I looked very stupid. I understood my uncle Lazare. He was positively preaching me a sermon, in which he told me I was an idle fellow and that the time had come to work.
My uncle appeared as much embarrassed as myself. After having hesitated for some instants he said, slightly stammering:
“Jean, you were wrong not to have come and told me all—as you love Babet and Babet loves you—”
“Babet loves me!” I exclaimed.
My uncle made me an ill-humoured gesture.
“Eh! allow me to speak. I don’t want another avowal. She owned it to me herself.”
“She owned that to you, she owned that to you!”
And I suddenly threw my arms round my uncle Lazare’s neck.
“Oh! how nice that is!” I added. “I had never spoken to her, truly. She told you that at the confessional, didn’t she? I would never have dared ask her if she loved me, and I would never have known anything. Oh! how I thank you!”
My uncle Lazare was quite red. He felt that he had just committed a blunder. He had imagined that this was not my first meeting with the young girl, and here he gave me a certainty, when as yet I only dared dream of a hope. He held his tongue now; it was I who spoke with volubility.