e at the old trees he
loved! He was assuredly preparing a sermon. He was only taking me into the
broad walk to scold me at his ease. It would occupy at least an hour:
breakfast would get cold, and I would be unable to return to the water's
edge and dream of the warm burns that Babet's lips had left on my hands.

We were in the broad walk. This walk, which was wide and short, ran beside
the river; it was shaded by enormous oak trees, with trunks lacerated by
seams, stretching out their great, tall branches. The fine grass spread
like a carpet beneath the trees, and the sun, riddling the foliage,
embroidered this carpet with a rosaceous pattern in gold. In the distance,
all around, extended raw green meadows.

My uncle went to the bottom of the walk, without altering his step and
without turning round. Once there, he stopped, and I kept beside him,
understanding that the terrible moment had arrived.

The river made a sharp curve; a low parapet at the end of the walk formed
a sort of terrace. This vault of shade opened on a valley of light. The
country expanded wide before us, for several leagues. The sun was rising
in the heavens, where the silvery rays of morning had become transformed
into a stream of gold; blinding floods of light ran from the horizon,
along the hills, and spread out into the plain with the glare of fire.

After a moment's silence, my uncle Lazare turned towards me.

"Good heavens, the sermon!" I thought, and I bowed my head. My uncle
pointed out the valley to me, with an expansive gesture; then, drawing
himself up, he said, slowly:

"Look, Jean, there is the spring. The earth is full of joy, my boy, and I
have brought you here, opposite this plain of light, to show you the first
smiles of the young season. Observe what brilliancy and sweetness! Warm
perfumes rise from the country and pass across our faces like puffs of
life."

He was silent and seemed dreaming. I had raised my head, astonished,
breathing at ease. My uncle was not preaching.

"It is a beautiful morning," he continued, "a morning of youth. Your
eighteen summers find full enjoyment amidst this verdure which is at most
eighteen days old. All is great brightness and perfume, is it not? The
broad valley seems to you a delightful place: the river is there to give
you its freshness, the trees to lend you their shade, the whole country to
speak to you of tenderness, the heavens themselves to kiss those horizons
that you are searching w