Then he wanted to leap from the slope in order to join his companions.  At this moment, however, the insurgents halted.  Words of command ran along the column, the “Marseillaise” died out in a final rumble, and one could only hear the confused murmuring of the still surging crowd.  Silvere, as he listened, caught the orders which were passed on from one contingent to another; they called the men of Plassans to the van.  Then, as each battalion ranged itself alongside the road to make way for the banner, the young man reascended the embankment, dragging Miette with him.

“Come,” he said; “we can get across the river before they do.”

When they were on the top, among the ploughed land, they ran along to a mill whose lock bars the river.  Then they crossed the Viorne on a plank placed there by the millers, and cut across the meadows of Sainte-Claire, running hand-in-hand, without exchanging a word.  The column threw a dark line over the highway, which they followed alongside the hedges.  There were some gaps in the hawthorns, and at last Silvere and Miette sprang on to the road through one of them.

In spite of the circuitous way they had come, they arrived at the same time as the men of Plassans.  Silvere shook hands with some of them.  They must have thought he had heard of the new route they had chosen, and had come to meet them.  Miette, whose face was half-concealed by her hood, was scrutinised rather inquisitively.

“Why, it’s Chantegreil,” at last said one of the men from the Faubourg of Plassans, “the niece of Rebufat, the meger[*] of the Jas-Meiffren.”

     [*] A meger is a farmer in Provence who shares the
     expenses and profits of his farm with the owner of the land.

“Where have you sprung from, gadabout?” cried another voice.

Silvere, intoxicated with enthusiasm, had not thought of the distress which his sweetheart would feel at the jeers of the workmen.  Miette, all confusion, looked at him as if to implore his aid.  But before he could even open his lips another voice rose from the crowd, brutally exclaiming: 

“Her father’s at the galleys; we don’t want the daughter of a thief and murderer amongst us.”

At this Miette turned dreadfully pale.

“You lie!” she muttered.  “If my father did kill anybody, he never thieved!”

And as Silvere, pale and trembling more than she, began to clench his fists:  “Stop!” she continued; “this is my affair.”

Then, turning to the men, she repeated with a shout:  “You lie!  You lie!  He never stole a copper from anybody.  You know it well enough.  Why do you insult him when he can’t be here?”

She drew herself up, superb with indignation.  With her ardent, half-wild nature she seemed to accept the charge of murder composedly enough, but that of theft exasperated her.  They knew it, and that was why folks, from stupid malice, often cast the accusation in her face.