ees, meadows,
house, and ploughed land.

And as I looked, I saw one of our servant-girls racing, out of breath, up
the narrow pathway that ascended the hill. Confused by the speed at which
she was travelling, she stumbled over the stones, agitating both her arms,
and hailing us with gestures of bewilderment. I felt choking with
inexpressible emotion.

"Uncle, uncle," I shouted, "look how Marguerite's running. I think it must
be for to-day."

My uncle Lazare turned quite pale. The servant had at length reached the
plateau; she came towards us jumping over the vines. When she reached me,
she was out of breath; she was stifling and pressing her hands to her
bosom.

"Speak!" I said to her. "What has happened?"

She heaved a heavy sigh, agitated her hands, and finally was able to
pronounce this single word:

"Madame----"

I waited for no more.

"Come! come quick, uncle Lazare! Ah! my poor dear Babet!"

And I bounded down the pathway at a pace fit to break my bones. The
vintagers, who had stood up, smiled as they saw me running. Uncle Lazare,
who could not overtake me, shook his walking stick in despair.

"Heh! Jean, the deuce!" he shouted, "wait for me. I don't want to be the
last."

But I no longer heard Uncle Lazare, and continued running.

I reached the farm panting for breath, full of hope and terror. I rushed
upstairs and knocked with my fist at Babet's door, laughing, crying, and
half crazy. The midwife set the door ajar, to tell me in an angry voice
not to make so much noise. I stood there abashed and in despair.

"You can't come in," she added. "Go and wait in the courtyard."

And as I did not move, she continued: "All is going on very well. I will
call you."

The door was closed. I remained standing before it, unable to make up my
mind to go away. I heard Babet complaining in a broken voice. And, while I
was there, she gave utterance to a heartrending scream that struck me
right in the breast like a bullet. I felt an almost irresistible desire to
break the door open with my shoulder. So as not to give way to it, I
placed my hands to my ears, and dashed downstairs.

In the courtyard I found my uncle Lazare, who had just arrived out of
breath. The worthy man was obliged to seat himself on the brink of the
well.

"Hallo! where is the child?" he inquired of me.

"I don't know," I answered; "they shut the door in my face--Babet is in
pain and in tears." We gazed at one another, not daring to utter