however, he leant further over, and at last managed to grasp the chisel.
The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed. Still they remained
there, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, and
the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. They could not part
from each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvere even
forgot to say, "Thank you."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Marie," replied the peasant-girl; "but everybody calls me Miette."

Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her
turn: "And yours?"

"My name is Silvere," the young workman replied.

A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently to
the music of their names.

"I'm fifteen years old," resumed Silvere. "And you?"

"I!" said Miette; "oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints' Day."

The young workman made a gesture of surprise. "Ah! really!" he said,
laughing, "and to think I took you for a woman! You've such big arms."

She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms. Then they
ceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling at
each other. And finally, as Silvere seemingly had no more questions to
ask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds, without
raising her head. The lad for his part remained on the wall for a while.
The sun was setting; a stream of oblique rays poured over the yellow
soil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze--one would have
said that a fire was running along the ground--and, in the midst of the
flaming expanse, Silvere saw the little stooping peasant-girl, whose
bare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton skirt was
now becoming white; and rays of light streamed over the child's
copper-coloured arms. At last Silvere felt somewhat ashamed of remaining
there, and accordingly got off the wall.

In the evening, preoccupied with his adventure, he endeavoured to
question aunt Dide. Perhaps she would know who this Miette was who had
such black eyes and such red lips. But, since she had lived in the house
in the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind the wall
of the little yard. It was, to her, like an impassable rampart, which
shut off her past. She did not know--she did not want to know--what
there might now be on the other side of that wall, in that old enclosure
of the Fouques, where she had buried her love, her heart and her flesh.
As soon a