I was tormented by impatience, I went upstairs again.  But I did not dare knock, I pressed my ear against the door, and heard Babet’s low moans and sobs.  Then my heart failed me, and I cursed suffering.  Uncle Lazare, who had crept up behind me, had to lead me back into the courtyard.  He wished to divert me, and told me the wine would be excellent; but he spoke without attending to what he said.  And at times we were both silent, listening anxiously to one of Babet’s more prolonged moans.

Little by little the cries subsided, and became nothing more than a painful murmur, like the voice of a child falling off to sleep in tears.  Then there was absolute silence.  This soon caused me unutterable terror.  The house seemed empty, now that Babet had ceased sobbing.  I was just going upstairs, when the midwife opened the window noiselessly.  She leant out and beckoned me with her hand: 

“Come,” she said to me.

I went slowly upstairs, feeling additional delight at each step I took.  My uncle Lazare was already knocking at the door, whilst I was only half way up to the landing, experiencing a sort of strange delight in delaying the moment when I would kiss my wife.

I stopped on the threshold, my heart was beating double.  My uncle had leant over the cradle.  Babet, quite pale, with closed eyelids, seemed asleep.  I forgot all about the child, and going straight to Babet, took her dear hand between mine.  The tears had not dried on her checks, and her quivering lips were dripping with them.  She raised her eyelids wearily.  She did not speak to me, but I understood her to say:  “I have suffered a great deal, my dear Jean, but I was so happy to suffer!  I felt you within me.”

Then I bent down, I kissed Babet’s eyes and drank her tears.  She laughed with much sweetness; she resigned herself with caressing languidness.  The fatigue had made her all aches and pains.  She slowly moved her hands from the sheet, and taking me by the neck placed her lips to my ear: 

“It’s a boy,” she murmured in a weak voice, but with an air of triumph.

Those were the first words she uttered after the terrible shock she had undergone.

“I knew it would be a boy,” she continued, “I saw the child every night.  Give him me, put him beside me.”

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.