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.

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.