They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which became singularly soft and sweet in that damp hole.  The sound seemed, indeed, to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of an evening in the country.  They understood that it would suffice to speak in a whisper in order to hear each other.  The well echoed the faintest breath.  Leaning over its brink, they conversed while gazing at one another’s reflection.  Miette related how sad she had been the last week.  She was now working at the other end of the Jas, and could only get out early in the morning.  Then she made a pout of annoyance which Silvere distinguished perfectly, and to which he replied by nodding his head with an air of vexation.  They were exchanging all those gestures and facial expressions that speech entails.  They cared but little for the wall which separated them now that they could see each other in those hidden depths.

“I knew,” continued Miette, with a knowing look, “that you came here to draw water every morning at the same hour.  I can hear the grating of the pulley from the house.  So I made an excuse, I pretended that the water in this well boiled the vegetables better.  I thought that I might come here every morning to draw water at the same time as you, so as to say good morning to you without anyone suspecting it.”

She smiled innocently, as though well pleased with her device, and ended by saying:  “But I did not imagine we should see each other in the water.”

It was, in fact, this unhoped-for pleasure which so delighted them.  They only spoke to see their lips move, so greatly did this new frolic amuse their childish natures.  And they resolved to use all means in their power to meet here every morning.  When Miette had said that she must go away, she told Silvere that he could draw his pail of water.  But he did not dare to shake the rope; Miette was still leaning over—­he could see her smiling face, and it was too painful to him to dispel that smile.  As he slightly stirred his pail, the water murmured, and the smile faded.  Then he stopped, seized with a strange fear; he fancied that he had vexed her and made her cry.  But the child called to him, “Go on! go on!” with a laugh which the echo prolonged and rendered more sonorous.  She herself then nosily sent down a pail.  There was a perfect tempest.  Everything disappeared under the black water.  And Silvere made up his mind to fill two pitchers, while listening to the retreating steps of Miette on the other side of the wall.

From that day, the young people never missed their assignations.  The slumbering water, the white mirrors in which they gazed at one another, imparted to their interviews a charm which long sufficed their playful, childish imaginations.  They had no desire to see each other face to face:  it seemed much more amusing to them to use the well as a mirror, and confide their morning greetings to its echo.  They soon came to look upon the well as an old friend.