the willows, like the scented crape of a woman’s dress.  The children felt this crape descend warm and balmy from the voluptuous shoulders of the night, kiss their temples and envelop them with irresistible languor.  In the distance the crickets chirped in the meadows of Sainte-Claire, and at their feet the ripples of the Viorne sounded like lovers’ whispers—­like the soft cooing of humid lips.  The stars cast a rain of sparkles from the slumbering heavens.  And, amidst the throbbing of the sky, the waters and the darkness, the children reposing on the grass sought each other’s hands and pressed them.

Silvere, who vaguely understood the danger of these ecstasies, would sometimes jump up and propose to cross over to one of the islets left by the low water in the middle of the stream.  Both ventured forth, with bare feet.  Miette made light of the pebbles, refusing Silvere’s help, and it once happened that she sat down in the very middle of the stream; however, there were only a few inches of water, and she escaped with nothing worse than a wet petticoat.  Then, having reached the island, they threw themselves on the long neck of sand, their eyes on a level with the surface of the river whose silvery scales they saw quivering far away in the clear night.  Then Miette would declare that they were in a boat, that the island was certainly floating; she could feel it carrying her along.  The dizziness caused by the rippling of the water amused them for a moment, and they lingered there, singing in an undertone, like boatmen as they strike the water with their oars.  At other times, when the island had a low bank, they sat there as on a bed of verdure, and let their bare feet dangle in the stream.  And then for hours they chatted together, swinging their legs, and splashing the water, delighted to set a tempest raging in the peaceful pool whose freshness cooled their fever.

These footbaths suggested a dangerous idea to Miette.  Nothing would satisfy her but a complete bath.  A little above the bridge over the Viorne there was a very convenient spot, she said, barely three or four feet deep and quite safe; the weather was so warm, it would be so nice to have the water up to their necks; besides which, she had been dying to learn to swim for such a long time, and Silvere would be able to teach her.  Silvere raised objections; it was not prudent at night time; they might be seen; perhaps, too they might catch cold.  However, nothing could turn Miette from her purpose.  One evening she came with a bathing costume which she had made out of an old dress; and Silvere was then obliged to go back to aunt Dide’s for his bathing drawers.  Their proceedings were characterised by great simplicity.  Miette disrobed herself beneath the shade of a stout willow; and when both were ready, enveloped in the blackness which fell from the foliage around them, they gaily entered the cool water, oblivious of all previous scruples, and knowing in their innocence