses of the girls, big and little; all those gay
frocks, and all that fine youthful health, seemed like the very
florescence of that green nook of happiness. They lunched joyously, and
ended by clinking glasses in country fashion, while wishing all sorts of
prosperity to the bridal pair and to everybody present.
Then, while the servants were removing the cloth, Séguin, who affected an
interest in horse-breeding and cattle-raising, wished Mathieu to show him
his stables. He had talked nothing but horseflesh during the meal, and
was particularly desirous of seeing some big farm-horses, whose great
strength had been praised by his host. He persuaded Beauchêne to join him
in the inspection, and the three men were starting, when Constance and
Valentine, somewhat inquisitive with respect to that farm, the great
growth of which still filled them with stupefaction, decided to follow,
leaving the rest of the family installed under the trees, amid the
smiling peacefulness of that fine afternoon.
The cow-houses and stables were on the right hand. But in order to reach
them one had to cross the great yard, whence the entire estate could be
seen. And here there was a halt, a sudden stopping inspired by
admiration, so grandly did the work accomplished show forth under the
sun. They had known that land dry and sterile, covered with mere scrub;
they beheld it now one sea of waving corn, of crops whose growth
increased at each successive season. Up yonder, on the old marshy
plateau, the fertility was such, thanks to the humus amassed during long
centuries, that Mathieu did not even manure the ground as yet. Then, to
right and to left, the former sandy slopes spread out all greenery,
fertilized by the springs which ever brought them increase of
fruitfulness. And the very woods afar off, skilfully arranged, aired by
broad clearings, seemed to possess more sap, as if all the surrounding
growth of life had instilled additional vigor into them. With this vigor,
this power, indeed, the whole domain was instinct; it was creation, man's
labor fertilizing sterile soil, and drawing from it a wealth of
nourishment for expanding humanity, the conqueror of the world.
There was a long spell of silence. At last Séguin, in his dry shrill
voice, with a tinge of bitterness born of his own ruin, remarked: "You
have done a good stroke of business. I should never have believed it
possible."
Then they walked on again. But in the sheds, the cow-houses, the
sheep-cotes, and all round, the sensation of strength and power yet
increased. Creation was there continuing; the cattle, the sheep, the
fowls, the rabbits, all that dwelt and swarmed there were incessantly
increasing and multiplying. Each year the ark became too small, and fresh
pens and fresh buildings were required. Life increased life; on all sides
there were fresh broods, fresh flocks, fresh herds; all the conquering
wealth of inexhaustible fruitfulness.
When they reached the stables Séguin greatly admired the big draught
horses, and praised them with the expressions of a connoisseur. Then he
returned to the subject of breeding, and cited some extraordinary results
that one of his friends obtained by certain crosses. So far as the animal
kingdom was concerned his ideas were sound enough, but when he came to
the consideration of human kind he was as erratic as ever. As they walked
back from the stables he began to descant on the population question,
denouncing the century, and repeating all his old theories. Perhaps it
was jealous rancor that impelled him to protest against the victory of
life which the whole farm around him proclaimed so loudly. Depopulation!
why, it did not extend fast enough. Paris, which wished to die, so people
said, was really taking its time about it. All the same, he noticed some
good symptoms, for bankruptcy was increasing on all sides--in science,
politics, literature, and even art. Liberty was already dead. Democracy,
by exasperating ambitious instincts and setting classes in conflict for
power, was rapidly leading to a social collapse. Only the poor still had
large families; the _élite_, the people of wealth and intelligence, had
fewer and fewer children, so that, before final annihilation came, there
might still be a last period of acceptable civilization, in which there
would remain only a few men and women of supreme refinement, content with
perfumes for sustenance and mere breath for enjoyment. He, however, was
disgusted, for he now felt certain that he would not see that period
since it was so slow in coming.
"If only Christianity would return to the primitive faith," he continued,
"and condemn woman as an impure, diabolical, and harmful creature, we
might go and lead holy lives in the desert, and in that way bring the
world to an end much sooner. But the political Catholicism of nowadays,
anxious to keep alive itself, allows and regulates marriage, with the
view of maintaining things as they are. Oh! you will say, of course, that
I myself married and that I have children, which is true; but I am
pleased to think that they will redeem my fault. Gaston says that a
soldier's only wife ought to be his sword, and so he intends to remain
single; and as Lucie, on her side, has taken the veil at the Ursulines, I
feel quite at ease. My race is, so to say, already extinct, and that
delights me."
Mathieu listened with a smile. He was acquainted with that more or less
literary form of pessimism. In former days all such views, as, for
instance, the struggle of civilization against the birth-rate, and the
relative childlessness of the most intelligent and able members of the
community, had disturbed him. But since he had fought the cause of love
he had found another faith. Thus he contented himself with saying rather
maliciously: "But you forget your daughter Andrée and her little boy
Léonce."
"Oh! Andrée!" replied Séguin, waving his hand as if she did not belong to
him.
Valentine, however, had stopped short, gazing at him fixedly. Since their
household had been wrecked and they had been leading lives apart, she no
longer tolerated his sudden attacks of insane brutality and jealousy. By
reason also of the squandering of their fortune she had a hold on him,
for he feared that she might ask for certain accounts to be rendered her.
"Yes," he granted, "there is Andrée; but then girls don't count."
They were walking on again when Beauchêne, who had hitherto contented
himself with puffing and chewing his cigar, for reserve was imposed upon
him by the frightful drama of his own family life, was unable to remain
silent any longer. Forgetful, relapsing into the extraordinary
unconsciousness which always set him erect, like a victorious superior
man, he spoke out loudly and boldly:
"I don't belong to Séguin's school, but, all the same, he says some true
things. That population question greatly interests me even now, and I can
flatter myself that I know it fully. Well, it is evident that Malthus was
right. It is not allowable for people to have families without knowing
how they will be able to nourish them. If the poor die of starvation it
is their fault, and not ours."
Then he reverted to his usual lecture on the subject. The governing
classes alone were reasonable in keeping to small families. A country
could only produce a certain supply of food, and was therefore restricted
to a certain population. People talked of the faulty division of wealth;
but it was madness to dream of an Utopia, where there would be no more
masters but only so many brothers, equal workers and sharers, who would
apportion happiness among themselves like a birthday-cake. All the evil
then came from the lack of foresight among the poor, though with brutal
frankness he admitted that employers readily availed themselves of the
circumstance that there was a surplus of children to hire labor at
reduced rates.
Then, losing all recollection of the past, infatuated, intoxicated with
his own ideas, he went on talking of himself. "People pretend that we are
not patriots because we don't leave troops of children behind us. But
that is simply ridiculous; each serves the country in his own way. If the
poor folks give it soldiers, we give it our capital--all the proceeds of
our commerce and industry. A fine lot of good would it do the country if
we were to ruin ourselves with big families, which would hamper us,
prevent us from getting rich, and afterwards destroy whatever we create
by subdividing it. With our laws and customs there can be no substantial
fortune unless a family is limited to one son. And yes, that is
necessary; but one son--an only son--that is the only wise course;
therein lies the only possible happiness."
It became so painful to hear him, in his position, speaking in that
fashion, that the others remained silent, full of embarrassment. And he,
thinking that he was convincing them, went on triumphantly: "Thus, I
myself--"
But at this moment Constance interrupted him. She had hitherto walked on
with bowed head amid that flow of chatter which brought her so much
torture and shame, an aggravation, as it were, of her defeat. But now she
raised her face, down which two big tears were trickling.
"Alexandre!" she said.
"What is it, my dear?"
He did not yet understand. But on seeing her tears, he ended by feeling
disturbed, in spite of all his fine assurance. He looked at the others,
and wishing to have the last word, he added: "Ah, yes! our poor child.
But particular cases have nothing to do with general theories; ideas are
still ideas."
Silence fell between them. They were now near the lawn where the family
had remained. And for the last moment Mathieu had been thinking of
Morange, whom he had also invited to the wedding, but who had excused
himself from attending, as if he were terrified at the idea of gazing on
the joy of others, and dreaded, too, lest some sacrilegious attempt
should be made in his absence on the mysterious sanctuary where he
worshipped. Would he, Morange--so Mathieu wondered--have clung like
Beauchêne to his former ideas? Would he still have defended the theory of
the only child; that hateful, calculating theory which had cost him both
his wife and his daughter? Mathieu could picture him flitting past, pale
and distracted, with the step of a maniac hastening to some mysterious
end, in which insanity would doubtless have its place. But the lugubrious
vision vanished, and then again before Mathieu's eyes the lawn spread out
under the joyous sun, offering between its belt of foliage such a picture
of happy health and triumphant beauty, that he felt impelled to break the
mournful silence and exclaim:
"Look there! look there! Isn't that gay; isn't that a delightful
scene--all those dear women and dear children in that setting of verdure?
It ought to be painted to show people how healthy and beautiful life is!"
Time had not been lost on the lawn since the Beauchênes and Séguins had
gone off to visit the stables. First of all there had been a distribution
of the _menu_ cards, which Charlotte had adorned with such delicate
water-color sketches. This surprise of hers had enraptured them all at
lunch, and they still laughed at the sight of those pretty children's
heads. Then, while the servants cleared the table, Grégoire achieved a
great success by offering the bride a bouquet of splendid white roses,
which he drew out of a bush where he had hitherto kept it hidden. He had
doubtless been waiting for some absence of his father's. They were the
roses of the mill; with Thérèse's assistance he must have pillaged the
bushes in the enclosure. Marianne, recognizing how serious was the
transgression, wished to scold him. But what superb white roses they
were, as big as cabbages, as he himself had said! And he was entitled to
triumph over them, for they were the only white roses there, and had been
secured by himself, like the wandering urchin he was with a spice of
knight-errantry in his composition, quite ready to jump over walls and
cajole damsels in order to deck a bride with snowy blooms.
"Oh! papa won't say anything," he declared, with no little
self-assurance; "they are far too beautiful."
This made the others laugh; but fresh emotion ensued, for Benjamin and
Guillaume awoke and screamed their hunger aloud. It was gayly remarked,
however, that they were quite entitled to their turn of feasting. And as
it was simply a family gathering there was no embarrassment on the part
of the mothers. Marianne took Benjamin on her knees in the shade of the
oak tree, and Charlotte placed herself with Guillaume on her right hand;
while, on her left, Andrée seated herself with little Léonce, who had
been weaned a week previously, but was still very fond of caresses.
It was at this moment that the Beauchênes and the Séguins reappeared with
Mathieu, and stopped short, struck by the charm of the spectacle before
them. Between a framework of tall trees, under the patriarchal oak, on
the thick grass of the lawn the whole vigorous family was gathered in a
group, instinct with gayety, beauty, and strength. Gervais and Claire,
ever active, were, with Frédéric, hurrying on the servants, who made no
end of serving the coffee on the table which had just been cleared. For
this table the three younger girls, half buried in a heap of flowers, tea
and blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help of knight Grégoire,
devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, the bridal pair, Denis
and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while the bride's mother,
Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreet and infinitely
gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midst of all this that
Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, ever beautiful, with
serene strength, was giving the breast to her twelfth child, her
Benjamin, and smiling at him as he sucked away; while surrendering her
other knee to little Nicolas, who was jealous of his younger brother. And
her two daughters-in-law seemed like a continuation of herself. There was
Andrée on the left with Ambroise, who had stepped up to tease his little
Léonce; and Charlotte on the right with her two children, Guillaume, who
hung on her breast, and Berthe, who had sought a place among her skirts.
And here, faith in life had yielded prosperity, ever-increasing,
overflowing wealth, all the sovereign florescence of happy fruitfulness.
Séguin, addressing himself to Marianne, asked her jestingly: "And so that
little gentleman is the fourteenth you have nursed?"
She likewise laughed. "No; I mustn't tell fibs! I have nursed twelve,
including this one; that is the exact number."
Beauchêne, who had recovered his self-possession, could not refrain from
intervening once more: "A full dozen, eh! It is madness!"
"I share your opinion," said Mathieu, laughing in his turn. "At all
events, if it is not madness it is extravagance, as we admit, my wife and
I, when we are alone. And we certainly don't think that all people ought
to have such large families as ours. But, given the situation in France
nowadays, with our population dwindling and that of nearly every other
country increasing, it is hardly possible to complain of even the largest
family. Thus, even if our example be exaggerated, it remains an example,
I think, for others to think over."
Marianne listened, still smiling, but with tears standing in her eyes. A
feeling of gentle sadness was penetrating her; her heart-wound had
reopened even amid all her joy at seeing her children assembled around
her. "Yes," said she in a trembling voice, "there have been twelve, but I
have only ten left. Two are already sleeping yonder, waiting for us
underground."
There was no sign of dread, however, in that evocation of the peaceful
little cemetery of Janville and the family grave in which all the
children hoped some day to be laid, one after the other, side by side.
Rather did that evocation, coming amid that gay wedding assembly, seem
like a promise of future blessed peace. The memory of the dear departed
ones remained alive, and lent to one and all a kind of loving gravity
even amid their mirth. Was it not impossible to accept life without
accepting death. Each came here to perform his task, and then, his work
ended, went to join his elders in that slumber of eternity where the
great fraternity of humankind was fulfilled.
But in presence of those jesters, Beauchêne and Séguin, quite a flood of
words rose to Mathieu's lips. He would have liked to answer them; he
would have liked to triumph over the mendacious theories which they still
dared to assert even in their hour of defeat. To fear that the earth
might become over-populated, that excess of life might produce famine,
was this not idiotic? Others only had to do as he had done: create the
necessary subsistence each time that a child was born to them. And he
would have pointed to Chantebled, his work, and to all the corn growing
up under the sun, even as his children grew. They could not be charged
with having come to consume the share of others, since each was born with
his bread before him. And millions of new beings might follow, for the
earth was vast: more than two-thirds of it still remained to be placed
under cultivation, and therein lay endless fertility for unlimited
humanity. Besides, had not every civilization, every progress, been due
to the impulse of numbers? The improvidence of the poor had alone urged
revolutionary multitudes to the conquest of truth, justice, and
happiness. And with each succeeding day the human torrent would require
more kindliness, more equity, the logical division of wealth by just laws
regulating universal labor. If it were true, too, that civilization was a
check to excessive natality, this phenomenon itself might make one hope
in final equilibrium in the far-off ages, when the earth should be
entirely populated and wise enough to live in a sort of divine
immobility. But all this was pure speculation beside the needs of the
hour, the nations which must be built up afresh and incessantly enlarged,
pending the eventual definitive federation of mankind. And it was really
an example, a brave and a necessary one, that Marianne and he were
giving, in order that manners and customs, and the idea of morality and
the idea of beauty might be changed.
Full of these thoughts Mathieu was already opening his mouth to speak.
But all at once he felt how futile discussion would be in presence of
that admirable scene; that mother surrounded by such a florescence of
vigorous children; that mother nursing yet another child, under the big
oak which she had planted. She was bravely accomplishing her task--that
of perpetuating the world. And hers was the sovereign beauty.
Mathieu could think of only one thing that would express everything, and
that was to kiss her with all his heart before the whole assembly.
"There, dear wife! You are the most beautiful and the best! May all the
others do as you have done."
Then, when Marianne had gloriously returned his kiss, there arose an
acclamation, a tempest of merry laughter. They were both of heroic mould;
it was with a great dash of heroism that they had steered their bark
onward, thanks to their full faith in life, their will of action, and the
force of their love. And Constance was at last conscious of it: she could
realize the conquering power of fruitfulness; she could already see the
Froments masters of the factory through their son Denis; masters of
Séguin's mansion through their son Ambroise; masters, too, of all the
countryside through their other children. Numbers spelt victory. And
shrinking, consumed with a love which she could never more satisfy, full
of the bitterness of her defeat, though she yet hoped for some abominable
revenge of destiny, she--who never wept!--turned aside to hide the big
hot tears which now burnt her withered cheeks.
Meantime Benjamin and Guillaume were enjoying themselves like greedy
little men whom nothing could disturb. Had there been less laughter one
might have heard the trickling of their mothers' milk: that little stream
flowing forth amid the torrent of sap which upraised the earth and made
the big trees quiver in the powerful July blaze. On every side fruitful
life was conveying germs, creating and nourishing. And for its eternal
work an eternal river of milk flowed through the world.