The window was wide open.  The smell of grapes came in along with the warmth of the mild autumn afternoon.  One heard the trampling of the vintagers, the shocks of the carts, the cracking of whips; at times the shrill song of a servant working in the courtyard reached us.  All this noise was softened in the serenity of that room, which still resounded with Babet’s sobs.  And the window-frame enclosed a large strip of landscape, carved out of the heavens and open country.  We could see the oak-tree walk in its entire length; then the Durance, looking like a white satin ribbon, passed amidst the gold and purple leaves; whilst above this square of ground were the limpid depths of a pale sky with blue and rosy tints.

It was amidst the calm of this horizon, amidst the exhalations of the vat and the joys attendant upon labour and reproduction, that we three talked together, Babet, uncle Lazare, and myself, whilst gazing at the dear little new-born babe.

“Uncle Lazare,” said Babet, “what name will you give the child?”

“Jean’s mother was named Jacqueline,” answered my uncle.  “I shall call the child Jacques.”

“Jacques, Jacques,” repeated Babet.  “Yes, it’s a pretty name.  And, tell me, what shall we make the little man:  parson or soldier, gentleman or peasant?”

I began to laugh.

“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.