such a large one.  But, after all, had they not been right?  Their children had diminished no other’s share, each had come with his or her own means of subsistence.  And, besides, ’tis good to garner in excess when the granaries of a country are empty.  Many such improvidents are needed to combat the egotism of others at times of great dearth.  Amid all the frightful loss and wastage, the race is strengthened, the country is made afresh, a good civic example is given by such healthy prodigality as Mathieu and Marianne had shown.

But a last act of heroism was required of them.  A month after the festival, when Dominique was on the point of returning to the Soudan, Benjamin one evening told them of his passion, of the irresistible summons from the unknown distant plains, which he could but obey.

“Dear father, darling mother, let me go with Dominique!  I have struggled, I feel horrified with myself at quitting you thus, at your great age.  But I suffer too dreadfully; my soul is full of yearnings, and seems ready to burst; and I shall die of shameful sloth, if I do not go.”

They listened with breaking hearts.  Their son’s words did not surprise them; they had heard them coming ever since their diamond wedding.  And they trembled, and felt that they could not refuse; for they knew that they were guilty in having kept their last-born in the family nest after surrendering to life all the others.  Ah! how insatiable life was—­it would not so much as suffer that tardy avarice of theirs; it demanded even the precious, discreetly hidden treasure from which, with jealous egotism, they had dreamt of parting only when they might find themselves upon the threshold of the grave.

Deep silence reigned; but at last Mathieu slowly answered:  “I cannot keep you back, my son; go whither life calls you. . . .  If I knew, however, that I should die to-night, I would ask you to wait till to-morrow.”

In her turn Marianne gently said:  “Why cannot we die at once?  We should then escape this last great pang, and you would only carry our memory away with you.”

Once again did the cemetery of Janville appear, the field of peace, where dear ones already slept, and where they would soon join them.  No sadness tinged that thought, however; they hoped that they would lie down there together on the same day, for they could not imagine life, one without the other.  And, besides, would they not forever live in their children; forever be united, immortal, in their race?

“Dear father, darling mother,” Benjamin repeated; “it is I who will be dead to-morrow if I do not go.  To wait for your death—­good God! would not that be to desire it?  You must still live long years, and I wish to live like you.”

There came another pause, then Mathieu and Marianne replied together:  “Go then, my boy.  You are right, one must live.”

But on the day of farewell, what a wrench, what a final pang there was when they had to tear themselves from that flesh of their flesh, all that remained to them, in order to hand over to life the supreme gift it demanded!  The departure of Nicolas seemed to begin afresh; again came the “never more” of the migratory child taking wing, given to the passing wind for the sowing of unknown distant lands, far beyond the frontiers.