Under her dark locks appeared her low forehead, curved and golden like a
crescent moon. Her large prominent eyes, her short tip-tilted nose with
dilated nostrils, and her thick ruddy lips, when regarded apart from one
another, would have looked ugly; viewed, however, all together, amidst
the delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her countenance, they
formed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty. When Miette laughed,
throwing back her head and gently resting it on her right shoulder, she
resembled an old-time Bacchante, her throat distending with sonorous
gaiety, her cheeks round like those of a child, her teeth large and
white, her twists of woolly hair tossed by every outburst of merriment,
and waving like a crown of vine leaves. To realise that she was only a
child of thirteen, one had to notice the innocence underlying her full
womanly laughter, and especially the child-like delicacy of her chin and
soft transparency of her temples. In certain lights Miette's sun-tanned
face showed yellow like amber. A little soft black down already shaded
her upper lip. Toil too was beginning to disfigure her small hands,
which, if left idle, would have become charmingly plump and delicate.

Miette and Silvere long remained silent. They were reading their own
anxious thoughts, and, as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of the
morrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed with
each other, they understood how useless and cruel would be any verbal
plaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself,
and, choking with emotion, she gave expression, in one phrase, to their
mutual misgivings.

"You will come back again, won't you?" she whispered, as she hung on
Silvere's neck.

Silvere made no reply, but, half-stifling, and fearing lest he should