They passed through the slumbering suburb without exchanging a word, but enjoying the mute delight of their warm embrace.  Their hearts were heavy; the joy which they felt in being side by side was tinged with the painful emotion which comes from the thought of approaching severance, and it seemed to them that they could never exhaust the mingled sweetness and bitterness of the silence which slowly lulled their steps.  But the houses soon grew fewer, and they reached the end of the Faubourg.  There stands the entrance to the Jas-Meiffren, an iron gate fixed to two strong pillars; a low row of mulberry-trees being visible through the bars.  Silvere and Miette instinctively cast a glance inside as they passed on.

Beyond the Jas-Meiffren the road descends with a gentle slope to a valley, which serves as the bed of a little rivulet, the Viorne, a brook in summer but a torrent in winter.  The rows of elms still extended the whole way at that time, making the high road a magnificent avenue, which cast a broad band of gigantic trees across the hill, which was planted with corn and stunted vines.  On that December night, under the clear cold moonlight, the newly-ploughed fields stretching away on either hand resembled vast beds of greyish wadding which deadened every sound in the atmosphere.  The dull murmur of the Viorne in the distance alone sent a quivering thrill through the profound silence of the country-side.

When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Miette’s thoughts reverted to the Jas-Meiffren which they had just left behind them.

“I had great difficulty in getting away this evening,” she said.  “My uncle wouldn’t let me go.  He had shut himself up in a cellar, where he was hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened this morning at the events that are taking place.”

Silvere clasped her yet more lovingly.  “Be brave!” said he.  “The time will come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole day long.  You must not fret.”

“Oh,” replied the girl, shaking her head, “you are very hopeful.  For my part I sometimes feel very sad.  It isn’t the hard work which grieves me; on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle’s severity, and the tasks he sets me.  He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I should perhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvere, there are moments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . .  I feel, then, that I should like to be dead. . . .  I think of you know whom.”

As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob.  Silvere interrupted her somewhat harshly.  “Be quiet,” he said.  “You promised not to think about it.  It’s no crime of yours. . . .  We love each other very much, don’t we?” he added in a gentler tone.  “When we’re married you’ll have no more unpleasant hours.”

“I know,” murmured Miette.  “You are so kind, you sustain me.  But what am I to do?  I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt.  I think at times that I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something wicked.  You see I pour forth my heart to you.  Whenever my father’s name is thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning.  When the urchins cry at me as I pass, ‘Eh, La Chantegreil,’ I lose all control of myself, and feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them.”