"Get up, uncle Lazare! let us go for a walk together along that path you
are so fond of beside the Durance. You will enjoy the fresh air and
morning sun. You will see what an appetite you will have on your return!"
And Babet, who was going down to the river in her light morning gown, and
whom I should not be able to see! My uncle would be there, and I would
have to lower my eyes. It must be so nice under the willows, lying flat on
one's stomach, in the fine grass! I felt a languid feeling creeping over
me, and, slowly, taking short steps, holding my breath, I reached the
door. I went downstairs, and began running like a madcap in the
delightful, warm May morning air.
The sky was quite white on the horizon, with exquisitely delicate blue and
pink tints. The pale sun seemed like a great silver lamp, casting a shower
of bright rays into the Durance. And the broad, sluggish river, expanding
lazily over the red sand, extended from one end of the valley to the
other, like a stream of liquid metal. To the west, a line of low rugged
hills threw slight violet streaks on the pale sky.
I had been living in this out-of-the-way corner for ten years. How often
had I kept my uncle Lazare waiting to give me my Latin lesson! The worthy
man wanted to make me learned. But I was on the other side of the Durance,
ferreting out magpies, discovering a hill which I had not yet climbed.
Then, on my return, there were remonstrances: the Latin was forgotten, my
poor uncle scolded me for having torn my trousers, and he shuddered when
he noticed sometimes that the skin underneath was cut. The valley was
mine, really mine; I had conquered it with my legs, and I was the real
landlord by right of friendship. And that bit of river, those two leagues
of the Durance, how I loved them, how well we understood one another when
together! I knew all the whims of my dear stream, its anger, its charming
ways, its different features at each hour of the day.
When I reached the water's edge on that particular morning, I felt
something like giddiness at seeing it so gentle and so white. It had never
looked so gay. I slipped rapidly beneath the willows, to an open space
where a broad patch of sunlight fell on the dark grass. There I laid me
down on my stomach, listening, watching the pathway by which Babet would
come, through the branches.
"Oh! how sound uncle Lazare must be sleeping!" I thought.
And I extended myself at full length on the moss. The sun struck gentle
heat into my back, whilst my breast, buried in the grass, was quite cool.
Have you never examined the turf, at close quarters, with your eyes on the
blades of grass? Whilst I was waiting for Babet, I pried indiscreetly into
a tuft which was really a whole world. In my bunch of grass there were
streets, cross roads, public squares, entire cities. At the bottom of it,
I distinguished a great dark patch where the shoots of the previous spring
were decaying sadly, then slender stalks were growing up, stretching out,
bending into a multitude of elegant forms, and producing frail colonnades,
churches, virgin forests. I saw two lean insects wandering in the midst of
this immensity; the poor children were certainly lost, for they went from
colonnade to colonnade, from street to street, in an affrighted, anxious
way.
It was just at this moment that, on raising my eyes, I saw Babet's white
skirts standing out against the dark ground at the top of the pathway. I
recognized her printed calico gown, which was grey, with small blue
flowers. I sunk down deeper in the grass, I heard my heart thumping
against the earth and almost raising me with slight jerks. My breast was
burning now, I no longer felt the freshness of the dew.
The young girl came nimbly down the pathway, her skirts skimming the
ground with a swinging motion that charmed me, I saw her at full length,
quite erect, in her proud and happy gracefulness. She had no idea I was
there behind the willows; she walked with a light step, she ran without
giving a thought to the wind, which slightly raised her gown. I could
distinguish her feet, trotting along quickly, quickly, and a piece of her
white stockings, which was perhaps as large as one's hand, and which made
me blush in a manner that was alike sweet and painful.
Oh! then, I saw nothing else, neither the Durance, nor the willows, nor
the whiteness of the sky. What cared I for the valley! It was no longer my
sweetheart; I was quite indifferent to its joy and its sadness. What cared
I for my friends, the stories, and the trees on the hills! The river could
run away all at once if it liked; I would not have regretted it.
And the spring, I did not care a bit about the spring! Had it borne away
the sun that warmed my back, its leaves, its rays, all its May morning, I
should have remained there, in ecstasy, gazing at Babet, running along the
pathway, and swinging her skirts deliciously. For Babet had taken the
valley's place in my heart, Babet was the spring, I had never spoken to
her. Both of us blushed when we met one another in my uncle Lazare's
church. I could have vowed she detested me.
She talked on that particular day for a few minutes with the women who
were washing. The sound of her pearly laughter reached as far as me,
mingled with the loud voice of the Durance. Then she stooped down to take
a little water in the hollow of her hand; but the bank was high, and
Babet, who was on the point of slipping, saved herself by clutching the
grass. I gave a frightful shudder, which made my blood run cold. I rose
hastily, and, without feeling ashamed, without reddening, ran to the young
girl. She cast a startled look at me; then she began to smile. I bent
down, at the risk of falling. I succeeded in filling my right hand with
water by keeping my fingers close together. And I presented this new sort
of cup to Babet' asking her to drink.
The women who were washing laughed. Babet, confused, did not dare accept;
she hesitated, and half turned her head away. At last she made up her
mind, and delicately pressed her lips to the tips of my fingers; but she
had waited too long, all the water had run away. Then she burst out
laughing, she became a child again, and I saw very well that she was
making fun of me.
I was very silly. I bent forward again. This time I took the water in both
hands and hastened to put them to Babet's lips. She drank, and I felt the
warm kiss from her mouth run up my arms to my breast, which it filled with
heat.
"Oh! how my uncle must sleep!" I murmured to myself.
Just as I said that, I perceived a dark shadow beside me, and, having
turned round, I saw my uncle Lazare, in person, a few paces away, watching
Babet and me as if offended. His cassock appeared quite white in the sun;
in his look I saw reproaches which made me feel inclined to cry.
Babet was very much afraid. She turned quite red, and hurried off
stammering:
"Thanks, Monsieur Jean, I thank you very much."
As for me, wiping my wet hands, I stood motionless and confused before my
uncle Lazare.
The worthy man, with folded arms, and bringing back a corner of his
cassock, watched Babet, who was running up the pathway without turning her
head. Then, when she had disappeared behind the hedges, he lowered his
eyes to me, and I saw his pleasant countenance smile sadly.
"Jean," he said to me, "come into the broad walk. Breakfast is not ready.
We have half an hour to spare."
He set out with his rather heavy tread, avoiding the tufts of grass wet
with dew. A part of the bottom of his cassock that was dragging along the
ground, made a dull crackling sound. He held his breviary under his arm;
but he had forgotten his morning lecture, and he advanced dreamily, with
bowed head, and without uttering a word.
His silence tormented me. He was generally so talkative. My anxiety
increased at each step. He had certainly seen me giving Babet water to
drink. What a sight, O Lord! The young girl, laughing and blushing, kissed
the tips of my fingers, whilst I, standing on tip-toe, stretching out my
arms, was leaning forward as if to kiss her. My action now seemed to me
frightfully audacious. And all my timidity returned. I inquired of myself
how I could have dared to have my fingers kissed so sweetly.
And my uncle Lazare, who said nothing, who continued walking with short
steps in front of me, without giving a single glance at the old trees he
loved! He was assuredly preparing a sermon. He was only taking me into the
broad walk to scold me at his ease. It would occupy at least an hour:
breakfast would get cold, and I would be unable to return to the water's
edge and dream of the warm burns that Babet's lips had left on my hands.
We were in the broad walk. This walk, which was wide and short, ran beside
the river; it was shaded by enormous oak trees, with trunks lacerated by
seams, stretching out their great, tall branches. The fine grass spread
like a carpet beneath the trees, and the sun, riddling the foliage,
embroidered this carpet with a rosaceous pattern in gold. In the distance,
all around, extended raw green meadows.
My uncle went to the bottom of the walk, without altering his step and
without turning round. Once there, he stopped, and I kept beside him,
understanding that the terrible moment had arrived.
The river made a sharp curve; a low parapet at the end of the walk formed
a sort of terrace. This vault of shade opened on a valley of light. The
country expanded wide before us, for several leagues. The sun was rising
in the heavens, where the silvery rays of morning had become transformed
into a stream of gold; blinding floods of light ran from the horizon,
along the hills, and spread out into the plain with the glare of fire.
After a moment's silence, my uncle Lazare turned towards me.
"Good heavens, the sermon!" I thought, and I bowed my head. My uncle
pointed out the valley to me, with an expansive gesture; then, drawing
himself up, he said, slowly:
"Look, Jean, there is the spring. The earth is full of joy, my boy, and I
have brought you here, opposite this plain of light, to show you the first
smiles of the young season. Observe what brilliancy and sweetness! Warm
perfumes rise from the country and pass across our faces like puffs of
life."
He was silent and seemed dreaming. I had raised my head, astonished,
breathing at ease. My uncle was not preaching.
"It is a beautiful morning," he continued, "a morning of youth. Your
eighteen summers find full enjoyment amidst this verdure which is at most
eighteen days old. All is great brightness and perfume, is it not? The
broad valley seems to you a delightful place: the river is there to give
you its freshness, the trees to lend you their shade, the whole country to
speak to you of tenderness, the heavens themselves to kiss those horizons
that you are searching with hope and desire. The spring belongs to fellows
of your age. It is it that teaches the boys how to give young girls to
drink--"