“Oh!” resumed Marianne, as if to smooth things, “when the children are well one can overlook other worries.”

“Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?” cried Seguin, giving way to one of his brutal fits.  “That Catiche certainly set her right at first, but I don’t know what happened afterwards, for now she is simply skin and bones.”  Then, as his wife wished to protest, he lost his temper.  “Do you mean to say that I don’t speak the truth?  Why, look at our two others yonder:  they have papier-mache faces, too!  It is evident that you don’t look after them enough.  You know what a poor opinion Santerre has of them!”

For him Santerre’s opinion remained authoritative.  However, Valentine contented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others, feeling slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid the romping of their companions, soon lost breath and lagged behind, sulky and distrustful.

“But, my dear friend,” said Constance to Valentine, “didn’t our good Doctor Boutan tell you that all the trouble came from your not nursing your children yourself?  At all events, that was the compliment that he paid me.”

At the mention of Boutan a friendly shout arose.  Oh!  Boutan, Boutan! he was like all other specialists.  Seguin sneered; Beauchene jested about the legislature decreeing compulsory nursing by mothers; and only Mathieu and Marianne remained silent.

“Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you,” said Constance, turning towards the latter.  “Your children are superb, and nobody says the contrary.”

Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free to make fun of her if they pleased.  But at this moment she perceived that Gervais, profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his “paradise lost.”  And thereupon she set him on the ground:  “Ah, no, no, monsieur!” she exclaimed.  “I have told you that it is all over.  Can’t you see that people would laugh at us?”

Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment.  He was looking at her with deep emotion.  Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to him, for she was spouse as well as mother.  Never had he thought her so beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with the triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something divine had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed from her bosom.  A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of life, glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail o’er.  For there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, responsible for incalculable disasters.  And on seeing her thus, in that glory, amid her vigorous children, like the good goddess of Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt that he adored her.  Divine passion swept by—­the glow which makes the fields palpitate, which rolls on through the waters, and floats in the wind, begetting millions and millions of existences.  And ’twas delightful the ecstasy into which they both sank, forgetfulness of all else, of all those others who were there.  They saw them no longer; they felt but one desire, to say that they loved each other, and that the season had come when love blossoms afresh.  His lips protruded, she offered hers, and then they kissed.