unacknowledged remorse had come to them amid their happiness at having him beside them like some hoarded treasure, the delight of an avaricious old age, following a life of prodigality.  Did not their Benjamin suffer at having been thus monopolized, shut up for their sole pleasure within the four walls of their house?  He had at all times displayed an anxious dreaminess, his eyes had ever sought far-away things, the unknown land where perfect satisfaction dwelt, yonder, behind the horizon.  And now that age was stealing upon him his torment seemed to increase, as if he were in despair at finding himself unable to try the possibilities of the unknown, before he ended a useless life devoid of happiness.

However, Benjamin moved away from the door, Ambroise gave his orders, and Mathieu and Marianne appeared upon the verdant lawn in the sunlight.  An acclamation, merry laughter, affectionate clapping of hands greeted them.  The gay excited throng, the whole swarming family cried aloud:  “Long live the Father!  Long live the Mother!  Long life, long life to the Father and the Mother!”

At ninety years of age Mathieu was still very upright and slim, closely buttoned in a black frock-coat like a young bridegroom.  Over his bare head fell a snowy fleece, for after long wearing his hair cut short he had now in a final impulse of coquetry allowed it to grow, so that it seemed liked the renouveau of an old but vigorous tree.  Age might have withered and worn and wrinkled his face, but he still retained the eyes of his young days, large lustrous eyes, at once smiling and pensive, which still bespoke a man of thought and action, one who was very simple, very gay, and very good-hearted.  And Marianne at eighty-seven years of age also held herself very upright in her light bridal gown, still strong and still showing some of the healthy beauty of other days.  With hair white like Mathieu’s, and softened face, illumined as by a last glow under her silky tresses, she resembled one of those sacred marbles whose features time has ravined, without, however, being able to efface from them the tranquil splendor of life.  She seemed, indeed, like some fruitful Cybele, retaining all firmness of contour, and living anew in the broad daylight with gentle good humor sparkling in her large black eyes.

Arm-in-arm close to one another, like a worthy couple who had come from afar, who had walked on side by side without ever parting for seventy long years, Mathieu and Marianne smiled with tears of joy in their eyes at the whole swarming family which had sprung from their love, and which still acclaimed them: 

“Long live the Father!  Long live the Mother!  Long life, long life to the Father and the Mother!”

Then came the ceremony of reciting a compliment and offering a bouquet.  A fair-haired little girl named Rose, five years of age, had been intrusted with this duty.  She had been chosen because she was the eldest child of the fourth generation.  She was the daughter of Angeline, who was the daughter of Berthe, who was the daughter of Charlotte, wife of Blaise.  And when the two ancestors saw her approach them with her big bouquet, their emotion increased, happy tears again gathered in their eyes, and recollections faltered on their lips:  “Oh! our little Rose!  Our Blaise, our Charlotte!”