After a savage pause she resumed:  “As for you, you’re a man; you’re going to fight; you’re very lucky.”

Silvere had let her speak on.  After a few steps he observed sorrowfully:  “You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger.  You shouldn’t rebel against justice.  As for me, I’m going to fight in defence of our common rights, not to gratify any personal animosity.”

“All the same,” the young girl continued, “I should like to be a man and handle a gun.  I feel that it would do me good.”

Then, as Silvere remained silent, she perceived that she had displeased him.  Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicating tone:  “You are not angry with me, are you?  It’s your departure which grieves me and awakens such ideas.  I know very well you are right—­that I ought to be humble.”

Then she began to cry, and Silvere, moved by her tears, grasped her hands and kissed them.

“See, now, how you pass from anger to tears, like a child,” he said lovingly.  “You must be reasonable.  I’m not scolding you.  I only want to see you happier, and that depends largely upon yourself.”

The remembrance of the drama which Miette had so sadly evoked cast a temporary gloom over the lovers.  They continued their walk with bowed heads and troubled thoughts.

“Do you think I’m much happier than you?” Silvere at last inquired, resuming the conversation in spite of himself.  “If my grandmother had not taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me?  With the exception of my Uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself, and who taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seem to fear that I might besmirch them by coming near them.”

He was now speaking with animation, and suddenly stopped, detaining Miette in the middle of the road.

“God is my witness,” he continued, “that I do not envy or hate anybody.  But if we triumph, I shall have to tell the truth to those fine gentlemen.  Uncle Antoine knows all about this matter.  You’ll see when we return.  We shall all live free and happy.”

Then Miette gently led him on, and they resumed their walk.

“You dearly love your Republic?” the girl asked, essaying a joke.  “Do you love me as much?”

Her smile was not altogether free from a tinge of bitterness.  She was thinking, perhaps, how easily Silvere abandoned her to go and scour the country-side.  But the lad gravely replied:  “You are my wife, to whom I have given my whole heart.  I love the Republic because I love you.  When we are married we shall want plenty of happiness, and it is to procure a share of that happiness that I’m going way to-morrow morning.  You surely don’t want to persuade me to remain at home?”

“Oh, no!” cried the girl eagerly.  “A man should be brave!  Courage is beautiful!  You must forgive my jealousy.  I should like to be as strong-minded as you are.  You would love me all the more, wouldn’t you?”