Propped up by two
pillows, she laughingly offered her breast to the child, who was already
protruding his lips and groping with his hands. And when he found what he
wanted he eagerly began to suck.
Mathieu, seeing that both mother and babe were steeped in sunshine, then
went to draw one of the curtains, but Marianne exclaimed: "No, no, leave
us the sun; it doesn't inconvenience us at all, it fills our veins with
springtide."
He came back and lingered near the bed. The sun's rays poured over it,
and life blazed there in a florescence of health and beauty. There is no
more glorious blossoming, no more sacred symbol of living eternity than
an infant at its mother's breast. It is like a prolongation of
maternity's travail, when the mother continues giving herself to her
babe, offering him the fountain of life that shall make him a man.
Scarce is he born to the world than she takes him back and clasps him to
her bosom, that he may there again have warmth and nourishment. And
nothing could be more simple or more necessary. Marianne, both for her
own sake and that of her boy, in order that beauty and health might
remain their portion, was naturally his nurse.
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