Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases as he sank into a dream of his wrecked life.

Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle.  Ah! it was indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and to breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle.  Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast sky, all radiant with healthy joy.  And the image of Marianne arose before him like a consolatory promise of life’s coming victory, an atonement for every shame and iniquity.  His dear wife, whom everlasting hope kept full of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her pangs, love would triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness for to-morrow’s allotted effort!  The cab rolled on so slowly that Mathieu almost despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little house, that he might once more take part in life’s poem, that august festival instinct with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity’s everlasting hymn, the coming of a new being into the world.

That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose, and Reine were sent round to the Beauchenes’, where they filled the house with their romping mirth.  Maurice, however, was again ailing, and had to lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in the play of the others.  “He has pains in his legs,” said his father to Mathieu, when he came round to inquire after Marianne; “he’s growing so fast, and getting such a big fellow, you know.”

Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face remained for a moment clouded.  Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt the passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had made Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in her arms.

But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne’s room to answer Beauchene’s inquiries, was summoned back again.  And there he now found the sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new life.  While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to him:  “It is a boy.”

Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly.  Her beautiful eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already smiling with happiness.

“Dear, dear wife,” said Mathieu, “how good and brave you are, and how I love you!”

“Yes, yes, I am very happy,” she faltered, “and I must try to give you back all the love that you give me.”

Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant glory.  Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming future.  One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the faint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life’s immense treasure was increased and eternity insured.  Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring night when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature had streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around him amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting the poem of eternal life that sprang from love the eternal.