Is it not so? And thus there remains nothing; all is ended,
quite ended."
She needed to be brave, for visitors would soon be arriving in a stream.
But a last stab in the heart was reserved for her. Beauchene, who since
her arrival had begun to cry again, could no longer see to write.
Moreover, his hand trembled, and he had to leave the writing-table and
fling himself into an armchair, saying to Blaise: "There sit down there,
and continue to write for me."
Then Constance saw Blaise seat himself at her son's writing-table, in his
place, dip his pen in the inkstand and begin to write with the very same
gesture that she had so often seen Maurice make. That Blaise, that son of
the Froments! What! her dear boy was not yet buried, and a Froment
already replaced him, even as vivacious, fast-growing plants overrun
neighboring barren fields. That stream of life flowing around her, intent
on universal conquest, seemed yet more threatening; grandmothers still
bore children, daughters suckled already, sons laid hands upon vacant
kingdoms. And she remained alone; she had but her unworthy, broken-down,
worn-out husband beside her; while Morange, the maniac, incessantly
walking to and fro, was like the symbolical spectre of human distress,
one whose heart and strength and reason had been carried away in the
frightful death of his only daughter.
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