During the lunch, too,
there was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchene, who
gave the greatest attention to his _commere_ Valentine, jesting and
paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her much amusement,
prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though she was already
forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone remained
grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint smile,
while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face every time that
she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, based on the
invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning.
At about three o'clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow
Beauchene to take any more Chartreuse.
"It's true, he is right, my children," Beauchene ended by exclaiming in a
docile way. "We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely necessary
that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you of Denis, for
we need his help over a big building affair. That's how we are, we
others, we don't shirk duty."
Constance had also risen. "The carriage must be waiting," said she; "will
you take it?"
"No, no, we will go on foot.
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