"An old fellow like me," he continued, "unfortunately knows what trust to
place in the charms of spring. I, my poor Jean, I love the Durance because
it waters these meadows and gives life to all the valley; I love this
young foliage because it proclaims to me the coming of the fruits of
summer and autumn; I love this sky because it is good to us, because its
warmth hastens the fecundity of the earth. I should have had to tell you
this one day or other; I prefer telling it you now, at this early hour. It
is spring itself that is giving you the lesson. The earth is a vast
workshop wherein there is never a slack season. Observe this flower at our
feet; to you it is perfume; to me it is labour, it accomplishes its task
by producing its share of life, a little black seed which will work in its
turn, next spring. And, now, search the vast horizon. All this joy is but
the act of generation. If the country be smiling, it is because it is
beginning the everlasting task again. Do you hear it now, breathing hard,
full of activity and haste? The leaves sigh, the flowers are in a hurry,
the corn grows without pausing; all the plants, all the herbs are
quarrelling as to which shall spring up the quickest; and the running
water, the river comes to assist in the common labour, and the young sun
which rises in the heavens is entrusted with the duty of enlivening the
everlasting task of the labourers."
At this point my uncle made me look him straight in the face. He concluded
in these terms:
"Jean, you hear what your friend the spring says to you. He is youth, but
he is preparing ripe age; his bright smile is but the gaiety of labour.
Summer will be powerful, autumn bountiful, for the spring is singing at
this moment, while courageously performing its work."
I looked very stupid. I understood my uncle Lazare. He was positively
preaching me a sermon, in which he told me I was an idle fellow and that
the time had come to work.
My uncle appeared as much embarrassed as myself. After having hesitated
for some instants he said, slightly stammering:
"Jean, you were wrong not to have come and told me all--as you love Babet
and Babet loves you--"
"Babet loves me!" I exclaimed.
My uncle made me an ill-humoured gesture.
"Eh! allow me to speak. I don't want another avowal. She owned it to me
herself."
"She owned that to you, she owned that to you!"
And I suddenly threw my arms round my uncle Lazare's neck.
"Oh! how nice that is!" I added. "I had never spoken to her, truly. She
told you that at the confessional, didn't she? I would never have dared
ask her if she loved me, and I would never have known anything. Oh! how I
thank you!"
My uncle Lazare was quite red. He felt that he had just committed a
blunder. He had imagined that this was not my first meeting with the young
girl, and here he gave me a certainty, when as yet I only dared dream of a
hope. He held his tongue now; it was I who spoke with volubility.
"I understand all," I continued. "You are right, I must work to win Babet.
But you will see how courageous I shall be. Ah! how good you are, my uncle
Lazare, and how well you speak! I understand what the spring says: I,
also, will have a powerful summer and an autumn of abundance. One is well
placed here, one sees all the valley; I am young like it, I feel youth
within me demanding to accomplish its task--"
My uncle calmed me.
"Very good, Jean," he said to me. "I had long hoped to make a priest of
you, and I imparted to you my knowledge with that sole aim. But what I saw
this morning at the waterside compels me to definitely give up my fondest
hope. It is Heaven that disposes of us. You will love the Almighty in
another way. You cannot now remain in this village, and I only wish you to
return when ripened by age and work. I have chosen the trade of printer
for you; your education will serve you. One of my friends, who is a
printer at Grenoble, is expecting you next Monday."