She was sturdy and strong of heart; privation was nothing to her; she could endure all that Jean Francois could, and count it a joy to be with him.
She was the consoler, not he; and when the mocking indifference of the world passed the work of Jean Francois by, she said, "Who cares, so long as we know 't is good?" and measured the stocking on her nose and made merry music with the flying needles.
Soon the truth forced itself on Jean Francois and Catherine that no man is thought much of by his kinsmen and boyhood acquaintances. No one at Gruchy believed in the genius of Jean Francois—no one but the old grandmother, who daily hobbled to mass and prayed the Blessed Virgin not to forget her boy. Jean Francois and his wife studied the matter out and talked it over at length, and they decided that to stay in Gruchy would be to forfeit all hope of winning fame and fortune.
Gruchy held nothing for them; possibly Paris did.
And anyway, to go down in a struggle for better things was not so ignominious an end as to allow one's powers to rust out, held back only through fear of failure.
They started for Paris.
Yes, Paris remembered Jean Francois. How could Paris forget him—he was so preposterous and his work so impossible!
It was still a struggle for bread.
Marriages and births have a fixed relation to the price of corn, the sociologists say. Perhaps they are right; but not in this case.
The babies came along with the years, and all brought love with them.