was scorched by the sun, and chatting with concern of our
approaching separation.

Breakfast was cold, as I had foreseen; but that did not trouble me much. I
had tears in my eyes each time I looked at my uncle Lazare. And, at the
thought of Babet, my heart beat fit to choke me.

I do not remember what I did during the remainder of the day. I think I
went and lay down under the willows at the riverside. My uncle was right,
the earth was at work. On placing my ear to the grass I seemed to hear
continual sounds. Then I dreamed of what my life would be. Buried in the
grass until nightfall, I arranged an existence full of labour divided
between Babet and my uncle Lazare. The energetic youthfulness of the soil
had penetrated my breast, which I pressed with force against the common
mother, and at times I imagined myself to be one of the strong willows
that lived around me. In the evening I could not dine. My uncle, no doubt,
understood the thoughts that were choking me, for he feigned not to notice
my want of appetite. As soon as I was able to rise from table, I hastened
to return and breathe the open air outside.

A fresh breeze rose from the river, the dull splashing of which I heard in
the distance. A soft light fell from the sky. The valley expanded,
peaceful and transparent, like a dark shoreless ocean. There were vague
sounds in the air, a sort of impassioned tremor, like a great flapping of
wings passing above my head. Penetrating perfumes rose with the cool air
from the grass.

I had gone out to see Babet; I knew she came to the parsonage every night,
and I went and placed myself in ambush behind a hedge. I had got rid of my
timidness of the morning; I considered it quite natural to be waiting for
her there, because she loved me and I had to tell her of my departure.

"When I perceived her skirts in the limpid night, I advanced noiselessly.
Then I murmured in a low voice:

"Babet, Babet, I am here."

She did not recognise me, at first, and started with fright. When she
discovered who it was, she seemed still more frightened, which very much
surprised me.

"It's you, Monsieur Jean," she said to me. "What are you doing there? What
do you want?"

I was beside her and took her hand.

"You love me fondly, do you not?"

"I! who told you that?"

"My uncle Lazare."

She stood there in confusion. Her hand began to tremble in mine. As she
was on the point of running away, I took her other hand. We were face to
f