At this point my uncle made me look him straight in the face.  He concluded in these terms: 

“Jean, you hear what your friend the spring says to you.  He is youth, but he is preparing ripe age; his bright smile is but the gaiety of labour.  Summer will be powerful, autumn bountiful, for the spring is singing at this moment, while courageously performing its work.”

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.

“I understand all,” I continued.  “You are right, I must work to win Babet.  But you will see how courageous I shall be.  Ah! how good you are, my uncle Lazare, and how well you speak!  I understand what the spring says:  I, also, will have a powerful summer and an autumn of abundance.  One is well placed here, one sees all the valley; I am young like it, I feel youth within me demanding to accomplish its task—­”

My uncle calmed me.

“Very good, Jean,” he said to me.  “I had long hoped to make a priest of you, and I imparted to you my knowledge with that sole aim.  But what I saw this morning at the waterside compels me to definitely give up my fondest hope.  It is Heaven that disposes of us.  You will love the Almighty in another way.  You cannot now remain in this village, and I only wish you to return when ripened by age and work.  I have chosen the trade of printer for you; your education will serve you.  One of my friends, who is a printer at Grenoble, is expecting you next Monday.”

I felt anxious.

“And I shall come back and marry Babet?” I inquired.

My uncle smiled imperceptibly; and, without answering in a direct manner, said: 

“The remainder is the will of Heaven.”

“You are heaven, and I have faith in your kindness.  Oh! uncle, see that Babet does not forget me.  I will work for her.”