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. Silvere
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."

Silvere 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 Silvere remained silent, she perceived that she had displeased
him. Her feverishness subsided, and she whispered in a supplicating