Between a framework of tall trees, under the patriarchal oak, on
the thick grass of the lawn the whole vigorous family was gathered in a
group, instinct with gayety, beauty, and strength. Gervais and Claire,
ever active, were, with Frederic, hurrying on the servants, who made no
end of serving the coffee on the table which had just been cleared. For
this table the three younger girls, half buried in a heap of flowers, tea
and blush and crimson roses, were now, with the help of knight Gregoire,
devising new decorations. Then, a few paces away, the bridal pair, Denis
and Marthe, were conversing in undertones; while the bride's mother,
Madame Desvignes, sat listening to them with a discreet and infinitely
gentle smile upon her lips. And it was in the midst of all this that
Marianne, radiant, white of skin, still fresh, ever beautiful, with
serene strength, was giving the breast to her twelfth child, her
Benjamin, and smiling at him as he sucked away; while surrendering her
other knee to little Nicolas, who was jealous of his younger brother. And
her two daughters-in-law seemed like a continuation of herself. There was
Andree on the left with Ambroise, who had stepped up to tease his little
Leonce; and Charlotte on the right with her two children, Guillaume, who
hung on her breast, and Berthe, who had sought a place among her skirts.
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