"I know the child better than you do," I said. "I see it every night. It's
a girl----"
And as Babet turned her face to the wall, ready to cry, I realised how
foolish I had been, and hastened to add:
"When I say a girl--I am not quite sure. I see a very small child with a
long white gown.--it's certainly a boy."
Babet kissed me for that pleasing remark.
"Go and look after the vintage," she continued, "I feel calm this
morning."
"You will send for me if anything happens?"
"Yes, yes, I am very tired: I shall go to sleep again. You'll not be angry
with me for my laziness?"
And Babet closed her eyes, looking languid and affected. I remained
leaning over her, receiving the warm breath from her lips in my face. She
gradually went off to sleep, without ceasing to smile. Then I disengaged
my hand from hers with a multitude of precautions. I had to manoeuvre for
five minutes to bring this delicate task to a happy issue. After that I
gave her a kiss on her forehead, which she did not feel, and withdrew with
a palpitating heart, overflowing with love.
In the courtyard below, I found my uncle Lazare, who was gazing anxiously
at the window of Babet's room. So soon as he perceived me he inquired:
"Well, is it for to-day?"
He had been putting this question to me regularly every morning for the
past month.
"It appears not," I answered him. "Will you come with me and see them
picking the grapes?"
He fetched his stick, and we went down the oak-tree walk. When we were at
the end of it, on that terrace which overlooks the Durance, both of us
stopped, gazing at the valley.
Small white clouds floated in the pale sky. The sun was shedding soft
rays, which cast a sort of gold dust over the country, the yellow expanse
of which spread out all ripe. One saw neither the brilliant light nor the
dark shadows of summer. The foliage gilded the black earth in large
patches. The river ran more slowly, weary at the task of having rendered
the fields fruitful for a season. And the valley remained calm and strong.
It already wore the first furrows of winter, but it preserved within it
the warmth of its last labour, displaying its robust charms, free from the
weeds of spring, more majestically beautiful, like that second youth, of
woman who has given birth to life.
My uncle Lazare remained silent; then, turning towards me, said:
"Do you remember, Jean? It is more than twenty years ago since I brought
you here early one May morning. On that particular day I showed you the
valley full of feverish activity, labouring for the fruits of autumn.
Look; the valley has just performed its task again."
"I remember, dear uncle," I replied. "I was quaking with fear on that day;
but you were good, and your lesson was convincing. I owe you all my
happiness."
"Yes, you have reached the autumn. You have laboured and are gathering in
the harvest. Man, my boy, was created after the way of the earth. And we,
like the common mother, are eternal: the green leaves are born again each
year from dry leaves; I am born again in you, and you will be born again
in your children. I am telling you this so that old age may not alarm you,
so that you may know how to die in peace, as dies this verdure, which will
shoot out again from its own germs next spring."
I listened to my uncle and thought of Babet, who was sleeping in her great
bed spread with white linen. The dear creature was about to give birth to
a child after the manner of this fertile soil which had given us fortune.
She also had reached the autumn: she had the beaming smile and serene
robustness of the valley. I seemed to see her beneath the yellow sun,
tired and happy, experiencing noble delight at being a mother. And I no
longer knew whether my uncle Lazare was talking to me of my dear valley,
or of my dear Babet.
We slowly ascended the hills. Below, along the Durance, were the meadows,
broad, raw green swards; next came the yellow fields, intersected here and
there by greyish olive and slender almond trees, planted wide apart in
rows; then, right up above, were the vines, great stumps with shoots
trailing along the ground.
The vine is treated in the south of France like a hardy housewife, and not
like a delicate young lady, as in the north. It grows somewhat as it
likes, according to the good will of rain and sun. The stumps, which are
planted in double rows, and form long lines, throw sprays of dark verdure
around them. Wheat or oats are sown between. A vineyard resembles an
immense piece of striped material, made of the green bands formed by the
vine leaves, and of yellow ribbon represented by the stubble.
Men and women stooping down among the vines, were cutting the bunches of
grapes, which they then threw to the bottom of large baskets. My uncle and
I walked slowly through the stubble. As we passed along, the vintagers
turned their heads and greeted us. My uncle sometimes stopped to speak to
some of the oldest of the labourers.
"Heh! Father André," he said, "are the grapes thoroughly ripe? Will the
wine be good this year?"
And the countryfolk, raising their bare arms, displayed the long bunches,
which were as black as ink, in the sun; and when the grapes were pressed
they seemed to burst with abundance and strength.
"Look, Mr. Curé," they exclaimed, "these are small ones. There are some
weighing several pounds. We have not had such a task these ten years."
Then they returned among the leaves. Their brown jackets formed patches in
the verdure. And the women, bareheaded, with small blue handkerchiefs
round their necks, were stooping down singing. There were children rolling
in the sun, in the stubble, giving utterance to shrill laughter and
enlivening this open-air workshop with their turbulency. Large carts
remained motionless at the edge of the field waiting for the grapes; they
stood out prominently against the clear sky, whilst men went and came
unceasingly, carrying away full baskets, and bringing back empty ones.
I confess that in the centre of this field, I had feelings of pride. I
heard the ground producing beneath my feet; ripe age ran all powerful in
the veins of the vine, and loaded the air with great puffs of it. Hot
blood coursed in my flesh, I was as if elevated by the fecundity
overflowing from the soil and ascending within me. The labour of this
swarm of work-people was my doing, these vines were my children; this
entire farm became my large and obedient family. I experienced pleasure in
feeling my feet sink into the heavy land.
Then, at a glance, I took in the fields that sloped down to the Durance,
and I was the possessor of those vines, those meadows, that stubble, those
olive-trees. The house stood all white beside the oak-tree walk; the river
seemed like a fringe of silver placed at the edge of the great green
mantle of my pasture-land. I fancied, for a moment, that my frame was
increasing in size, that by stretching out my arms, I would be able to
embrace the entire property, and press it to my breast, trees, meadows,
house, and ploughed land.
And as I looked, I saw one of our servant-girls racing, out of breath, up
the narrow pathway that ascended the hill. Confused by the speed at which
she was travelling, she stumbled over the stones, agitating both her arms,
and hailing us with gestures of bewilderment. I felt choking with
inexpressible emotion.
"Uncle, uncle," I shouted, "look how Marguerite's running. I think it must
be for to-day."
My uncle Lazare turned quite pale. The servant had at length reached the
plateau; she came towards us jumping over the vines. When she reached me,
she was out of breath; she was stifling and pressing her hands to her
bosom.
"Speak!" I said to her. "What has happened?"
She heaved a heavy sigh, agitated her hands, and finally was able to
pronounce this single word:
"Madame----"