The midwife had all the trouble in the world to prevent uncle Lazare
taking the little one in his arms. He wanted to nurse it.
I looked at the child whom the mother had made me forget. He was all rosy.
Babet said with conviction that he was like me; the midwife discovered
that he had his mother's eyes; I, for my part, could not say, I was almost
crying, I smothered the dear little thing with kisses, imagining I was
still kissing Babet.
I placed the child on the bed. He kept on crying, but this sounded to us
like celestial music. I sat on the edge of the bed, my uncle took a large
arm-chair, and Babet, weary and serene, covered up to her chin, remained
with open eyelids and smiling eyes.
The window was wide open. The smell of grapes came in along with the
warmth of the mild autumn afternoon. One heard the trampling of the
vintagers, the shocks of the carts, the cracking of whips; at times the
shrill song of a servant working in the courtyard reached us. All this
noise was softened in the serenity of that room, which still resounded
with Babet's sobs. And the window-frame enclosed a large strip of
landscape, carved out of the heavens and open country. We could see the
oak-tree walk in its entire length; then the Durance, looking like a white
satin ribbon, passed amidst the gold and purple leaves; whilst above this
square of ground were the limpid depths of a pale sky with blue and rosy
tints.
It was amidst the calm of this horizon, amidst the exhalations of the vat
and the joys attendant upon labour and reproduction, that we three talked
together, Babet, uncle Lazare, and myself, whilst gazing at the dear
little new-born babe.
"Uncle Lazare," said Babet, "what name will you give the child?"
"Jean's mother was named Jacqueline," answered my uncle. "I shall call the
child Jacques."
"Jacques, Jacques," repeated Babet. "Yes, it's a pretty name. And, tell
me, what shall we make the little man: parson or soldier, gentleman or
peasant?"