“Oh,” replied the girl, shaking her head, “you are very hopeful. For my part I sometimes feel very sad. It isn’t the hard work which grieves me; on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle’s severity, and the tasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I should perhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvère, there are moments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that I should like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom.” As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvère interrupted her somewhat harshly. “Be quiet,” he said. “You promised not to think about it. It’s no crime of yours. . . . We love each other very much, don’t we?” he added in a gentler tone. “When we’re married you’ll have no more unpleasant hours.” “I know,” murmured Miette. “You are so kind, you sustain me. But what am I to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at times that I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something wicked. You see I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father’s name is thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cry at me as I pass, ‘Eh, La Chantegreil,’ I lose all control of myself, and feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them.” After a savage pause she resumed: “As for you, you’re a man; you’re going to fight; you’re very lucky.” Silvère had let her speak on. After a few steps he observed sorrowfully: “You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger. You shouldn’t rebel against justice. As for me, I’m going to fight in defence of our common rights, not to gratify any personal animosity.” “All the same,” the young girl continued, “I should like to be a man and handle a gun. I feel that it would do me good.” Then, as Silvère remained silent, she perceived that she had displeased him. Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicating tone: “You are not angry with me, are you? It’s your departure which grieves me and awakens such ideas. I know very well you are right—that I ought to be humble.” Then she began to cry, and Silvère, moved by her tears, grasped her hands and kissed them. “See, now, how you pass from anger to tears, like a child,” he said lovingly. “You must be reasonable. I’m not scolding you. I only want to see you happier, and that depends largely upon yourself.” The remembrance of the drama which Miette had so sadly evoked cast a temporary gloom over the lovers. They continued their walk with bowed heads and troubled thoughts. “Do you think I’m much happier than you?” Silvère at last inquired, resuming the conversation in spite of himself. “If my grandmother had not taken care of me and educated me, what would have become of me? With the exception of my Uncle Antoine, who is an artisan like myself, and who taught me to love the Republic, all my other relations seem to fear that I might besmirch them by coming near them.”