But what particularly touched Marianne was the sketch of
her last-born, little Benjamin, now nine months old, whom Charlotte had
depicted reclining under the oak tree in the same little carriage as her
own son Guillaume, who was virtually of the same age, having been born
but eight days later.
"The uncle and the nephew," said Mathieu jestingly. "All the same, the
uncle is the elder by a week."
As Marianne stood there smiling, soft tears came into her eyes, and the
sketch shook in her happy hands.
"The dears!" said she; "my son and grandson. With those dear little ones
I am once again a mother and a grandmother. Ah, yes! those two are the
supreme consolation; they have helped to heal the wound; it is they who
have brought us back hope and courage."
This was true. How overwhelming had been the mourning and sadness of the
early days when Charlotte, fleeing the factory, had sought refuge at the
farm! The tragedy by which Blaise had been carried off had nearly killed
her. Her first solace was to see that her daughter Berthe, who had been
rather sickly in Paris, regained bright rosy cheeks amid the open air of
Chantebled. Moreover, she had settled her life: she would spend her
remaining years, in that hospitable house, devoting herself to her two
children, and happy in having so affectionate a grandmother and
grandfather to help and sustain her.
Pages:
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570