"Yes, let us walk a little," she eagerly replied. "Let us go as far as
the mill. I could pass the whole night like this if you wanted to."
They rose from the tombstone, and were soon hidden in the shadow of a
pile of planks. Here Miette opened her cloak, which had a quilted
lining of red twill, and threw half of it over Silvere's shoulders,
thus enveloping him as he stood there close beside her. The same garment
cloaked them both, and they passed their arms round each other's waist,
and became as it were but one being. When they were thus shrouded in the
pelisse they walked slowly towards the high road, fearlessly crossing
the vacant parts of the wood-yard, which looked white in the moonlight.
Miette had thrown the cloak over Silvere, and he had submitted to it
quite naturally, as though indeed the garment rendered them a similar
service every evening.
The road to Nice, on either side of which the suburban houses are built,
was, in the year 1851, lined with ancient elm-trees, grand and gigantic
ruins, still full of vigour, which the fastidious town council has
replaced, some years since, by some little plane-trees. When Silvere and
Miette found themselves under the elms, the huge boughs of which cast
shadows on the moonlit footpath, they met now and again black forms
which silently skirted the house fronts. These, too, were amorous
couples, closely wrapped in one and the same cloak, and strolling in the
darkness.
This style of promenading has been instituted by the young lovers of
Southern towns.
Pages:
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40