If France is becoming
depopulated, it is because she so chooses. It is simply necessary then
for her to choose so no longer. But what a task--a whole world to create
anew!"

At this Mathieu raised a superb cry: "Well! we'll create it. I've begun
well enough, surely!"

But Constance, after laughing in a constrained way, in her turn thought
it as well to change the subject. And so she at last replied to his
invitation, saying that she would do her best to go to Janville, though
she feared she might not be able to dispose of a Sunday to do so.

Dr. Boutan then took his leave, and was escorted to the door by
Beauchene, who still went on jesting, like a man well pleased with life,
one who was satisfied with himself and others, and who felt certain of
being able to arrange things as might best suit his pleasure and his
interests.

An hour later, a few minutes after midday, as Mathieu, who had been
delayed in the works, went up to the offices to fetch Morange as he
had promised to do, it occurred to him to take a short cut through the
women's workshop. And there, in that spacious gallery, already deserted
and silent, he came upon an unexpected scene which utterly amazed
him. On some pretext or other Norine had lingered there the last, and
Beauchene was with her, clasping her around the waist whilst he eagerly
pressed his lips to hers. But all at once they caught sight of Mathieu
and remained thunderstruck. And he, for his part, fled precipitately,
deeply annoyed at having been a surprised witness to such a secret.

II

MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchene's works, was a man of
thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark,
fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes,
straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his
younger days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He
still took great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and
preserved the correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred
clerk.

"You don't know our new flat yet, do you?" he asked Mathieu as he led
him away. "Oh! it's perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and
another for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in
four minutes, watch in hand."

He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his
stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a
clerk's daughter, one Valerie Duchemin,