a word.
We listened in agony, without taking our eyes off Babet's window,
endeavouring to see through the little white curtains. My uncle, who was
trembling, stood still, with both his hands resting heavily on his
walking-stick; I, feeling very feverish, walked up and down before him,
taking long strides. At times we exchanged anxious smiles.

The carts of the vintagers arrived one by one. The baskets of grapes were
placed against a wall of the courtyard, and bare-legged men trampled the
bunches under foot in wooden troughs. The mules neighed, the carters
swore, whilst the wine fell with a dull sound to the bottom of the vat.
Acrid smells pervaded the warm air.

And I continued pacing up and down, as if made tipsy by those perfumes. My
poor head was breaking, and as I watched the red juice run from the grapes
I thought of Babet. I said to myself with manly joy, that my child was
born at the prolific time of vintage, amidst the perfume of new wine.

I was tormented by impatience, I went upstairs again. But I did not dare
knock, I pressed my ear against the door, and heard Babet's low moans and
sobs. Then my heart failed me, and I cursed suffering. Uncle Lazare, who
had crept up behind me, had to lead me back into the courtyard. He wished
to divert me, and told me the wine would be excellent; but he spoke
without attending to what he said. And at times we were both silent,
listening anxiously to one of Babet's more prolonged moans.

Little by little the cries subsided, and became nothing more than a
painful murmur, like the voice of a child falling off to sleep in tears.
Then there was absolute silence. This soon caused me unutterable terror.
The house seemed empty, now that Babet had ceased sobbing. I was just
going upstairs, when the midwife opened the window noiselessly. She leant
out and beckoned me with her hand:

"Come," she said to me.

I went slowly upstairs, feeling additional delight at each step I took. My
uncle Lazare was already knocking at the door, whilst I was only half way
up to the landing, experiencing a sort of strange delight in delaying the
moment when I would kiss my wife.

I stopped on the threshold, my heart was beating double. My uncle had
leant over the cradle. Babet, quite pale, with closed eyelids, seemed
asleep. I forgot all about the child, and going straight to Babet, took
her dear hand between mine. The tears had not dried on her checks, and her
quivering lips were dripping with th