It was nearly fifteen years since I had married Babet In my uncle Lazare's
little church. We had sought happiness in our dear valley. I had made
myself a farmer; the Durance, my first sweetheart, was now a good mother
to me, who seemed to take pleasure in making my fields rich and fertile.
Little by little, by following the new methods of agriculture, I became
one of the wealthiest landowners in the neighbourhood.
We had purchased the oak-tree walk and the meadows bordering on the river,
at the death of my wife's parents. I had had a modest house built on this
land, but we were soon obliged to enlarge it; each year I found a means of
rounding off our property by the addition of some neighbouring field, and
our granaries were too small for our harvests.
Those first fifteen years were uneventful and happy. They passed away in
serene joy, and all they have left within me is the remembrance of calm
and continued happiness. My uncle Lazare, on retiring to our home, had
realised his dream; his advanced age did not permit of his reading his
breviary of a morning; he sometimes regretted his dear church, but
consoled himself by visiting the young vicar who had succeeded him. He
came down from the little room he occupied at sunrise, and often
accompanied me to the fields, enjoying himself in the open air, and
finding a second youth amidst the healthy atmosphere of the country.
One sadness alone made us sometimes sigh. Amidst the fruitfulness by which
we were surrounded, Babet remained childless. Although we were three to
love one another we sometimes found ourselves too much alone; we would
have liked to have had a little fair head running about amongst us, who
would have tormented and caressed us.
Uncle Lazare had a frightful dread of dying before he was a great-uncle.
He had become a child again, and felt sorrowful that Babet did not give
him a comrade who would have played with him. On the day when my wife
confided to us with hesitation, that we would no doubt soon be four, I saw
my uncle turn quite pale, and make efforts not to cry. He kissed us,
thinking already of the christening, and speaking of the child as if it
were already three or four years old.
And the months passed in concentrated tenderness. We talked together in
subdued voices, awaiting some one. I no longer loved Babet: I worshipped
her with joined hands; I worshipped her for two, for herself and the
little one.
The great day was drawing nigh. I had brought a midwife from Grenoble who
never moved from the farm. My uncle was in a dreadful fright; he
understood nothing about such things; he went so far as to tell me that he
had done wrong in taking holy orders, and that he was very sorry he was
not a doctor.
One morning in September, at about six o'clock, I went into the room of my
dear Babet, who was still asleep. Her smiling face was peacefully reposing
on the white linen pillow-case. I bent over her, holding my breath. Heaven
had blessed me with the good things of this world. I all at once thought
of that summer day when I was moaning in the dust, and at the same time I
felt around me the comfort due to labour and the quietude that comes from
happiness. My good wife was asleep, all rosy, in the middle of her great
bed; whilst the whole room recalled to me our fifteen years of tender
affection.
I kissed Babet softly on the lips. She opened her eyes and smiled at me
without speaking. I felt an almost uncontrollable desire to take her in my
arms, and clasp her to my heart; but, latterly, I had hardly dared press
her hand, she seemed so fragile and sacred to me.