up at nighttime. They saw her also, later on, in Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbing up and pulling their bed to pieces with triumphant laughter. And they saw her yet more clearly, growing and becoming more beautiful even as Chantebled did, as if, indeed, she herself bloomed with all the health and beauty of that now fruitful land. Yet she was no more, and whenever the thought returned to them that they would never see her again, their hands sought one another, met in a woful clasp, while from their crushed and mingling hearts it seemed as if all life, all future, were flowing away to nihility. Now that a breach had been made, would not every other happiness be carried off in turn? And though the ten other children were there, from the little one five years old to the twins who were four-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered in tears around their sleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion rendering funeral honors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted them: their hearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, carrying away with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare gallery which the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose upon that death watch, that last leave-taking.
Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread out along the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, that road over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All the relations of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had come to pay a tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, this time, the cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped with white and blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The whole family was present; the mother and the sisters had declared that they would only quit their loved one when she had been lowered into her last resting-place. And after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, the Seguins, and others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcome by suffering, no longer recognized people amid their tears. They only remembered on the morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed it were really Morange — that silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman, who had wept while pressing their hands. And in like fashion Mathieu fancied that, in some horrible dream, he had seen Constance’s spare figure and bony profile drawing near to him in the cemetery after the coffin had been lowered into the grave, and addressing vague words of consolation to him, though he fancied that her eyes flashed the while as if with abominable exultation.
What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her words must have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourning relative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which she had spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then in bitter fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebled might continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, were now stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhaps departed forever! Mathieu shuddered; his faith in the future was shaken; he was haunted by a fear of seeing prosperity and fruitfulness vanish, now that there was that open breach.
XVII
A YEAR later the first child born to Ambroise and Andree, a boy, little Leonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietly six weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be the first outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recovered from the terrible shock of their eldest daughter’s death. Moreover, it was arranged that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch at the parents’ home, and that one and all should afterwards be free to return to his or her avocations. It was impossible for the whole family to come, and, indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, only the twins, Denis and Blaise, and the latter’s wife Charlotte, were expected, together with the godparents. Beauchene, the godfather, had selected Madame Seguin as his commere, for, since the death of Maurice, Constance shuddered at the bare thought of touching a child. At the same time she had promised to be present at the lunch, and thus there would be ten of them, sufficient to fill the little dining-room of the modest flat in the Rue de La Boetie, where the young couple resided pending fortune’s arrival.
It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had been unwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, they ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of that little grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early in the winter a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had lost his little Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attack of croup. Charlotte, however, was already at that time again enceinte, and thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraught with emotion.
The little flat in the Rue de La Boetie seemed very bright and fragrant; it was perfumed by the fair grace of Andree and illumined by the victorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm in arm, had set out so bravely to conquer the world. During the lunch, too, there was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchene, who gave the greatest attention to his commere Valentine, jesting and paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her much amusement, prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though she was already forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone remained grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint smile, while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face every time that she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, based on the invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning.
At about three o’clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow Beauchene to take any more Chartreuse.
“It’s true, he is right, my children,” Beauchene ended by exclaiming in a docile way. “We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely necessary that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you of Denis, for we need his help over a big building affair. That’s how we are, we others, we don’t shirk duty.”
Constance had also risen. “The carriage must be waiting,” said she; “will you take it?”
“No, no, we will go on foot. A walk will clear our heads.”
The sky was overcast, and as it grew darker and darker Ambroise, going to the window, exclaimed: “You will get wet.”
“Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shall have time to get to the works.”
It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with her in the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilion adjoining the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and could quietly return to the Avenue d’Antin, which was close by, as soon as the sky might clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had just yielded to Andree’s affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spend the whole day and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train. Thus the fete would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured at the prospect.
The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, a mistake which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all the mirth promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and, looking at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him “Blaise, my friend, will you give me my boa? I must have left it in the anteroom.”
Everybody began to laugh, but she failed to understand the reason. And it was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis when he brought her the boa: “I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are very amiable.”
Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, so droll did her quiet assurance seem to them. What was the matter, then? Why did they all laugh at her in that fashion? She ended by suspecting that she had made a mistake, and looked more attentively at the twins.
“Ah, yes, it isn’t Blaise, but Denis! But it can’t be helped. I am always mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in the same fashion.”
Thereupon
