XX

DURING the ten years which followed, the vigorous sprouting of the

Froments, suggestive of some healthy vegetation of joy and strength,

continued in and around the ever and ever richer domain of Chantebled. As

the sons and the daughters grew up there came fresh marriages, and more

and more children, all the promised crop, all the promised swarming of a

race of conquerors.

First it was Gervais who married Caroline Boucher, daughter of a big

farmer of the region, a fair, fine-featured, gay, strong girl, one of

those superior women born to rule over a little army of servants. On

leaving a Parisian boarding-school she had been sensible enough to feel

no shame of her family's connection with the soil. Indeed she loved the

earth and had set herself to win from it all the sterling happiness of

her life. By way of dowry she brought an expanse of meadow-land in the

direction of Lillebonne, which enlarged the estate by some seventy acres.

But she more particularly brought her good humor, her health, her courage

in rising early, in watching over the farmyard, the dairy, the whole

home, like an energetic active housewife, who was ever bustling about,

and always the last to bed.

Then came the turn of Claire, whose marriage with Frédéric Berthaud, long

since foreseen, ended by taking place. There were tears of soft emotion,

for the memory of her whom Berthaud had loved and whom he was to have

married disturbed several hearts on the wedding day when the family

skirted the little cemetery of Janville as it returned to the farm from

the municipal offices. But, after all, did not that love of former days,

that faithful fellow's long affection, which in time had become

transferred to the younger sister, constitute as it were another link in

the ties which bound him to the Froments? He had no fortune, he brought

with him only his constant faithfulness, and the fraternity which had

sprung up between himself and Gervais during the many seasons when they

had ploughed the estate like a span of tireless oxen drawing the same

plough. His heart was one that could never be doubted, he was the helper

who had become indispensable, the husband whose advent would mean the

best of all understandings and absolute certainty of happiness.

From the day of that wedding the government of the farm was finally

settled. Though Mathieu was barely five-and-fifty he abdicated, and

transferred his authority to Gervais, that son of the earth as with a

laugh he often called him, the first of his children born at Chantebled,

the one who had never left the farm, and who had at all times given him

the support of his arm and his brain and his heart. And now Frédéric in

turn would think and strive as Gervais's devoted lieutenant, in the great

common task. Between them henceforth they would continue the father's

work, and perfect the system of culture, procuring appliances of new

design from the Beauchêne works, now ruled by Denis, and ever drawing

from the soil the largest crops that it could be induced to yield. Their

wives had likewise divided their share of authority; Claire surrendered

the duties of supervision to Caroline, who was stronger and more active

than herself, and was content to attend to the accounts, the turnover of

considerable sums of money, all that was paid away and all that was

received. The two couples seemed to have been expressly and cleverly

selected to complete one another and to accomplish the greatest sum of

work without ever the slightest fear of conflict. And, indeed, they lived

in perfect union, with only one will among them, one purpose which was

ever more and more skilfully effected--the continual increase of the

happiness and wealth of Chantebled under the beneficent sun.

At the same time, if Mathieu had renounced the actual exercise of

authority, he none the less remained the creator, the oracle who was

consulted, listened to, and obeyed. He dwelt with Marianne in the old

shooting-box which had been transformed and enlarged into a very

comfortable house. Here they lived like the founders of a dynasty who had

retired in full glory, setting their only delight in beholding around

them the development and expansion of their race, the birth and growth of

their children's children. Leaving Claire and Gervais on one side, there

were as yet only Denis and Ambroise--the first to wing their flight

abroad--engaged in building up their fortunes in Paris. The three girls,

Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, who would soon be old enough to marry,

still dwelt in the happy home beside their parents, as well as the three

youngest boys, Grégoire, the free lance, Nicolas, the most stubborn and

determined of the brood, and Benjamin, who was of a dreamy nature. All

these finished growing up at the edge of the nest, so to say, with the

window of life open before them, ready for the day when they likewise

would take wing.

With them dwelt Charlotte, Blaise's widow, and her two children, Berthe

and Guillaume, the three of them occupying an upper floor of the house

where the mother had installed her studio. She was becoming rich since

her little share in the factory profits, stipulated by Denis, had been

increasing year by year; but nevertheless, she continued working for her

dealer in miniatures. This work brought her pocket-money, she gayly said,

and would enable her to make her children a present whenever they might

marry. There was, indeed, already some thought of Berthe marrying; and

assuredly she would be the first of Mathieu and Marianne's grandchildren

to enter into the state of matrimony. They smiled softly at the idea of

becoming great-grandparents before very long perhaps.

After the lapse of four years, Grégoire, first of the younger children,

flew away. There was a great deal of trouble, quite a little drama in

connection with the affair, which Mathieu and Marianne had for some time

been anticipating. Grégoire was anything but reasonable. Short, but

robust, with a pert face in which glittered the brightest of eyes, he had

always been the turbulent member of the family, the one who caused the

most anxiety. His childhood had been spent in playing truant in the woods

of Janville, and he had afterwards made a mere pretence of studying in

Paris, returning home full of health and spirits, but unable or unwilling

to make up his mind with respect to any particular trade or profession.

Already four-and-twenty, he knew little more than how to shoot and fish,

and trot about the country on horseback. He was certainly not more stupid

or less active than another, but he seemed bent on living and amusing

himself according to his fancy. The worst was that for some months past

all the gossips of Janville had been relating that he had renewed his

former boyish friendship with Thérèse Lepailleur, the miller's daughter,

and that they were to be met of an evening in shady nooks under the

pollard-willows by the Yeuse.

One morning Mathieu, wishing to ascertain if the young coveys of

partridges were plentiful in the direction of Mareuil, took Grégoire with

him; and when they found themselves alone among the plantations of the

plateau, he began to talk to him seriously.

"You know I'm not pleased with you, my lad," said he. "I really cannot

understand the idle life which you lead here, while all the rest of us

are hard at work. I shall wait till October since you have positively

promised me that you will then come to a decision and choose the calling

which you most fancy. But what is all this tittle-tattle which I hear

about appointments which you keep with the daughter of the Lepailleurs?

Do you wish to cause us serious worry?"

Grégoire quietly began to laugh.

"Oh, father! You are surely not going to scold a son of yours because he

happens to be on friendly terms with a pretty girl! Why, as you may

remember, it was I who gave her her first bicycle lesson nearly ten years

ago. And you will recollect the fine white roses which she helped me to

secure in the enclosure by the mill for Denis' wedding."

Grégoire still laughed at the memory of that incident, and lived afresh

through all his old time sweethearting--the escapades with Thérèse along

the river banks, and the banquets of blackberries in undiscoverable

hiding-places, deep in the woods. And it seemed, too, that the love of

childhood had revived, and was now bursting into consuming fire, so

vividly did his cheeks glow, and so hotly did his eyes blaze as he thus

recalled those distant times.

"Poor Thérèse! We had been at daggers drawn for years, and all because

one evening, on coming back from the fair at Vieux-Bourg, I pushed her

into a pool of water where she dirtied her frock. It's true that last

spring we made it up again on finding ourselves face to face in the

little wood at Monval over yonder. But come, father, do you mean to say

that it's a crime if we take a little pleasure in speaking to one another

when we meet?"

Rendered the more anxious by the fire with which Grégoire sought to

defend the girl, Mathieu spoke out plainly.

"A crime? No, if you just wish one another good day and good evening.

Only folks relate that you are to be seen at dusk with your arms round

each other's waist, and that you go stargazing through the grass

alongside the Yeuse."

Then, as Grégoire this time without replying laughed yet more loudly,

with the merry laugh of youth, his father gravely resumed:

"Listen, my lad, it is not at all to my taste to play the gendarme behind

my sons. But I won't have you drawing some unpleasant business with the

Lepailleurs on us all. You know the position, they would be delighted to

give us trouble. So don't give them occasion for complaining, leave their

daughter alone."

"Oh! I take plenty of care," cried the young man, thus suddenly

confessing the truth. "Poor girl! She has already had her ears boxed

because somebody told her father that I had been met with her. He

answered that rather than give her to me he would throw her into the

river."

"Ah! you see," concluded Mathieu. "It is understood, is it not? I shall

rely on your good behavior."

Thereupon they went their way, scouring the fields as far as the road to

Mareuil. Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started up

both to the right and to the left. The shooting would be good. Then as

the father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a long

spell of silence fell between them. They were both reflecting.

"I don't wish that there should be any misunderstanding between us,"

Mathieu suddenly resumed; "you must not imagine that I shall prevent you

from marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you to

take an heiress. Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl. And it was

the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, in

marriage to Frédéric, who was simply one of our farm hands. So I don't

look down on Thérèse. On the contrary, I think her charming. She's one of

the prettiest girls of the district--not tall, certainly, but so alert

and determined, with her little pink face shining under such a wild crop

of fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all the flour in the

mill."

"Yes, isn't that so, father?" interrupted Grégoire enthusiastically. "And

if you only knew how affectionate and courageous she is! She's worth a

man any day. It's wrong of them to smack her, for she will never put up

with it. Whenever she sets her mind on anything she's bound to do it, and

it isn't I who can prevent her."

Absorbed in some reflections of his own, Mathieu scarcely heard his son.

"No, no," he resumed; "I certainly don't look down on their mill. If it

were not for Lepailleur's stupid obstinacy he would be drawing a fortune

from that mill nowadays. Since corn-growing has again been taken up all

over the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pile

of crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism of his

wheel which he leaves rotting under the moss. And better still, I should

like to see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway line

connecting the mill with Janville station."

In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Grégoire

listened, again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way.

"Well, father," the young man ended by saying, "as you wish that I should

have a calling, it's settled. If I marry Thérèse, I'll be a miller."

Mathieu protested in surprise: "No, no, I was merely talking. And

besides, you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable. So

once again, for the sake of the peace and quietness of all of us, leave

Thérèse alone, for we can only expect to reap worry with the

Lepailleurs."

The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm. That evening,

however, the father told the mother of the young man's confession, and

she, who already entertained various misgivings, felt more anxious than

ever. Still a month went by without anything serious happening.

Then, one morning Marianne was astounded at finding Grégoire's bedroom

empty. As a rule he came to kiss her. Perhaps he had risen early, and had

gone on some excursion in the environs. But she trembled slightly when

she remembered how lovingly he had twice caught her in his arms on the

previous night when they were all retiring to bed. And as she looked

inquisitively round the room she noticed on the mantelshelf a letter

addressed to her--a prettily worded letter in which the young fellow

begged her to forgive him for causing her grief, and asked her to excuse

him with his father, for it was necessary that he should leave them for a

time. Of his reasons for doing so and his purpose, however, no

particulars were given.

This family rending, this bad conduct on the part of the son who had been

the most spoilt of all, and who, in a fit of sudden folly was the first

to break the ties which united the household together, was a very painful

blow for Marianne and Mathieu. They were the more terrified since they

divined that Grégoire had not gone off alone. They pieced together the

incidents of the deplorable affair. Charlotte remembered that she had

heard Grégoire go downstairs again, almost immediately after entering his

bedroom, and before the servants had even bolted the house-doors for the

night. He had certainly rushed off to join Thérèse in some coppice,

whence they must have hurried away to Vieux-Bourg station which the last

train to Paris quitted at five-and-twenty minutes past midnight. And it

was indeed this which had taken place. At noon the Froments already

learnt that Lepailleur was creating a terrible scandal about the flight

of Thérèse. He had immediately gone to the gendarmes to shout the story

to them, and demand that they should bring the guilty hussy back, chained

to her accomplice, and both of them with gyves about their wrists.

He on his side had found a letter in his daughter's bedroom, a plucky

letter in which she plainly said that as she had been struck again the

previous day, she had had enough of it, and was going off of her own free

will. Indeed, she added that she was taking Grégoire with her, and was

quite big and old enough, now that she was two-and-twenty, to know what

she was about. Lepailleur's fury was largely due to this letter which he

did not dare to show abroad; besides which, his wife, ever at war with

him respecting their son Antonin, not only roundly abused Thérèse, but

sneeringly declared that it might all have been expected, and that he,

the father, was the cause of the gad-about's misconduct. After that, they

engaged in fisticuffs; and for a whole week the district did nothing but

talk about the flight of one of the Chantebled lads with the girl of the

mill, to the despair of Mathieu and Marianne, the latter of whom in

particular grieved over the sorry business.

Five days later, a Sunday, matters became even worse. As the search for

the runaways remained fruitless Lepailleur, boiling over with rancor,

went up to the farm, and from the middle of the road--for he did not

venture inside--poured forth a flood of ignoble insults. It so happened

that Mathieu was absent; and Marianne had great trouble to restrain

Gervais as well as Frédéric, both of whom wished to thrust the miller's

scurrilous language back into his throat. When Mathieu came home in the

evening he was extremely vexed to hear of what had happened.

"It is impossible for this state of things to continue," he said to his

wife, as they were retiring to rest. "It looks as if we were hiding, as

if we were guilty in the matter. I will go to see that man in the

morning. There is only one thing, and a very simple one, to be done,

those unhappy children must be married. For our part we consent, is it

not so? And it is to that man's advantage to consent also. To-morrow the

matter must be settled."

On the following day, Monday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Mathieu

set out for the mill. But certain complications, a tragic drama, which he

could not possibly foresee, awaited him there. For years now a stubborn

struggle had been going on between Lepailleur and his wife with respect

to Antonin. While the farmer had grown more and more exasperated with his

son's idleness and life of low debauchery in Paris, the latter had

supported her boy with all the obstinacy of an illiterate woman, who was

possessed of a blind faith in his fine handwriting, and felt convinced

that if he did not succeed in life it was simply because he was refused

the money necessary for that purpose. In spite of her sordid avarice in

some matters, the old woman continued bleeding herself for her son, and

even robbed the house, promptly thrusting out her claws and setting her

teeth ready to bite whenever she was caught in the act, and had to defend

some twenty-franc piece or other, which she had been on the point of

sending away. And each time the battle began afresh, to such a point

indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would some day end by

falling on their heads.

Then, all at once, Antonin, a perfect wreck at thirty-six years of age,

fell seriously ill. Lepailleur forthwith declared that if the scamp had

the audacity to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into the

water. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held the

country in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him up

like a dog. So his mother placed him with some people of Batignolles,

paying for his board and for the attendance of a doctor of the district.

This had been going on for three months or so, and every fortnight La

Lepailleur went to see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday,

and on the Sunday evening she received a telegram summoning her to

Batignolles again. Thus, on the morning of the day when Mathieu repaired

to the mill, she had once more gone to Paris after a frightful quarrel

with her husband, who asked if their good-for-nothing son ever meant to

cease fooling them and spending their money, when he had not the courage

even to turn a spit of earth.

Alone in the mill that morning Lepailleur did not cease storming. At the

slightest provocation he would have hammered his plough to pieces, or

have rushed, axe in hand, and mad with hatred, on the old wheel by way of

avenging his misfortunes. When he saw Mathieu come in he believed in some

act of bravado, and almost choked.

"Come, neighbor," said the master of Chantebled cordially, "let us both

try to be reasonable. I've come to return your visit, since you called

upon me yesterday. Only, bad words never did good work, and the best

course, since this misfortune has happened, is to repair it as speedily

as possible. When would you have us marry off those bad children?"

Thunderstruck by the quiet good nature of this frontal attack, Lepailleur

did not immediately reply. He had shouted over the house roofs that he

would have no marriage at all, but rather a good lawsuit by way of

sending all the Froments to prison. Nevertheless, when it came to

reflection, a son of the big farmer of Chantebled was not to be disdained

as a son-in-law.

"Marry them, marry them," he stammered at the first moment. "Yes, by

fastening a big stone to both their necks and throwing them together into

the river. Ah! the wretches! I'll skin them, I will, her as well as him."

At last, however, the miller grew calmer and was even showing a

disposition to discuss matters, when all at once an urchin of Janville

came running across the yard.

"What do you want, eh?" called the master of the premises.

"Please, Monsieur Lepailleur, it's a telegram."

"All right, give it here."

The lad, well pleased with the copper he received as a gratuity, had

already gone off, and still the miller, instead of opening the telegram,

stood examining the address on it with the distrustful air of a man who

does not often receive such communications. However, he at last had to

tear it open. It contained but three words: "Your son dead"; and in that

brutal brevity, that prompt, hasty bludgeon-blow, one could detect the

mother's cold rage and eager craving to crush without delay the man, the

father yonder, whom she accused of having caused her son's death, even as

she had accused him of being responsible for her daughter's flight. He

felt this full well, and staggered beneath the shock, stunned by the

words that appeared on that strip of blue paper, reading them again and

again till he ended by understanding them. Then his hands began to

tremble and he burst into oaths.

"Thunder and blazes! What again is this? Here's the boy dying now!

Everything's going to the devil!"

But his heart dilated and tears appeared in his eyes. Unable to remain

standing, he sank upon a chair and again obstinately read the telegram;

"Your son dead--Your son dead," as if seeking something else, the

particulars, indeed, which the message did not contain. Perhaps the boy

had died before his mother's arrival. Or perhaps she had arrived just

before he died. Such were his stammered comments. And he repeated a score

of times that she had taken the train at ten minutes past eleven and must

have reached Batignolles about half-past twelve. As she had handed in the

telegram at twenty minutes past one it seemed more likely that she had

found the lad already dead.

"Curse it! curse it!" he shouted; "a cursed telegram, it tells you

nothing, and it murders you! She might, at all events, have sent

somebody. I shall have to go there. Ah the whole thing's complete, it's

more than a man can bear!"

Lepailleur shouted those words in such accents of rageful despair that

Mathieu, full of compassion, made bold to intervene. The sudden shock of

the tragedy had staggered him, and he had hitherto waited in silence. But

now he offered his services and spoke of accompanying the other to Paris.

He had to retreat, however, for the miller rose to his feet, seized with

wild exasperation at perceiving him still there in his house.

"Ah! yes, you came; and what was it you were saying to me? That we ought

to marry off those wretched children? Well, you can see that I'm in

proper trim for a wedding! My boy's dead! You've chosen your day well. Be

off with you, be off with you, I say, if you don't want me to do

something dreadful!"

He raised his fists, quite maddened as he was by the presence of Mathieu

at that moment when his whole life was wrecked. It was terrible indeed

that this _bourgeois_ who had made a fortune by turning himself into a

peasant should be there at the moment when he so suddenly learnt the

death of Antonin, that son whom he had dreamt of turning into a Monsieur

by filling his mind with disgust of the soil and sending him to rot of

idleness and vice in Paris! It enraged him to find that he had erred,

that the earth whom he had slandered, whom he had taxed with decrepitude

and barrenness was really a living, youthful, and fruitful spouse to the

man who knew how to love her! And nought but ruin remained around him,

thanks to his imbecile resolve to limit his family: a foul life had

killed his only son, and his only daughter had gone off with a scion of

the triumphant farm, while he was now utterly alone, weeping and howling

in his deserted mill, that mill which he had likewise disdained and which

was crumbling around him with old age.

"You hear me!" he shouted. "Thérèse may drag herself at my feet; but I

will never, never give her to your thief of a son! You'd like it,

wouldn't you? so that folks might mock me all over the district, and so

that you might eat me up as you have eaten up all the others!"

This finish to it all had doubtless appeared to him, confusedly, in a

sudden threatening vision: Antonin being dead, it was Grégoire who would

possess the mill, if he should marry Thérèse. And he would possess the

moorland also, that enclosure, hitherto left barren with such savage

delight, and so passionately coveted by the farm. And doubtless he would

cede it to the farm as soon as he should be the master. The thought that

Chantebled might yet be increased by the fields which he, Lepailleur, had

withheld from it brought the miller's delirious rage to a climax.

"Your son, I'll send him to the galleys! And you, if you don't go, I'll

throw you out! Be off with you, be off!"

Mathieu, who was very pale, slowly retired before this furious madman.

But as he went off he calmly said: "You are an unhappy man. I forgive

you, for you are in great grief. Besides, I am quite easy, sensible

things always end by taking place."

Again, a month went by. Then, one rainy morning in October, Madame

Lepailleur was found hanging in the mill stable. There were folks at

Janville who related that Lepailleur had hung her there. The truth was

that she had given signs of melancholia ever since the death of Antonin.

Moreover, the life led at the mill was no longer bearable; day by day the

husband and wife reproached one another for their son's death and their

daughter's flight, battling ragefully together like two abandoned beasts

shut up in the same cage. Folks were merely astonished that such a harsh,

avaricious woman should have been willing to quit this life without

taking her goods and chattels with her.

As soon as Thérèse heard of her mother's death she hastened home,

repentant, and took her place beside her father again, unwilling as she

was that he should remain alone in his two-fold bereavement. At first it

proved a terrible time for her in the company of that brutal old man who

was exasperated by what he termed his bad luck. But she was a girl of

sterling courage and prompt decision; and thus, after a few weeks, she

had made her father consent to her marriage with Grégoire, which, as

Mathieu had said, was the only sensible course. The news gave great

relief at the farm whither the prodigal son had not yet dared to return.

It was believed that the young couple, after eloping together, had lived

in some out of the way district of Paris, and it was even suspected that

Ambroise, who was liberally minded, had, in a brotherly way, helped them

with his purse. And if, on the one hand, Lepailleur consented to the

marriage in a churlish, distrustful manner--like one who deemed himself

robbed, and was simply influenced by the egotistical dread of some day

finding himself quite alone again in his gloomy house--Mathieu and

Marianne, on the other side, were delighted with an arrangement which put

an end to an equivocal situation that had caused them the greatest

suffering, grieved as they were by the rebellion of one of their

children.

Curiously enough, it came to pass that Grégoire, once married and

installed at the mill in accordance with his wife's desire, agreed with

his father-in-law far better than had been anticipated. This resulted in

particular from a certain discussion during which Lepailleur had wished

to make Grégoire swear, that, after his death, he would never dispose of

the moorland enclosure, hitherto kept uncultivated with peasant

stubbornness, to any of his brothers or sisters of the farm. Grégoire

took no oath on the subject, but gayly declared that he was not such a

fool as to despoil his wife of the best part of her inheritance,

particularly as he proposed to cultivate those moors and, within two or

three years' time, make them the most fertile land in the district. That

which belonged to him did not belong to others, and people would soon see

that he was well able to defend the property which had fallen to his lot.

Things took a similar course with respect to the mill, where Grégoire at

first contented himself with repairing the old mechanism, for he was

unwilling to upset the miller's habits all at once, and therefore

postponed until some future time the installation of an engine, and the

laying down of a line of rails to Janville station--all those ideas

formerly propounded by Mathieu which henceforth fermented in his

audacious young mind.

In this wise, then, people found themselves in presence of a new

Grégoire. The madcap had become wise, only retaining of his youthful

follies the audacity which is needful for successful enterprise. And it

must be said that he was admirably seconded by the fair and energetic

Thérèse. They were both enraptured at now being free to love each other

in the romantic old mill, garlanded with ivy, pending the time when they

would resolutely fling it to the ground to install in its place the great

white meal stores and huge new mill-stones, which, with their conquering

ambition, they often dreamt of.

During the years that followed, Mathieu and Marianne witnessed other

departures. The three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, in

turn took their flight from the family nest. All three found husbands in

the district. Louise, a plump brunette, all gayety and health, with

abundant hair and large laughing eyes, married notary Mazaud of Janville,

a quiet, pensive little man, whose occasional silent smiles alone denoted

the perfect satisfaction which he felt at having found a wife of such

joyous disposition. Then Madeleine, whose chestnut tresses were tinged

with gleaming gold, and who was slimmer than her sister, and of a more

dreamy style of beauty, her character and disposition refined by her

musical tastes, made a love match which was quite a romance. Herbette,

the architect, who became her husband, was a handsome, elegant man,

already celebrated; he owned near Monvel a park-like estate, where he

came to rest at times from the fatigue of his labors in Paris.

At last, Marguerite, the least pretty of the girls--indeed, she was quite

plain, but derived a charm from her infinite goodness of heart--was

chosen in marriage by Dr. Chambouvet, a big, genial, kindly fellow, who

had inherited his father's practice at Vieux-Bourg, where he lived in a

large white house, which had become the resort of the poor. And thus the

three girls being married, the only ones who remained with Mathieu and

Marianne in the slowly emptying nest were their two last boys, Nicolas

and Benjamin.

At the same time, however, as the youngsters flew away and installed

themselves elsewhere, there came other little ones, a constant swarming

due to the many family marriages. In eight years, Denis, who reigned at

the factory in Paris, had been presented by his wife with three children,

two boys, Lucien and Paul, and a girl, Hortense. Then Léonce, the son of

Ambroise, who was conquering such a high position in the commercial

world, now had a brother, Charles, and two little sisters, Pauline and

Sophie. At the farm, moreover, Gervais was already the father of two

boys, Leon and Henri, while Claire, his sister, could count three

children, a boy, Joseph, and two daughters, Lucile and Angèle. There was

also Grégoire, at the mill, with a big boy who had received the name of

Robert; and there were also the three last married daughters--Louise,

with a girl two years old; Madeleine, with a boy six months of age; and

Marguerite, who in anticipation of a happy event, had decided to call her

child Stanislas, if it were a boy, and Christine, if it should be a girl.

Thus upon every side the family oak spread out its branches, its trunk

forking and multiplying, and boughs sprouting from boughs at each

successive season. And withal Mathieu was not yet sixty, and Marianne not

yet fifty-seven. Both still possessed flourishing health, and strength,

and gayety, and were ever in delight at seeing the family, which had

sprung from them, thus growing and spreading, invading all the country

around, even like a forest born from a single tree.

But the great and glorious festival of Chantebled at that period was the

birth of Mathieu and Marianne's first great-grandchild--a girl, called

Angeline, daughter of their granddaughter, Berthe. In this little girl,

all pink and white, the ever-regretted Blaise seemed to live again. So

closely did she resemble him that Charlotte, his widow, already a

grandmother in her forty-second year, wept with emotion at the sight of

her. Madame Desvignes had died six months previously, passing away, even

as she had lived, gently and discreetly, at the termination of her task,

which had chiefly consisted in rearing her two daughters on the scanty

means at her disposal. Still it was she, who, before quitting the scene,

had found a husband for her granddaughter, Berthe, in the person of

Philippe Havard, a young engineer who had recently been appointed

assistant-manager at a State factory near Mareuil. It was at Chantebled,

however, that Berthe's little Angeline was born; and on the day of the

churching, the whole family assembled together there once more to glorify

the great-grandfather and great-grandmother.

"Ah! well," said Marianne gayly, as she stood beside the babe's cradle,

"if the young ones fly away there are others born, and so the nest will

never be empty."

"Never, never!" repeated Mathieu with emotion, proud as he felt of that

continual victory over solitude and death. "We shall never be left

alone!"

Yet there came another departure which brought them many tears. Nicolas,

the youngest but one of their boys, who was approaching his twentieth

birthday, and thus nigh the cross-roads of life, had not yet decided

which one he would follow. He was a dark, sturdy young man, with an open,

laughing face. As a child, he had adored tales of travel and far-away

adventure, and had always evinced great courage and endurance, returning

home enraptured from interminable rambles, and never uttering complaints,

however badly his feet might be blistered. And withal he possessed a most

orderly mind, ever carefully arranging and classifying his little

belongings in his drawers, and looking down with contempt on the

haphazard way in which his sisters kept their things.

Later on, as he grew up, he became thoughtful, as if he were vainly

seeking around him some means of realizing his two-fold craving, that of

discovering some new land and organizing it properly. One of the

last-born of a numerous family, he no longer found space enough for the

amplitude and force of his desires. His brothers and sisters had already

taken all the surrounding lands, and he stifled, threatened also, as it

were, with famine, and ever sought the broad expanse that he dreamt of,

where he might grow and reap his bread. No more room, no more food! At

first he knew not in which direction to turn, but groped and hesitated

for some months. Nevertheless, his hearty laughter continued to gladden

the house; he wearied neither his father nor his mother with the care of

his destiny, for he knew that he was already strong enough to fix it

himself.

There was no corner left for him at the farm where Gervais and Claire

took up all the room. At the Beauchêne works Denis was all sufficient,

reigning there like a conscientious toiler, and nothing justified a

younger brother in claiming a share beside him. At the mill, too,

Grégoire was as yet barely established, and his kingdom was so small that

he could not possibly cede half of it. Thus an opening was only possible

with Ambroise, and Nicolas ended by accepting an obliging offer which the

latter made to take him on trial for a few months, by way of initiating

him into the higher branches of commerce. Ambroise's fortune was becoming

prodigious since old uncle Du Hordel had died, leaving him his commission

business. Year by year the new master increased his trade with all the

countries of the world. Thanks to his lucky audacity and broad

international views, he was enriching himself with the spoils of the

earth. And though Nicolas again began to stifle in Ambroise's huge

store-houses, where the riches of distant countries, the most varied

climes, were collected together, it was there that his real vocation came

to him; for a voice suddenly arose, calling him away yonder to dim,

unknown regions, vast stretches of country yet sterile, which needed to

be populated, and cleared and sowed with the crops of the future.

For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he was

now maturing. He was extremely discreet, as are all men of great energy,

who reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neither

space nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of his

birth; but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfect

state, deficient in the means needed for the heroic task of populating

and clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau,

who was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, and

activity had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, like

Nicolas, she stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confined

her; for she craved for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. An

orphan, and long dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little village

haberdasher, she had hitherto, from feelings of affection, remained

cloistered in a small and gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died,

leaving her some ten thousand francs, and her dream was to sell the

little business, and go away and really live at last. One October

evening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told one another things that they had

never previously told anybody, they came to an understanding. They

resolutely took each other's hand and plighted their troth for life, for

the hard battle of creating a new world, a new family, somewhere on the

earth's broad surface, in those mysterious, far away climes of which they

knew so little. 'Twas a delightful betrothal, full of courage and faith.

Only then, everything having been settled, did Nicolas speak out,

announcing his departure to his father and mother. It was an autumn

evening, still mild, but fraught with winter's first shiver, and the

twilight was falling. Intense grief wrung the parents' hearts as soon as

they understood their son. This time it was not simply a young one flying

from the family nest to build his own on some neighboring tree of the

common forest; it was flight across the seas forever, severance without

hope of return. They would see their other children again, but this one

was breathing an eternal farewell. Their consent would be the share of

cruel sacrifice, that life demands, their supreme gift to life, the tithe

levied by life on their affection and their blood. To pursue its victory,

life, the perpetual conqueror, demanded this portion of their flesh, this

overplus of the numerous family, which was overflowing, spreading,

peopling the world. And what could they answer, how could they refuse?

The son who was unprovided for took himself off; nothing could be more

logical or more sensible. Far beyond the fatherland there were vast

continents yet uninhabited, and the seed which is scattered by the

breezes of heaven knows no frontiers. Beyond the race there is mankind

with that endless spreading of humanity that is leading us to the one

fraternal people of the accomplished times, when the whole earth shall be

but one sole city of truth and justice.

Moreover, quite apart from the great dream of those seers, the poets,

Nicolas, like a practical man, whatever his enthusiasm, gayly gave his

reasons for departing. He did not wish to be a parasite; he was setting

off to the conquest of another land, where he would grow the bread he

needed, since his own country had no field left for him. Besides, he took

his country with him in his blood; she it was that he wished to enlarge

afar off with unlimited increase of wealth and strength. It was ancient

Africa, the mysterious, now explored, traversed from end to end, that

attracted him. In the first instance he intended to repair to Senegal,

whence he would doubtless push on to the Soudan, to the very heart of the

virgin lands where he dreamt of a new France, an immense colonial empire,

which would rejuvenate the old Gallic race by endowing it with its due

share of the earth. And it was there that he had the ambition of carving

out a kingdom for himself, and of founding with Lisbeth another dynasty

of Froments, and a new Chantebled, covering under the hot sun a tract ten

times as extensive as the old one, and peopled with the people of his own

children. And he spoke of all this with such joyous courage that Mathieu

and Marianne ended by smiling amid their tears, despite the rending of

their poor hearts.

"Go, my lad, we cannot keep you back. Go wherever life calls you,

wherever you may live with more health and joy and strength. All that may

spring from you yonder will still be health and joy and strength derived

from us, of which we shall be proud. You are right, one must not weep,

your departure must be a _fête_, for the family does not separate, it

simply extends, invades, and conquers the world."

Nevertheless, on the day of farewell, after the marriage of Nicolas and

Lisbeth there was an hour of painful emotion at Chantebled. The family

had met to share a last meal all together, and when the time came for the

young and adventurous couple to tear themselves from the maternal soil

there were those who sobbed although they had vowed to be very brave.

Nicolas and Lisbeth were going off with little means, but rich in hopes.

Apart from the ten thousand francs of the wife's dowry they had only been

willing to take another ten thousand, just enough to provide for the

first difficulties. Might courage and labor therefore prove sturdy

artisans of conquest.

Young Benjamin, the last born of the brothers Froment, was particularly

upset by this departure. He was a delicate, good-looking child not yet

twelve years old, whom his parents greatly spoiled, thinking that he was

weak. And they were quite determined that they would at all events keep

him with them, so handsome did they find him with his soft limpid eyes

and beautiful curly hair. He was growing up in a languid way, dreamy,

petted, idle among his mother's skirts, like the one charming weakling of

that strong, hardworking family.

"Let me kiss you again, my good Nicolas," said he to his departing

brother. "When will you come back?"

"Never, my little Benjamin."

The boy shuddered.

"Never, never!" he repeated. "Oh! that's too long. Come back, come back

some day, so that I may kiss you again."

"Never," repeated Nicolas, turning pale himself. "Never, never."

He had lifted up the lad, whose tears were raining fast; and then for all

came the supreme grief, the frightful moment of the hatchet-stroke, of

the separation which was to be eternal.

"Good-by, little brother! Good-by, good-by, all of you!"

While Mathieu accompanied the future conqueror to the door for the last

time wishing him victory, Benjamin in wild grief sought a refuge beside

his mother who was blinded by her tears. And she caught him up with a

passionate clasp, as if seized with fear that he also might leave her. He

was the only one now left to them in the family nest.