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 eastward1 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 labor2 ever incessantly3 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 veins4 of the world.
Since the Froments had become conquerors5, busily founding a little kingdom and building up a substantial fortune in land, the Beauchenes no longer derided6 them respecting what they had once deemed their extravagant7 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, bustling8 farm, so full of life and prosperity. It was in the course of these visits that Constance renewed her intercourse9 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 confided11 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 Rue12 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 disquieted13 by what she had heard. Perhaps she would have treated the matter as mere14 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, utterly15 alone in life, she had experienced a vague feeling of anguish16. Since that supreme17 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 stranded18, fated to remain forever at Beauchene'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, obstinately19 retained, shutting himself up therein, and leading a most misanthropic20 life in fierce solitude21.
It was his grievous prostration22 which had at one moment quite upset and affected23 Constance, so that she had even sobbed24 with the desolate25 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 awakened26, there rose vague fear, sudden dread27, such as she had never known before.
Yet Maurice, her son, after a delicate youth which had necessitated28 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 helping30 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, thereby31 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 naught32 but contempt and disgust. It was a logical downfall, which she could not stop, and the successive phases of which she herself fatally precipitated34. At the outset she had overlooked his infidelity; then from a spirit of duty and to save him from irreparable folly35 she had sought to retain him near her; and finally, failing in her endeavor, she had begun to feel loathing36 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 scant37 of breath, with hanging lips and heavy eyelids38; he no longer took care of his person as formerly39, but went about slipshod, and indulged in the coarsest pleasantries. But it was more particularly away from his home that he sank into degradation40, indulging in the low debauchery which had ever attracted him. Every now and again he disappeared from the house and slept elsewhere; then he concocted41 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 vigor29; he could no longer plan remunerative42 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 disorder43 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 professed44 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 enjoyment45 now cast with appropriate irony46 to slow ruin, the final paralysis47 of the impotent.
But a supreme blow was to fall on Constance and fill her with horror of her husband. Some anonymous48 letters, the low, treacherous49 revenge of a dismissed servant, apprised50 her of Beauchene's former intrigue51 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 ignominious52 existence was he leading? She was vaguely53 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 devoted54 herself yet more ardently55 to her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, and for his sake even sacrificed her just rancor56. She indeed came to the conclusion that he must not suffer from his father's indignity57, and so it was for him that, with extraordinary strength of will, she ever preserved a proud demeanor58, feigning59 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 profligacy60, 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 repugnance61 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 remorse62 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 Beauchene's works, was quietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile 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 liking63 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 compassion64. 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 skilful65, and she contrived66 to earn some two francs a day in making the little boxes. And as she suffered greatly at her parents' home, tortured by her brutal67 surroundings there, and robbed of her earnings68 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 kindly69 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 Cecile. "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 maternity70 remained keen within her, though she could never be a mother.
"What a pity it is," she continued, "that Norine is so obstinately determined71 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 remains72 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 distresses73 me."
Mathieu concealed74 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, Cecile darted75 a glance at him. The friend he spoke76 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 stifling77, 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 Cecile 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 Cecile 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 scrutinized78 her, and she did indeed seem to him much aged79. 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.
Cecile 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 reverted81 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 prospect82 seemed hopeless enough. But then what could she do? When one had fallen into the mire83 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 softened84, and an expression of infinite tenderness passed over her desolate face. And Mathieu, in astonishment85, divining the new emotion that possessed86 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 mite87, 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, instinctively88 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 vanquished89 by the wave of pity, love, and hope that would sweep through her heart. The poor, pale, puny90 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 ascended92, 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 feverishly95 awaited the weighing, eager to see if the line would once more ascend91. 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 derived96 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 sobs97: "_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 gutter98, to wait for the broom that's to sweep me away?"
But Cecile, 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 daze99 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."
Cecile, enraptured100, clapped her hands; while Mathieu, who was greatly moved, gave utterance101 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 consultation102 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 delicacy103. Madame Bourdieu, with the keen scent104 characteristic of her profession, divined a possible customer in that inquisitive105 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 decided106 to tell the truth--her case was hopeless. Constance, however, at last made a sign to entreat107 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 Cecile 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 previously108, 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 forth109 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 shudder110 as with dread.
As for Mathieu, he saw that neither Norine nor Cecile had recognized Madame Beauchene 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 linen111, as well as immediate80 pecuniary112 succor113, 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 outlay114 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 Boetie it occurred to Mathieu, who was bound for the Beauchene works, to take a cab and let Cecile 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 realization115, 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 decrepit116, 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 beheld117 one of the most frightful118, poignant119 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 withered120 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 disappearance121 of will, energy, and power of action, so that she now spent whole days, idle, stupefied, without courage even to raise a finger.
When Cecile told her that her visitor was M. Froment, the former chief designer at the Beauchene 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 entrusted122 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 perspiration123."
Then a stout124 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 Cecile. She's incapable125 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 Benard, 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, stammering126 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 Benard and Madame Joseph were not bad-hearted in reality was shown by the fact that although Euphrasie was now but an useless encumbrance127, 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 thither128 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 nervously129 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, Benard, whose workshop was near by, made his appearance. He was still a full-bodied, jovial130 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 rascally131 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 Cecile just the same. And there was another, too, a baroness132, 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 espy133 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 obedience134 on the part of a woman whose harsh, dry, aggressively quarrelsome disposition93 he so well remembered. Industrious135, 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 renowned136 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 victorious137 operations which were sapping the vitality138 of France.
Cecile, however, with eager affection, kissed the three children, who somehow continued to grow up in that wrecked139 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 Beauchene'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 Beauchene 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 attachment140 ever since childhood. His parents, seeing in this match a renewal141 of their own former loving improvidence142, had felt moved, and unwilling143 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, Beauchene, by way of showing his esteem144 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 ushered145 into Constance's little yellow salon146, Mathieu found her taking a cup of tea with Madame Angelin, who had come back with her from the Rue de Miromesnil. Beauchene's unexpected arrival on the scene had disagreeably interrupted their private converse147. He had returned from one of the debauches in which he so frequently indulged under the pretext148 of making a short business journey, and, still slightly intoxicated149, with feverish94, sunken eyes and clammy tongue, he was wearying the two women with his impudent150, 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 pates151 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 mechanism152 of the establishment. Thus talking, Beauchene puffed153 and coughed and spat154, exhaling155 meantime the odor of tobacco, alcohol, and musk10, which he always brought back from his "sprees," while his wife smiled affectionately before the others as was her wont156, but directed at him glances full of despair and disgust whenever Madame Angelin turned her head.
As Beauchene 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 distressed157 her. Besides, the thought of Norine was reviving in her mind; she remembered the girl's child, and almost feared some fresh understanding between Beauchene 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 exalt158 her on his right hand in a blaze of glory. She deemed him handsome, tall, strong, and as invincible159 in his nineteenth year as all the knights160 of the old legends. When he explained that he had just profitably compromised a worrying transaction in which his father had rashly embarked161, 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 gust33 which came she knew not whence, but which ever chilled her to her bones.
"Why, you stupid," said Beauchene, 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 kindliness162, 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 equitably163. All the land had been purchased northward164 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 manure165 came in loads and loads to endow the land with wondrous166 fertility. And now yet other children might come, for floods of milk poured forth, and there were herds167 and flocks to clothe and nourish them. Beside the ripening168 crops the woods waved their greenery, quivering with the eternal seeds that germinated169 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 compensated170 one for all former tears, for all the bitter anxiety of the first years of toil171.
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 delightful172 fete, 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 eldest173 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 Gregoire, 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 cortege, 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 gallop174 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 cavalcade175. "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 expiration176 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 erect177 once more and smiling, with her dear little Marguerite at her breast, he embraced her passionately178, and triumphed once again over every sorrow and every pang179. 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, toiling180, even amid suffering, and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope.
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1
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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41
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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42
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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48
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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49
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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50
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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51
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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52
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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53
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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54
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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55
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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61
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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63
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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76
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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81
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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84
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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87
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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91
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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92
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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94
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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95
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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96
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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97
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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98
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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99
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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100
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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102
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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103
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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104
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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105
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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106
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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107
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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108
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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109
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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110
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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111
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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112
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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113
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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114
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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115
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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116
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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117
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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118
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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119
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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120
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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121
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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122
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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125
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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126
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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127
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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128
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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129
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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130
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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131
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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132
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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133
espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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134
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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135
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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136
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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137
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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138
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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139
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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140
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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141
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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142
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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143
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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144
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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145
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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147
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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148
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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149
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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150
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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151
pates
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| n.头顶，（尤指）秃顶，光顶( pate的名词复数 ) | |
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152
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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153
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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154
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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155
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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156
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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157
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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158
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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159
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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160
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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161
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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162
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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163
equitably
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| 公平地 | |
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164
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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165
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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166
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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167
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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168
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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169
germinated
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| v.（使）发芽( germinate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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171
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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172
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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173
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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174
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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175
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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176
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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177
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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178
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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179
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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180
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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