They still walked on, and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned by Miette—­a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on the banks of the Viorne.  But they passed on, pretending not to notice this path, where they had agreed to stop.  And it was only some minutes afterwards that Silvere whispered, “It must be very late; you will get tired.”

“No; I assure you I’m not at all tired,” the girl replied.  “I could walk several leagues like this easily.”  Then, in a coaxing tone, she added:  “Let us go down as far as the meadows of Sainte-Claire.  There we will really stop and turn back.”

Silvere, whom the girl’s rhythmic gait lulled to semi-somnolence, made no objection, and their rapture began afresh.  They now went on more slowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps.  So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancing to the eternity of their mutual embrace; the return would mean separation and bitter leave-taking.

The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle.  In the valley below there are meadows extending as far as the Viorne, which runs at the other end, beneath a range of low hills.  These meadows, separated from the high-road by thickset hedges, are the meadows of Sainte-Claire.

“Bah!” exclaimed Silvere this time, as he caught sight of the first patches of grass:  “we may as well go as far as the bridge.”

At this Miette burst out laughing, clasped the young man round the neck, and kissed him noisily.

At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those days two elms forming the end of the long avenue, two colossal trees larger than any of the others.  The treeless fields stretch out from the high road, like a broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by the river.  The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely three hundred yards.  The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover that space.  At last, however slow their gait, they reached the bridge, and there they stopped.

The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope of the valley.  But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes a sudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view among the wooded hills.  On looking round they caught sight of the other end of the road, that which they had just traversed, and which leads in a direct line from Plassans to the Viorne.  In the beautiful winter moonlight it looked like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings traced by the rows of elms.  On the right and left the ploughed hill-land showed like vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this roadway white with frost, and brilliant as with metallic lustre.  Up above, on a level with the horizon, lights shone from a few windows in the Faubourg, resembling glowing sparks.  By degrees Miette and Silvere had walked fully a league.  They gazed at the intervening road, full of silent admiration for the vast amphitheatre which rose to the verge of the heavens, and over which flowed bluish streams of light, as over the superposed rocks of a gigantic waterfall.  The strange and colossal picture spread out amid deathlike stillness and silence.  Nothing could have been of more sovereign grandeur.