ncle Lazare. I knelt down
before him, watching him anxiously. He smiled.

"Don't be frightened," he resumed. "I am in no pain; a feeling of calmness
is gaining possession of me; I believe I am going off into a good and just
sleep. It came over me all at once, and I thank the Almighty. Ah! my poor
Jean, I ran too fast down, the pathway on the hillside; the child caused
me too great joy."

And as we understood, we burst out into tears. Uncle Lazare continued,
without ceasing to watch the sky:

"Do not spoil my joy, I beg of you. If you only knew how happy it makes
me, to fall asleep for ever in this armchair! I have never dared expect
such a consoling death. All I love is here, beside me--and see what a blue
sky! The Almighty has sent a lovely evening."

The sun was sinking behind the oak-tree walk. Its slanting rays cast
sheets of gold beneath the trees, which took the tones of old copper. The
verdant fields melted into vague serenity in the distance. Uncle Lazare
became weaker and weaker amidst the touching silence of this peaceful
sunset, entering by the open window. He slowly passed away, like those
slight gleams that were dying out on the lofty branches.

"Ah! my good valley," he murmured, "you are sending me a tender farewell.
I was afraid of coming to my end in the winter, when you would be all
black."

We restrained our tears, not wishing to trouble this saintly death. Babet
prayed in an undertone. The child continued uttering smothered cries.

My uncle Lazare heard its wail in the dreaminess of his agony. He
endeavoured to turn towards Babet, and, still smiling, said:

"I have seen the child and die very happy."

Then he gazed at the pale sky and yellow fields, and, throwing back his
head, heaved a gentle sigh.

No tremor agitated uncle Lazare's body; he died as one falls asleep.

We had become so calm that we remained silent and with dry eyes. In the
presence of such great simplicity in death, all we experienced was a
feeling of serene sadness. Twilight had set in, uncle Lazare's farewell
had left us confident, like the farewell of the sun which dies at night to
be born again in the morning.

Such was my autumn day, which gave me a son, and carried off my uncle
Lazare in the peacefulness of the twilight.

IV

WINTER

There are dreadful mornings in January that chill one's heart. I awoke on
this particular day with a vague feeling of anxiety. It had thawed during
the night, and when I cast my e