After a moment’s silence she added, with charming vivacity and ingenuousness:  “Ah, how willingly I shall kiss you when you come back!”

This outburst of a loving and courageous heart deeply affected Silvere.  He clasped Miette in his arms and printed several kisses on her cheek.  As she laughingly struggled to escape him, her eyes filled with tears of emotion.

All around the lovers the country still slumbered amid the deep stillness of the cold.  They were now half-way down the hill.  On the top of a rather lofty hillock to the left stood the ruins of a windmill, blanched by the moon; the tower, which had fallen in on one side, alone remained.  This was the limit which the young people had assigned to their walk.  They had come straight from the Faubourg without casting a single glance at the fields between which they passed.  When Silvere had kissed Miette’s cheek, he raised his head and observed the mill.

“What a long walk we’ve had!” he exclaimed.  “See—­here is the mill.  It must be nearly half-past nine.  We must go home.”

But Miette pouted.  “Let us walk a little further,” she implored; “only a few steps, just as far as the little cross-road, no farther, really.”

Silvere smiled as he again took her round the waist.  Then they continued to descend the hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances, for they had not met a living soul since passing the last houses.  They nevertheless remained enveloped in the long pelisse, which seemed, as it were, a natural nest for their love.  It had shrouded them on so many happy evenings!  Had they simply walked side by side, they would have felt small and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas, blended together as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny.  Between the folds of the pelisse they gazed upon the fields stretching on both sides of the road, without experiencing that crushing feeling with which far-stretching callous vistas oppress the human affections.  It seemed to them as though they had brought their house with them; they felt a pleasure in viewing the country-side as from a window, delighting in the calm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of nature vaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night and winter, the whole of that valley indeed, which while charming them could not thrust itself between their close-pressed hearts.

All continuity of conversation had ceased; they spoke no more of others, nor even of themselves.  They were absorbed by the present, pressing each other’s hands, uttering exclamations at the sight of some particular spot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then understanding each other but little, for drowsiness came from the warmth of their embrace.  Silvere forgot his Republican enthusiasm; Miette no longer reflected that her lover would be leaving her in an hour, for a long time, perhaps for ever.  The transports of their affection lulled them into a feeling of security, as on other days, when no prospect of parting had marred the tranquility of their meetings.