their walk. They had come straight from the Faubourg without casting a
single glance at the fields between which they passed. When Silvere had
kissed Miette's cheek, he raised his head and observed the mill.

"What a long walk we've had!" he exclaimed. "See--here is the mill. It
must be nearly half-past nine. We must go home."

But Miette pouted. "Let us walk a little further," she implored; "only a
few steps, just as far as the little cross-road, no farther, really."

Silvere smiled as he again took her round the waist. Then they continued
to descend the hill, no longer fearing inquisitive glances, for they had
not met a living soul since passing the last houses. They nevertheless
remained enveloped in the long pelisse, which seemed, as it were, a
natural nest for their love. It had shrouded them on so many happy
evenings! Had they simply walked side by side, they would have felt
small and isolated in that vast stretch of country, whereas, blended
together as they were, they became bolder and seemed less puny. Between
the folds of the pelisse they gazed upon the fields stretching on both
sides of the road, without experiencing that crushing feeling with which
far-stretching callous vistas oppress the human affections. It seemed
to them as though they had brought their house with them; they felt a
pleasure in viewing the country-side as from a window, delighting in the
calm solitude, the sheets of slumbering light, the glimpses of nature
vaguely distinguishable beneath the shroud of night and winter, the
whole of that valley indeed, which while charming them could not thrust
itself between their close-pressed hearts.

All continuity of conversation had ceased; they spoke no more of others,
nor even of themselves. They were absorbed by the present, pressing each