Then was the true beauty which had its abode in Mathieu and Marianne made manifest, that beauty of having loved one another for seventy years and of still worshipping one another now even as on the first day.  For seventy years had they trod life’s pathway side by side and arm in arm, without a quarrel, without ever a deed of unfaithfulness.  They could certainly recall great sorrows, but these had always come from without.  And if they had sometimes sobbed they had consoled one another by mingling their tears.  Under their white locks they had retained the faith of their early days, their hearts remained blended, merged one into the other, even as on the morrow of their marriage, each having then been freely given and never taken back.  In them the power of love, the will of action, the divine desire whose flame creates worlds, had happily met and united.  He, adoring his wife, had known no other joy than the passion of creation, looking on the work that had to be performed and the work that was accomplished as the sole why and wherefore of his being, his duty and his reward.  She, adoring her husband, had simply striven to be a true companion, spouse, mother, and good counsellor, one who was endowed with delicacy of judgment and helped to overcome all difficulties.  Between them they were reason, and health, and strength.  If, too, they had always triumphed athwart obstacles and tears, it was only by reason of their long agreement, their common fealty amid an eternal renewal of their love, whose armor rendered them invincible.  They could not be conquered, they had conquered by the very power of their union without designing it.  And they ended heroically, as conquerors of happiness, hand in hand, pure as crystal is, very great, very handsome, the more so from their extreme age, their long, long life, which one love had entirely filled.  And the sole strength of their innumerable offspring now gathered there, the conquering tribe that had sprung from their loins, was the strength of union inherited from them:  the loyal love transmitted from ancestors to children, the mutual affection which impelled them to help one another and ever fight for a better life in all brotherliness.

But mirthful sounds arose, the banquet was at last being served.  All the servants of the farm had gathered to discharge this duty—­they would not allow a single person from without to help them.  Nearly all had grown up on the estate, and belonged, as it were, to the family.  By and by they would have a table for themselves, and in their turn celebrate the diamond wedding.  And it was amid exclamations and merry laughter that they brought the first dishes.

All at once, however, the serving ceased, silence fell, an unexpected incident attracted all attention.  A young man, whom none apparently could recognize, was stepping across the lawn, between the arms of the horse-shoe table.  He smiled gayly as he walked on, only stopping when he was face to face with Mathieu and Marianne.  Then in a loud voice he said:  “Good day, grandfather! good day, grandmother!  You must have another cover laid, for I have come to celebrate the day with you.”