Have you never examined the turf, at close quarters, with your eyes on the blades of grass?  Whilst I was waiting for Babet, I pried indiscreetly into a tuft which was really a whole world.  In my bunch of grass there were streets, cross roads, public squares, entire cities.  At the bottom of it, I distinguished a great dark patch where the shoots of the previous spring were decaying sadly, then slender stalks were growing up, stretching out, bending into a multitude of elegant forms, and producing frail colonnades, churches, virgin forests.  I saw two lean insects wandering in the midst of this immensity; the poor children were certainly lost, for they went from colonnade to colonnade, from street to street, in an affrighted, anxious way.

It was just at this moment that, on raising my eyes, I saw Babet’s white skirts standing out against the dark ground at the top of the pathway.  I recognized her printed calico gown, which was grey, with small blue flowers.  I sunk down deeper in the grass, I heard my heart thumping against the earth and almost raising me with slight jerks.  My breast was burning now, I no longer felt the freshness of the dew.

The young girl came nimbly down the pathway, her skirts skimming the ground with a swinging motion that charmed me, I saw her at full length, quite erect, in her proud and happy gracefulness.  She had no idea I was there behind the willows; she walked with a light step, she ran without giving a thought to the wind, which slightly raised her gown.  I could distinguish her feet, trotting along quickly, quickly, and a piece of her white stockings, which was perhaps as large as one’s hand, and which made me blush in a manner that was alike sweet and painful.

Oh! then, I saw nothing else, neither the Durance, nor the willows, nor the whiteness of the sky.  What cared I for the valley!  It was no longer my sweetheart; I was quite indifferent to its joy and its sadness.  What cared I for my friends, the stories, and the trees on the hills!  The river could run away all at once if it liked; I would not have regretted it.

And the spring, I did not care a bit about the spring!  Had it borne away the sun that warmed my back, its leaves, its rays, all its May morning, I should have remained there, in ecstasy, gazing at Babet, running along the pathway, and swinging her skirts deliciously.  For Babet had taken the valley’s place in my heart, Babet was the spring, I had never spoken to her.  Both of us blushed when we met one another in my uncle Lazare’s church.  I could have vowed she detested me.

She talked on that particular day for a few minutes with the women who were washing.  The sound of her pearly laughter reached as far as me, mingled with the loud voice of the Durance.  Then she stooped down to take a little water in the hollow of her hand; but the bank was high, and Babet, who was on the point of slipping, saved herself by clutching the grass.  I gave a frightful shudder, which made my blood run cold.  I rose hastily, and, without feeling ashamed, without reddening, ran to the young girl.  She cast a startled look at me; then she began to smile.  I bent down, at the risk of falling.  I succeeded in filling my right hand with water by keeping my fingers close together.  And I presented this new sort of cup to Babet’ asking her to drink.