Emile darted to meet them, without asking himself if Janille had spoken, if they were on their guard against him, if they were likely to greet him coldly. He ran and leaped like a stone thrown down the steep side of the ravine. He ran as the crow flies, crossing the stream, which bounded with empty threats over the slippery stones, and reached the other slope to receive a hearty welcome from honest Antoine, and to take from the hands of Sylvain Charasson the bridle of the modest steed who bore Gilberte and her sweet smile and her blushing cheek and the joyous air which she tried in vain to restrain. Janille was not there. Janille had not spoken! How much sweeter joy seems after sorrow, and how quickly love makes up for the time wasted in suffering! Emile no longer remembered the day before and thought no more of the morrow. When he was among the ruins of Crozant once more, leading his beloved in triumph, he broke off all the branches he could reach and threw them under the donkey's feet, as the Hebrews of old strewed pearls along the track of the divine Master's humble beast. Then he took Gilberte in his arms to put her down upon the loveliest bit of greensward he could find, although she needed no such assistance to alight from so small and placid a creature. Emile was no longer timid, for he was mad; and if Antoine had not been the least clear-sighted of mankind, he would have realized that it was of no more use to think of holding in check that exalted passion, than of preventing the Creuse or the Sédelle from flowing and roaring. "Well, I am dying of hunger," said Monsieur Antoine, "and before I inquire how it happens that we meet so opportunely, I should like to hear something about luncheon. One guest more does not alarm us, for Janille has stuffed us with provender. Open your game-bag, you young rascal," he said to Sylvain, "while I go and cut a hole in the bag that my daughter has _en croupe_. Then Emile will run to the house yonder and obtain a supply of brown bread. Let us stay by the stream, it is pure water from the rock and is excellent when taken in small quantities with a generous quantity of wine." The repast was soon spread on the grass, Gilberte took a huge lotus leaf for a plate, and her father carved with a sort of sabre which he called a clasp-knife. In addition to the bread, Emile brought milk for Gilberte and wild cherries which were voted delicious, their bitter taste having at all events the merit of stimulating the appetite. Sylvain, perched like a monkey on an overhanging bough, had as generous a share as the others and ate with the more enjoyment, he said, because Mademoiselle Janille's eyes were not there to count his mouthfuls with an air of reproof. Emile was satisfied in a moment. Laugh as you will at the heroes in novels who never eat, it is very certain that lovers have little appetite, and that therein novels are as true as life itself.