THE FOUR GOSPELS (Les Quatre Évangiles). Эмиль Золя

became quite distorted. “You are right, it was certain,” said she; “still one always hopes.” And with a gesture of despair she added: “It is all ended now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead.”

      Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an address in order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to have lost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as she asked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he replied that he wished to call on the Seguins. The fear of finding herself alone again so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave her the idea of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for some time past.

      “Get in,” she said to Mathieu; “we will go to the Avenue d’Antin together.”

      The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they had not a word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching their destination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: “You must give my husband the good news, and tell him that the boy has disappeared. Ah! what a relief for him!”

      Mathieu, on calling in the Avenue d’Antin, had hoped to find the Seguins assembled there. Seguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knew whence, a week previously, when Andree’s hand had been formally asked of him; and after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evinced great willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediately been fixed for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marry off their daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might take place at Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. This being arranged, Ambroise was accepted as fiance, and to his great delight was able to call at the Seguins’ every day, about five o’clock, to pay his court according to established usage. It was on account of this that Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home.

      When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her that Madame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Seguin, the man replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at home with her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs.

      “What! are you left all alone?” exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving the young couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room on the first floor, which Seguin had once called his “cabinet.”

      “Why, yes, we are alone in the house,” Andree answered with a charming laugh. “We are very pleased at it.”

      They looked adorable, thus seated side by side — she so gentle, of such tender beauty — he with all the fascinating charm that was blended with his strength.

      “Isn’t Celeste there at any rate?” again inquired Mathieu.

      “No, she has disappeared we don’t know where.” And again they laughed like free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonely forest.

      “Well, you cannot be very lively all alone like this.”

      “Oh! we don’t feel at all bored, we have so many things to talk about. And then we look at one another. And there is never an end to it all.”

      Though her heart bled, Constance could not help admiring them. Ah, to think of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home all was blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destined to increase forever! For this again was a conquest — those two children left free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuous mansion which tomorrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, Constance turned towards Mathieu: “Are you not also marrying your eldest daughter?” she asked.

      “Yes, Rose,” Mathieu gayly responded. “We shall have a grand fete at Chantebled next May! You must all of you come there.”

      ‘Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life proved victorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Seguins, and now their very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beauchene works themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise.

      “We will go,” she answered, quivering. “And may your good luck continue — that is what I wish you.”

      XVI

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      AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was to prove, so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, it had occurred to Mathieu’s daughter Rose to gather the whole family together one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for the ceremony. She and her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were to repair to Janville station in the morning to meet the other affianced pair, Ambroise and Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to the farm where they would all lunch together. It would be a kind of wedding rehearsal, she exclaimed with her hearty laugh; they would be able to arrange the programme for the great day. And her idea enraptured her to such a point, she seemed to anticipate so much delight from this preliminary festival, that Mathieu and Marianne consented to it.

      Rose’s marriage was like the supreme blossoming of years of prosperity, and brought a finishing touch to the happiness of the home. She was the prettiest of Mathieu’s daughters, with dark brown hair, round gilded cheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable of dispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeed to be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busy life. But beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing from morning till night there was much common sense and energy of affection, as her choice of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu had engaged the services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmer of the neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionate interest in the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working there with rare activity and intelligence. He had no means of his own at all. Rose, who had grown up near him, knew however that he was her father’s preferred assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expiration of his military service she, divining that he loved her, forced him to acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished to remain near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all her happiness. Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeply touched, they signified their approval of a choice in which affection for themselves had so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawn yet closer, and increase of joy came to the home.

      So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointed Sunday Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, Madame Seguin, to Janville by the ten o’clock train. A couple of hours previously Rose had already begun a battle with the object of prevailing upon the whole family to repair to the railway station to meet the affianced pair.

      “But come, my children, it is unreasonable,” Marianne gently exclaimed. “It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolas here, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouring the roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take all the others if you like, and your father shall lead the way.”

      Rose, however, still merrily laughing, clung to her plan. “No, no, mamma, you must come as well; everybody must come; it was promised. Ambroise and Andree, you see, are like a royal couple from a neighboring kingdom. My brother Ambroise, having won the hand of a foreign princess, is going to present her to us. And so, to do them the honors of our own empire, we, Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the whole Court. You form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah what a fine sight it will be when we spread out through the country on our way home again!”

      Marianne, amused by her daughter’s overflowing gayety, ended by laughing and giving way.

      “This will be the order of the march,” resumed Rose. “Oh! I’ve planned everything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go on our bicycles — that is the most modern style. We will also take my maids of honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, eleven, nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very well behind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, and will do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort.