“When they sleep they are like other people’s children.”

She sat down suddenly on a stool near by, and shook with a silent tempest of sobs, unable to speak.  He finished his meal, and remained idly thrown back in his chair, his eyes lost amongst the black rafters of the ceiling.  Before him the tallow candle flared red and straight, sending up a slender thread of smoke.  The light lay on the rough, sunburnt skin of his throat; the sunk cheeks were like patches of darkness, and his aspect was mournfully stolid, as if he had ruminated with difficulty endless ideas.  Then he said, deliberately—­

“We must see . . . consult people.  Don’t cry. . . .  They won’t all be like that . . . surely!  We must sleep now.”

After the third child, also a boy, was born, Jean-Pierre went about his work with tense hopefulness.  His lips seemed more narrow, more tightly compressed than before; as if for fear of letting the earth he tilled hear the voice of hope that murmured within his breast.  He watched the child, stepping up to the cot with a heavy clang of sabots on the stone floor, and glanced in, along his shoulder, with that indifference which is like a deformity of peasant humanity.  Like the earth they master and serve, those men, slow of eye and speech, do not show the inner fire; so that, at last, it becomes a question with them as with the earth, what there is in the core:  heat, violence, a force mysterious and terrible—­or nothing but a clod, a mass fertile and inert, cold and unfeeling, ready to bear a crop of plants that sustain life or give death.

The mother watched with other eyes; listened with otherwise expectant ears.  Under the high hanging shelves supporting great sides of bacon overhead, her body was busy by the great fireplace, attentive to the pot swinging on iron gallows, scrubbing the long table where the field hands would sit down directly to their evening meal.  Her mind remained by the cradle, night and day on the watch, to hope and suffer.  That child, like the other two, never smiled, never stretched its hands to her, never spoke; never had a glance of recognition for her in its big black eyes, which could only stare fixedly at any glitter, but failed hopelessly to follow the brilliance of a sun-ray slipping slowly along the floor.  When the men were at work she spent long days between her three idiot children and the childish grandfather, who sat grim, angular, and immovable, with his feet near the warm ashes of the fire.  The feeble old fellow seemed to suspect that there was something wrong with his grandsons.  Only once, moved either by affection or by the sense of proprieties, he attempted to nurse the youngest.  He took the boy up from the floor, clicked his tongue at him, and essayed a shaky gallop of his bony knees.  Then he looked closely with his misty eyes at the child’s face and deposited him down gently on the floor again.  And he sat, his lean shanks crossed, nodding at the steam escaping from the cooking-pot with a gaze senile and worried.