te. He had not told her for what
he had been searching.

On the morrow, as soon as he heard the girl set her pitcher down, he
gently opened the door, sweeping away with a push the tall weeds which
covered the threshold. Stretching out his head, he saw Miette leaning
over the brink of the well, looking into the water, absorbed in
expectation. Thereupon, in a couple of strides, he reached the recess
formed by the wall, and thence called, "Miette! Miette!" in a soft
voice, which made her tremble. She raised her head, thinking he was on
the coping of the wall. But when she saw him in the Jas, at a few steps
from her, she gave a faint cry of surprise, and ran up to him. They took
each other's hand, and looked at one another, delighted to be so near,
thinking themselves far handsomer like this, in the warm sunshine. It
was the middle of August, the Feast of the Assumption. In the
distance, the bells were pealing in the limpid atmosphere that so often
accompanies great days of festival, an atmosphere full of bright gaiety.

"Good morning, Silvere!"

"Good morning, Miette!"

The voices in which they exchanged their morning greetings sounded
strange to them. They knew only the muffled accents transmitted by the
echo of the well. And now their voices seemed to them as clear as the
notes of a lark. And ah! how delightful it was in that warm corner, in
that holiday atmosphere! They still held each other's hands. Silvere
leaning against the wall, Miette with her figure slightly thrown
backwards. They were about to tell each other all the soft things which
they had not dared to confide to the reverberations of the well, when
Silvere, hearing a slight noise, started, and, turning pale, dropped
Miette's hands. He had just seen aunt Dide standing before him erect and
motionless on the threshold of the doorway.

The grandmother had come to the well by chance. And on perceiving, in
the old black wall, the white gap formed by the doorway which Silvere
had left wide open, she had experienced a violent shock. That open gap
seemed to her like a gulf of light violently illumining her past. She
once more saw herself running to the door amidst the morning brightness,
and crossing the threshold full of the transports of her nervous love.
And Macquart was there awaiting her. She hung upon his neck and pressed
against his bosom, whilst the rising sun, following her through the
doorway, which she had left open in her hurry, enveloped them with