The sun was down; in the Rhône Valley between the high mountains the clouds were descending. The wind, a wind from Africa, blew from the south across the high Alps, a Föhn which tore the clouds into shreds. And when the wind had raced off, for just a moment it became completely calm. Between the forest-covered mountains across the scurrying River Rhône the fragmented clouds hung in fantastic shapes. They hung in shapes like sea-monsters from the prehistoric world, like eagles hovering in the air, like jumping frogs from the marsh. They descended onto the fast-coursing stream, sailing on it and sailing in the air as well. The stream carried an upturned branch complete with root; the water in front of this resembled revolving whirlpools. That was Her Dizziness, in more than one manifestation, turning the rapid stream round and round. The moon was shining on the snow of the mountain-tops, on the dark forests and the mysterious white clouds, visions of the night, the souls of Nature’s forces. The mountain peasant looked at them through a window-pane; they were sailing downwards in flocks before the Ice Virgin. She arrived from her glacier palace, sitting on that fragile vessel, the upturned branch, water from the glacier bearing her down the stream to the open lake.
‘The wedding-guests are coming!’ That’s what was being whispered and sung in the air and the water.
Visions without, visions within. Babette dreamed an extraordinary dream.
It seemed to her as if she were married to Rudy, already had been so for many years. Right now he was away on a chamois-hunt, but she was at home, and there sitting by her side was the young Englishman with the gilded sideburns. His eyes were so ardent, his words had the power of an enchantment. He reached out a hand to her, and she simply had to follow him. They went a long way from her home. Constantly downwards! – and against her heart Babette felt a weight that became heavier and heavier. It was a sin against Rudy, a sin against God. And all of a sudden she was standing abandoned, her clothes torn into shreds by the white-thorn. Her hair was grey. She looked up, and on the mountain edge she spied Rudy. She stretched out her arms towards him, but didn’t dare call out or entreat him, and anyway it wouldn’t have done any good, because she soon saw that it wasn’t him but his hunting jacket and hat that hung on an alpenstock such as the hunters put out to fool the chamois. And in immeasurable anguish Babette moaned: ‘If only I’d died on my wedding-day, on my happiest day. My Lord, my God, it would have been a mercy, a whole life’s crowning joy. Then what’s for the best would have happened, the best that could happen for me and Rudy! Nobody knows the future!’ And in the agony of unbelief, she hurled herself down into the mountain chasm. A string as of an instrument snapped, a note of lamentation rang out.
Babette woke up, the dream was at an end – and was erased, but she knew she had dreamed something appalling, and dreamed about the young Englishman whom she hadn’t seen in several months and not even thought about. Was he, she wondered, in Montreux? Would she get to see him at the wedding? A little shadow flitted across her delicate mouth. Her brows puckered, but soon a smile appeared on her face, and her eyes blinked; the sun was shining outside so beautifully, and tomorrow was her and Rudy’s wedding-day.
He was in the parlour already when she came downstairs, and presently they made their way to Villeneuve. The two of them were so happy, and the miller as well; he laughed and beamed in the most benevolent humour, a good father, an honest soul.
‘Now we have a Master-and-Mistress for our home!’ said the Parlour Cat.