The man who had just called her father a thief was merely repeating what he had heard said for many years.  The girl’s defiant attitude only incited the workmen to jeer the more.  Silvere still had his fists clenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher from the Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadside awaiting the order to march, had not come to the girl’s assistance.

“The little one’s right,” he said.  “Chantegreil was one of us.  I knew him.  Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter.  I always believed in the truth of his deposition before the judge.  The gendarme whom he brought down with a bullet, while he was out shooting, was no doubt taking aim at him at the time.  A man must defend himself!  At all events Chantegreil was a decent fellow; he committed no robbery.”

As often happens in such cases, the testimony of this poacher sufficed to bring other defenders to Miette’s aid.  Several workmen also professed to have known Chantegreil.

“Yes, yes, it’s true!” they all said.  “He wasn’t a thief.  There are some scoundrels at Plassans who ought to be sent to prison in his place.  Chantegreil was our brother.  Come, now, be calm, little one.”

Miette had never before heard anyone speak well of her father.  He was generally referred to as a beggar, a villain, and now she found good fellows who had forgiving words for him, and declared him to be an honest man.  She burst into tears, again full of the emotion awakened in her by the “Marseillaise;” and she bethought herself how she might thank these men for their kindness to her in misfortune.  For a moment she conceived the idea of shaking them all by the hand like a man.  But her heart suggested something better.  By her side stood the insurgent who carried the banner.  She touched the staff, and, to express her gratitude, said in an entreating tone, “Give it to me; I will carry it.”

The simple-minded workmen understood the ingenuous sublimity of this form of gratitude.

“Yes,” they all cried, “Chantegreil shall carry the banner.”

However, a woodcutter remarked that she would soon get tired, and would not be able to go far.

“Oh!  I’m quite strong,” she retorted proudly, tucking up her sleeves and showing a pair of arms as big as those of a grown woman.  Then as they handed her the flag she resumed, “Wait just a moment.”

Forthwith she pulled off her cloak, and put it on again after turning the red lining outside.  In the clear moonlight she appeared to be arrayed in a purple mantle reaching to her feet.  The hood resting on the edge of her chignon formed a kind of Phrygian cap.  She took the flag, pressed the staff to her bosom, and held herself upright amid the folds of that blood-coloured banner which waved behind her.  Enthusiastic child that she was, her countenance, with its curly hair, large eyes moist with tears, and lips parted in a smile, seemed to rise with energetic pride as she turned it towards the sky.  At that moment she was the virgin Liberty.