I felt very anxious.

“Are you in pain, uncle Lazare?” I inquired of him, “What is the matter with you?  Answer, for mercy’s sake.”

He gently raised one of his hands, as if to beg me to speak lower; then he let it fall again, and said in a weak voice: 

“I am broken down,” he said.  “Happiness, at my age, is mortal.  Don’t make a noise.  It seems as if my flesh were becoming quite light:  I can no longer feel my legs or arms.”

Babet raised herself in alarm, with her eyes on uncle Lazare.  I knelt down before him, watching him anxiously.  He smiled.

“Don’t be frightened,” he resumed.  “I am in no pain; a feeling of calmness is gaining possession of me; I believe I am going off into a good and just sleep.  It came over me all at once, and I thank the Almighty.  Ah! my poor Jean, I ran too fast down, the pathway on the hillside; the child caused me too great joy.”

And as we understood, we burst out into tears.  Uncle Lazare continued, without ceasing to watch the sky: 

“Do not spoil my joy, I beg of you.  If you only knew how happy it makes me, to fall asleep for ever in this armchair!  I have never dared expect such a consoling death.  All I love is here, beside me—­and see what a blue sky!  The Almighty has sent a lovely evening.”

The sun was sinking behind the oak-tree walk.  Its slanting rays cast sheets of gold beneath the trees, which took the tones of old copper.  The verdant fields melted into vague serenity in the distance.  Uncle Lazare became weaker and weaker amidst the touching silence of this peaceful sunset, entering by the open window.  He slowly passed away, like those slight gleams that were dying out on the lofty branches.

“Ah! my good valley,” he murmured, “you are sending me a tender farewell.  I was afraid of coming to my end in the winter, when you would be all black.”

We restrained our tears, not wishing to trouble this saintly death.  Babet prayed in an undertone.  The child continued uttering smothered cries.

My uncle Lazare heard its wail in the dreaminess of his agony.  He endeavoured to turn towards Babet, and, still smiling, said: 

“I have seen the child and die very happy.”

Then he gazed at the pale sky and yellow fields, and, throwing back his head, heaved a gentle sigh.

No tremor agitated uncle Lazare’s body; he died as one falls asleep.

We had become so calm that we remained silent and with dry eyes.  In the presence of such great simplicity in death, all we experienced was a feeling of serene sadness.  Twilight had set in, uncle Lazare’s farewell had left us confident, like the farewell of the sun which dies at night to be born again in the morning.

Such was my autumn day, which gave me a son, and carried off my uncle Lazare in the peacefulness of the twilight.

IV