runs at the other end, beneath a range of low hills. These meadows,
separated from the high-road by thickset hedges, are the meadows of
Sainte-Claire.

"Bah!" exclaimed Silvere this time, as he caught sight of the first
patches of grass: "we may as well go as far as the bridge."

At this Miette burst out laughing, clasped the young man round the neck,
and kissed him noisily.

At the spot where the hedges begin, there were in those days two elms
forming the end of the long avenue, two colossal trees larger than any
of the others. The treeless fields stretch out from the high road, like
a broad band of green wool, as far as the willows and birches by the
river. The distance from the last elms to the bridge is scarcely three
hundred yards. The lovers took a good quarter of an hour to cover that
space. At last, however slow their gait, they reached the bridge, and
there they stopped.

The road to Nice ran up in front of them, along the opposite slope of
the valley. But they could only see a small portion of it, as it takes a
sudden turn about half a mile from the bridge, and is lost to view among
the wooded hills. On looking round they caught sight of the other end
of the road, that which they had just traversed, and which leads in
a direct line from Plassans to the Viorne. In the beautiful winter
moonlight it looked like a long silver ribbon, with dark edgings traced
by the rows of elms. On the right and left the ploughed hill-land showed
like vast, grey, vague seas intersected by this ribbon, this roadway
white with frost, and brilliant as with metallic lustre. Up above, on a
level with the horizon, lights shone from a few windows in the Faubourg,