, and at last Silvere
and Miette sprang on to the road through one of them.

In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the same
time as the men of Plassans. Silvere shook hands with some of them. They
must have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen, and had
come to meet them. Miette, whose face was half-concealed by her hood,
was scrutinised rather inquisitively.

"Why, it's Chantegreil," at last said one of the men from the Faubourg
of Plassans, "the niece of Rebufat, the _meger_[*] of the Jas-Meiffren."

[*] A _meger_ is a farmer in Provence who shares the
expenses and profits of his farm with the owner of the land.

"Where have you sprung from, gadabout?" cried another voice.

Silvere, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of the distress
which his sweetheart would feel at the jeers of the workmen. Miette, all
confusion, looked at him as if to implore his aid. But before he
could even open his lips another voice rose from the crowd, brutally
exclaiming:

"Her father's at the galleys; we don't want the daughter of a thief and
murderer amongst us."

At this Miette turned dreadfully pale.

"You lie!" she muttered. "If my father did kill anybody, he never
thieved!"

And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench his
fists: "Stop!" she continued; "this is my affair."

Then, turning to the men, she repeated with a shout: "You lie! You lie!
He never stole a copper from anybody. You know it well enough. Why do
you insult him when he can't be here?"

She drew herself up, superb with indignation. With her ardent, half-wild
nature she seemed to accept the charge of murder composedly enough, but
that of theft exasperated her. They knew it, and that was why folks,
from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face.

The man who had just called her father a thief was merely repeating
what he had heard said for many years. The girl's defiant attitude
only incited the workmen to jeer the more. Silvere still had his fists
clenched, and matters might have become serious if a poacher from
the Seille, who had been sitting on a heap of stones at the roadside
awaiting the order to march, had not come to the girl's assistance.

"The little one's right," he said. "Chantegreil was one of us. I knew
him. Nobody knows the real facts of his little matter. I always believed
in the truth of his deposition before the judge. The gendarme whom he
brought d