It was a
Sunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheered
by a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading
countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal
casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April's resurrection. And,
that day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also was
slumbering in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, but
plump even as larks are in the cold weather, and waiting, he also, simply
for life's revival, in order to reappear in all the triumph of his
acquired strength.
The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, the
four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbed in a
playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, the twins,
Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces of
cardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, a
church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch the scissors,
presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself even to her hair.
In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang at intervals,
their father and mother had remained seated side by side in front of the
blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace after the week's hard
work.
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