This was incontestable.  During the earlier years the whole of Janville had looked harshly on those Froments, those bourgeois who had come nobody knew whence, and who, with overweening conceit, had talked of making corn grow in land where there had been nothing but crops of stones for centuries past.  Then the miracle, Mathieu’s extraordinary victory, had long hurt people’s vanity and thereby increased their anger.  But everything passes away; one cannot regard success with rancor, and folks who grow rich always end by being in the right.  Thus, nowadays, Janville smiled complacently on that swarming family which had grown up beside it, forgetting that in former times each fresh birth at Chantebled had been regarded as quite scandalous by the gossips.  Besides, how could one resist such a happy display of strength and power, such a merry invasion, when, as on that festive Sunday, the whole family came up at a gallop, conquering the roads, the streets, and the squares?  What with the father and mother, the eleven children—­six boys and five girls—­and two grandchildren already, there were fifteen of them.  The eldest boys, the twins, were now four-and twenty, and still so much alike that people occasionally mistook one for the other as in their cradle days, when Marianne had been obliged to open their eyes to identify them, those of Blaise being gray, and those of Denis black.  Nicolas, the youngest boy, at the other end of the family scale, was as yet but five years old; a delightful little urchin was he, a precocious little man whose energy and courage were quite amusing.  And between the twins and that youngster came the eight other children:  Ambroise, the future husband, who was already on the road to every conquest; Rose, so brimful of life; who likewise was on the eve of marrying; Gervais, with his square brow and wrestler’s limbs, who would soon be fighting the good fight of agriculture; Claire, who was silent and hardworking, and lacked beauty, but possessed a strong heart and a housewife’s sensible head.  Next Gregoire, the undisciplined, self-willed schoolboy, who was ever beating the hedges in search of adventures; and then the three last girls:  Louise, plump and good natured; Madeleine, delicate and of dreamy mind; Marguerite, the least pretty but the most loving of the trio.  And when, behind their father and their mother, the eleven came along one after the other, followed too by Berthe and Christophe, representing yet another generation, it was a real procession that one saw, as, for instance, on that fine Sunday on the Grand Place of Janville, already crowded with holiday-making folks.  And the effect was irresistible; even those who were scarcely pleased with the prodigious success of Chantebled felt enlivened and amused at seeing the Froments galloping about and invading the place.  So much health and mirth and strength accompanied them, as if earth with her overflowing gifts of life had thus profusely created them for to-morrow’s everlasting hopes.