of flowers, tea and blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help of
knight Gregoire, devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, the
bridal pair, Denis and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while the
bride's mother, Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreet
and infinitely gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midst
of all this that Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, ever
beautiful, with serene strength, was giving the breast to her twelfth
child, her Benjamin, and smiling at him as he sucked away; while
surrendering her other knee to little Nicolas, who was jealous of his
younger brother. And her two daughters-in-law seemed like a continuation
of herself. There was Andree on the left with Ambroise, who had stepped
up to tease his little Leonce; and Charlotte on the right with her two
children, Guillaume, who hung on her breast, and Berthe, who had
sought a place among her skirts. And here, faith in life had yielded
prosperity, ever-increasing, overflowing wealth, all the sovereign
florescence of happy fruitfulness.

Seguin, addressing himself to Marianne, asked her jestingly: "And so
that little gentleman is the fourteenth you have nursed?"

She likewise laughed. "No; I mustn't tell fibs! I have nursed twelve,
including this one; that is the exact number."

Beauchene, who had recovered his self-possession, could not refrain from
intervening once more: "A full dozen, eh! It is madness!"

"I share your opinion," said Mathieu, laughing in his turn. "At all
events, if it is not madness it is extravagance, as we admit, my wife
and I, when we are alone. And we certainly don't think that all people
ought to have such large families as ours. But, given the situation in
France nowadays, with our population dwindling and that of nearly every
other country increasing, it is hardly possible to complain of even the
largest family. Thus, even if our example be exaggerated, it remains an
example, I think, for others to think over."

Marianne listened, still smiling, but with tears standing in her eyes.
A feeling of gentle sadness was penetrating her; her heart-wound had
reopened even amid all her joy at seeing her children assembled around
her. "Yes," said she in a trembling voice, "there have been twelve, but
I have only ten left. Two are already sleeping yonder, waiting for us
underground."

There was no sign of dread, however, in that evocation of the peaceful
little cemetery o