ears were already heavy and undulated at the faintest breeze.  That warm splendid afternoon, the far-spreading fields looked like the very triumph of fruitfulness, a growth of germs which the humus amassed through centuries had nourished with prodigious sap, thus producing this first formidable crop, as if to glorify the eternal source of life which sleeps in the earth’s flanks.  The milk had streamed, and the corn now grew on all sides with overflowing energy, creating health and strength, bespeaking man’s labor and the kindliness, the solidarity of the world.  It was like a beneficent, nourishing ocean, in which all hunger would be appeased, and in which to-morrow might arise, amid that tide of wheat whose waves were ever carrying good news to the horizon.

True, neither Constance nor Valentine was greatly touched by the sight of the waving wheat, for other ambitions filled their minds:  and Morange, though he stared with his vague dim eyes, did not even seem to see it.  But Beauchene and Seguin marvelled, for they remembered their visit in the month of January, when the frozen ground had been wrapt in sleep and mystery.  They had then guessed nothing, and now they were amazed at this miraculous awakening, this conquering fertility, which had changed a part of the marshy tableland into a field of living wealth.  And Seguin, in particular, did not cease praising and admiring, certain as he now felt that he would be paid, and already hoping that Mathieu would soon take a further portion of the estate off his hands.

Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformed into a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pending dinner-time, the conversation fell upon children.  Marianne, as it happened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among the ladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going from one to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or his nose.  He was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtless because his health was so good.  His big clear eyes were ever laughing; he offered his little hands in a friendly way, and was very white, very pink, and very sturdy—­quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen and a half months old.  Constance and Valentine admired him, while Marianne jested and turned him away each time that he greedily put out his little hands towards her.

“No, no, monsieur, it’s over now.  You will have nothing but soup in future.”

“Weaning is such a terrible business,” then remarked Constance.  “Did he let you sleep last night?”

“Oh! yes, he had good habits, you know; he never troubled me at night.  But this morning he was stupefied and began to cry.  Still, you see, he is fairly well behaved already.  Besides, I never had more trouble than this with the other ones.”

Beauchene was standing there, listening, and, as usual, smoking a cigar.  Constance appealed to him: