Then was the true beauty which had its abode in Mathieu and Marianne made
manifest, that beauty of having loved one another for seventy years and
of still worshipping one another now even as on the first day. For
seventy years had they trod life's pathway side by side and arm in arm,
without a quarrel, without ever a deed of unfaithfulness. They could
certainly recall great sorrows, but these had always come from without.
And if they had sometimes sobbed they had consoled one another by
mingling their tears. Under their white locks they had retained the faith
of their early days, their hearts remained blended, merged one into the
other, even as on the morrow of their marriage, each having then been
freely given and never taken back. In them the power of love, the will of
action, the divine desire whose flame creates worlds, had happily met and
united. He, adoring his wife, had known no other joy than the passion of
creation, looking on the work that had to be performed and the work that
was accomplished as the sole why and wherefore of his being, his duty and
his reward. She, adoring her husband, had simply striven to be a true
companion, spouse, mother, and good counsellor, one who was endowed with
delicacy of judgment and helped to overcome all difficulties.
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