Without replying, Marianne, moved by these malicious predictions, gently raised her trustful eyes to Mathieu.  And he, though for a moment irritated by all the ignorance, envy, and imbecile ambition which he felt were before him, contented himself with jesting.  “That’s it, we’ll see.  When your son Antoine becomes a prefect, and I have twelve peasant daughters ready, I’ll invite you to their weddings, for it’s your mill that ought to be rebuilt, you know, and provided with a fine engine, so as to grind all the corn of my property yonder, left and right, everywhere!”

The sweep of his arm embraced such a far expanse of ground that the miller, who did not like to be derided, almost lost his temper.  He lashed his horse with his whip, and the cart jolted on again through the ruts.

“Wheat in the ear is not wheat in the mill,” said he.  “Au revoir, and good luck to you, all the same.”

“Thanks, au revoir.”

Then, while the children still ran about, seeking early primroses among the mosses, Mathieu came and sat down beside Marianne, who, he saw, was quivering.  He said nothing to her, for he knew that she possessed sufficient strength and confidence to surmount, unaided, such fears for the future as threats might kindle in her womanly heart.  But he simply set himself there, so near her that he touched her, looking and smiling at her the while.  And she immediately became calm again and likewise smiled, while little Gervais, whom the words of the malicious could not as yet disturb, nursed more eagerly than ever, with a purr of rapturous satisfaction.  The milk was ever trickling, bringing flesh to little limbs which grew stronger day by day, spreading through the earth, filling the whole world, nourishing the life which increased hour by hour.  And was not this the answer which faith and hope returned to all threats of death?—­the certainty of life’s victory, with fine children ever growing in the sunlight, and fine crops ever rising from the soil at each returning spring!  To-morrow, yet once again, on the glorious day of harvest, the corn will have ripened, the children will be men!

And it was thus, indeed, three months later, when the Beauchenes and the Seguins, keeping their promise, came—­husbands, wives, and children—­to spend a Sunday afternoon at Chantebled.  The Froments had even prevailed on Morange to be of the party with Reine, in their desire to draw him for a day, at any rate, from the dolorous prostration in which he lived.  As soon as all these fine folks had alighted from the train it was decided to go up to the plateau to see the famous fields, for everybody was curious about them, so extravagant and inexplicable did the idea of Mathieu’s return to the soil, and transformation into a peasant, seem to them.  He laughed gayly, and at least he succeeded in surprising them when he waved his hand towards the great expanse under the broad blue sky, that sea of tall green stalks whose