“Speak!” I said to her.  “What has happened?”

She heaved a heavy sigh, agitated her hands, and finally was able to pronounce this single word: 

“Madame——­”

I waited for no more.

“Come! come quick, uncle Lazare!  Ah! my poor dear Babet!”

And I bounded down the pathway at a pace fit to break my bones.  The vintagers, who had stood up, smiled as they saw me running.  Uncle Lazare, who could not overtake me, shook his walking stick in despair.

“Heh!  Jean, the deuce!” he shouted, “wait for me.  I don’t want to be the last.”

But I no longer heard Uncle Lazare, and continued running.

I reached the farm panting for breath, full of hope and terror.  I rushed upstairs and knocked with my fist at Babet’s door, laughing, crying, and half crazy.  The midwife set the door ajar, to tell me in an angry voice not to make so much noise.  I stood there abashed and in despair.

“You can’t come in,” she added.  “Go and wait in the courtyard.”

And as I did not move, she continued:  “All is going on very well.  I will call you.”

The door was closed.  I remained standing before it, unable to make up my mind to go away.  I heard Babet complaining in a broken voice.  And, while I was there, she gave utterance to a heartrending scream that struck me right in the breast like a bullet.  I felt an almost irresistible desire to break the door open with my shoulder.  So as not to give way to it, I placed my hands to my ears, and dashed downstairs.

In the courtyard I found my uncle Lazare, who had just arrived out of breath.  The worthy man was obliged to seat himself on the brink of the well.

“Hallo! where is the child?” he inquired of me.

“I don’t know,” I answered; “they shut the door in my face—­Babet is in pain and in tears.”  We gazed at one another, not daring to utter a word.  We listened in agony, without taking our eyes off Babet’s window, endeavouring to see through the little white curtains.  My uncle, who was trembling, stood still, with both his hands resting heavily on his walking-stick; I, feeling very feverish, walked up and down before him, taking long strides.  At times we exchanged anxious smiles.

The carts of the vintagers arrived one by one.  The baskets of grapes were placed against a wall of the courtyard, and bare-legged men trampled the bunches under foot in wooden troughs.  The mules neighed, the carters swore, whilst the wine fell with a dull sound to the bottom of the vat.  Acrid smells pervaded the warm air.

And I continued pacing up and down, as if made tipsy by those perfumes.  My poor head was breaking, and as I watched the red juice run from the grapes I thought of Babet.  I said to myself with manly joy, that my child was born at the prolific time of vintage, amidst the perfume of new wine.