ve papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that you
don't look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre has
of them!"

For him Santerre's opinion remained authoritative. However, Valentine
contented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others,
feeling slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid the
romping of their companions, soon lost breath and lagged behind, sulky
and distrustful.

"But, my dear friend," said Constance to Valentine, "didn't our good
Doctor Boutan tell you that all the trouble came from your not nursing
your children yourself? At all events, that was the compliment that he
paid me."

At the mention of Boutan a friendly shout arose. Oh! Boutan, Boutan! he
was like all other specialists. Seguin sneered; Beauchene jested about
the legislature decreeing compulsory nursing by mothers; and only
Mathieu and Marianne remained silent.

"Of course, my dear friend, we are not jesting about you," said
Constance, turning towards the latter. "Your children are superb, and
nobody says the contrary."

Marianne gayly waved her hand, as if to reply that they were free to
make fun of her if they pleased. But at this moment she perceived that
Gervais, profiting by her inattention, was busy seeking his "paradise
lost." And thereupon she set him on the ground: "Ah, no, no, monsieur!"
she exclaimed. "I have told you that it is all over. Can't you see that
people would laugh at us?"

Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking at
her with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to
him, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her so
beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with
the triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something
divine had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed
from her bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of
life, glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail
o'er. For there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly,
responsible for incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, in
that glory, amid her vigorous children, like the good goddess of
Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt that he adored her. Divine passion swept
by--the glow which makes the fields palpitate, which rolls on through
the waters, and floats in the wind, begetting millions and millions of
existences. And 'twas delightful