She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms.  Then they ceased speaking.  They remained for another moment gazing and smiling at each other.  And finally, as Silvere seemingly had no more questions to ask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds, without raising her head.  The lad for his part remained on the wall for a while.  The sun was setting; a stream of oblique rays poured over the yellow soil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze—­one would have said that a fire was running along the ground—­and, in the midst of the flaming expanse, Silvere saw the little stooping peasant-girl, whose bare arms had resumed their rapid motion.  The blue cotton skirt was now becoming white; and rays of light streamed over the child’s copper-coloured arms.  At last Silvere felt somewhat ashamed of remaining there, and accordingly got off the wall.

In the evening, preoccupied with his adventure, he endeavoured to question aunt Dide.  Perhaps she would know who this Miette was who had such black eyes and such red lips.  But, since she had lived in the house in the alley, the old woman had never once given a look behind the wall of the little yard.  It was, to her, like an impassable rampart, which shut off her past.  She did not know—­she did not want to know—­what there might now be on the other side of that wall, in that old enclosure of the Fouques, where she had buried her love, her heart and her flesh.  As soon as Silvere began to question her she looked at him with childish terror.  Was he, then, going to stir up the ashes of those days now dead and gone, and make her weep like her son Antoine had done?

“I don’t know,” she said in a hasty voice; “I no longer go out, I never see anybody.”

Silvere waited the morrow with considerable impatience.  And as soon as he got to his master’s workshop, he drew his fellow-workmen into conversation.  He did not say anything about his interview with Miette; but spoke vaguely of a girl whom he had seen from a distance in the Jas-Meiffren.

“Oh! that’s La Chantegreil!” cried one of the workmen.

There was no necessity for Silvere to question them further, for they told him the story of the poacher Chantegreil and his daughter Miette, with that unreasoning spite which is felt for social outcasts.  The girl, in particular, they treated in a foul manner; and the insulting gibe of “daughter of a galley-slave” constantly rose to their lips like an incontestable reason for condemning the poor, dear innocent creature to eternal disgrace.

However, wheelwright Vian, an honest, worthy fellow, at last silenced his men.

“Hold your tongues, you foul mouths!” he said, as he let fall the shaft of a cart that he had been examining.  “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves for being so hard upon the child.  I’ve seen her, the little thing looks a very good girl.  Besides, I’m told she doesn’t mind work, and already does as much as any woman of thirty.  There are some lazy fellows here who aren’t a match for her.  I hope, later on, that she’ll get a good husband who’ll stop this evil talk.”