ss
her hand, she seemed so fragile and sacred to me.

I seated myself at the edge of the bed, and asked her in a low voice:

"Is it for to-day?"

"No, I don't think so," she replied. "I dreamt I had a boy: he was already
very tall and wore adorable little black moustachios. Uncle Lazare told me
yesterday that he also had seen him in a dream."

I acted very stupidly.

"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,