“We shall have time to think of that,” I said.
“But no,” continued Babet almost angry, “he will grow rapidly. See how strong he is. He already speaks with his eyes.”
My uncle Lazare was exactly of my wife’s opinion. He answered in a very grave tone:
“Make him neither priest nor soldier, unless he have an irresistible inclination for one of those callings—to make him a gentleman would be a serious——”
Babet looked at me anxiously. The dear creature had not a bit of pride for herself; but, like all mothers, she would have liked to be humble and proud before her son. I could have sworn that she already saw him a notary or a doctor. I kissed her and gently said to her:
“I wish our son to live in our dear valley. One day, he will find a Babet of sixteen, on the banks of the Durance, to whom he will give some water. Do you remember, my dear——? The country has brought us peace: our son shall be a peasant as we are, and happy as we are.”
Babet, who was quite touched, kissed me in her turn. She gazed at the foliage and the river, the meadows and the sky, through the window; then she said to me, smiling:
“You are right, Jean. This place has been good to us, it will be the same to our little Jacques. Uncle Lazare, you will be the godfather of a farmer.”
Uncle Lazare made a languid, affectionate sign of approval with the head. I had been examining him for a moment, and saw his eyes becoming filmy, and his lips turning pale. Leaning back in the arm-chair, opposite the window, he had placed his white hands on his knees, and was watching the heavens fixedly with an expression of thoughtful ecstasy.
I felt very anxious.