Jean Gourdon's Four Days

I

SPRING

On that particular day, at about five o'clock in the morning, the sun
entered with delightful abruptness into the little room I occupied at the
house of my uncle Lazare, parish priest of the hamlet of Dourgues. A broad
yellow ray fell upon ray closed eyelids, and I awoke in light.

My room, which was whitewashed, and had deal furniture, was full of
attractive gaiety. I went to the window and gazed at the Durance, which
traced its broad course amidst the dark green verdure of the valley. Fresh
puffs of wind caressed my face, and the murmur of the trees and river
seemed to call me to them.

I gently opened my door. To get out I had to pass through my uncle's room.
I proceeded on tip-toe, fearing the creaking of my thick boots might
awaken the worthy man, who was still slumbering with a smiling
countenance. And I trembled at the sound of the church bell tolling the
Angelus. For some days past my uncle Lazare had been following me about
everywhere, looking sad and annoyed. He would perhaps have prevented me
going over there to the edge of the river, and hiding myself among the
willows on the bank, so as to watch for Babet passing, that tall dark girl
who had come with the spring.

But my uncle was sleeping soundly. I felt something like remorse in
deceiving him and running away in this manner. I stayed for an instant and
gazed on his calm countenance, with its gentle expression enhanced by
rest, and I recalled to mind with feeling the day when he had come to
fetch me in the chilly and deserted home which my mother's funeral was
leaving. Since that day, what tenderness, what devotedness, what good
advice he had bestowed on me! He had given me his knowledge and his
kindness, all his intelligence and all his heart.

I was tempted for a moment to cry out to him:

"Get up, uncle Lazare! let us go for a walk together along that path you
are so fond of beside the Durance. You will enjoy the fresh air and
morning sun. You will see what an appetite you will have on your return!"

And Babet, who was going down to the river in her light morning gown, and
whom I should not be able to see! My uncle would be there, and I would
have to lower my eyes. It must be so nice under the willows, lying flat on
one's stomach, in the fine grass! I felt a languid feeling creeping over
me, and, slowly, taking short steps, holding my breath, I reached the
door. I went downstairs, and began running like a madcap in the
delightful, warm May morning air.

The sky was quite white on the horizon, with exquisitely delicate blue and
pink tints. The pale sun seemed like a great silver lamp, casting a shower
of bright rays into the Durance. And the broad, sluggish river, expanding