“No, monsieur,” said Lepailleur, “what you say is impossible; it’s all past.  The soil and work, there’s nothing left of either.  It’s barefaced robbery, and though the peasant may kill himself with labor, he will soon be left without even water to drink.  Children indeed!  No, no!  There’s Antonin, of course, and for him we may just be able to provide.  But I assure you that I won’t even make Antonin a peasant against his will!  If he takes to schooling and wishes to go to Paris, I shall tell him that he’s quite right, for Paris is nowadays the only chance for sturdy chaps who want to make a fortune.  So he will be at liberty to sell everything, if he chooses, and try his luck there.  The only thing that I regret is that I didn’t make the venture myself when there was still time.”

Mathieu began to laugh.  Was it not singular that he, a bourgeois with a bachelor’s degree and scientific attainments, should dream of coming back to the soil, to the common mother of all labor and wealth, when this peasant, sprung from peasants, cursed and insulted the earth, and hoped that his son would altogether renounce it?  Never had anything struck him as more significant.  It symbolized that disastrous exodus from the rural districts towards the towns, an exodus which year by year increased, unhinging the nation and reducing it to anaemia.

“You are wrong,” he said in a jovial way so as to drive all bitterness from the discussion.  “Don’t be unfaithful to the earth; she’s an old mistress who would revenge herself.  In your place I would lay myself out to obtain from her, by increase of care, all that I might want.  As in the world’s early days, she is still the great fruitful spouse, and she yields abundantly when she is loved in proper fashion.”

But Lepailleur, raising his fists, retorted:  “No, no; I’ve had enough of her!”

“And, by the way,” continued Mathieu, “one thing which astonishes me is that no courageous, intelligent man has ever yet come forward to do something with all that vast abandoned estate yonder—­that Chantebled—­which old Seguin, formerly, dreamt of turning into a princely domain.  There are great stretches of waste land, woods which one might partly fell, heaths and moorland which might easily be restored to cultivation.  What a splendid task!  What a work of creation for a bold man to undertake!”

This so amazed Lepailleur that he stood there openmouthed.  Then his jeering spirit asserted itself:  “But, my dear sir—­excuse my saying it—­you must be mad!  Cultivate Chantebled, clear those stony tracts, wade about in those marshes!  Why, one might bury millions there without reaping a single bushel of oats!  It’s a cursed spot, which my grandfather’s father saw such as it is now, and which my grandson’s son will see just the same.  Ah! well, I’m not inquisitive, but it would really amuse me to meet the fool who might attempt such madness.”

“Mon Dieu, who knows?” Mathieu quietly concluded.  “When one only loves strongly one may work miracles.”