And still more accurate became the saying,
that to judge of any human being's happiness or unhappiness in life, one
must wait until he be dead.
"Ah!" said Mathieu, as he sat near Marianne's bed, holding her feverish
hand, "to think of it! To have struggled so much, and to have triumphed
so much, and then to encounter this supreme grief, which will bring us
more pain than all the others. Decidedly it is true that one must
continue battling until one's last breath, and that happiness is only to
be won by suffering and tears. We must still hope, still triumph, and
conquer and live."
Marianne, however, had lost all courage, and seemed to be overwhelmed.
"No," said she, "I have no energy left me, I am vanquished. I was always
able to heal the wounds which came from without, but this wound comes
from my own blood; my blood pours forth within me and stifles me. All our
work is destroyed. Our joy, our health, our strength, have at the last
day become mere lies."
Then Mathieu, whom her grievous fears of a disaster gained, went off to
weep in the adjoining room, already picturing his wife dead and himself
in utter solitude.
It was with reference to Lepailleur's moorland, the plots intersecting
the Chantebled estate, that the wretched quarrel had broken out between
the mill and the farm.
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