I turned round and saw the midwife and my uncle quarrelling.
The midwife had all the trouble in the world to prevent uncle Lazare taking the little one in his arms. He wanted to nurse it.
I looked at the child whom the mother had made me forget. He was all rosy. Babet said with conviction that he was like me; the midwife discovered that he had his mother’s eyes; I, for my part, could not say, I was almost crying, I smothered the dear little thing with kisses, imagining I was still kissing Babet.
I placed the child on the bed. He kept on crying, but this sounded to us like celestial music. I sat on the edge of the bed, my uncle took a large arm-chair, and Babet, weary and serene, covered up to her chin, remained with open eyelids and smiling eyes.
The window was wide open. The smell of grapes came in along with the warmth of the mild autumn afternoon. One heard the trampling of the vintagers, the shocks of the carts, the cracking of whips; at times the shrill song of a servant working in the courtyard reached us. All this noise was softened in the serenity of that room, which still resounded with Babet’s sobs. And the window-frame enclosed a large strip of landscape, carved out of the heavens and open country. We could see the oak-tree walk in its entire length; then the Durance, looking like a white satin ribbon, passed amidst the gold and purple leaves; whilst above this square of ground were the limpid depths of a pale sky with blue and rosy tints.
It was amidst the calm of this horizon, amidst the exhalations of the vat and the joys attendant upon labour and reproduction, that we three talked together, Babet, uncle Lazare, and myself, whilst gazing at the dear little new-born babe.
“Uncle Lazare,” said Babet, “what name will you give the child?”
“Jean’s mother was named Jacqueline,” answered my uncle. “I shall call the child Jacques.”
“Jacques, Jacques,” repeated Babet. “Yes, it’s a pretty name. And, tell me, what shall we make the little man: parson or soldier, gentleman or peasant?”
I began to laugh.