It isn't the hard work which grieves me;
on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle's severity, and the
tasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I should
perhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvere, there are
moments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that I
should like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom."
As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvere
interrupted her somewhat harshly. "Be quiet," he said. "You promised not
to think about it. It's no crime of yours. . . . We love each other very
much, don't we?" he added in a gentler tone. "When we're married you'll
have no more unpleasant hours."
"I know," murmured Miette. "You are so kind, you sustain me. But what am
I to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at times
that I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something wicked.
You see I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father's name is
thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cry
at me as I pass, 'Eh, La Chantegreil,' I lose all control of myself, and
feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them."
After a savage pause she resumed: "As for you, you're a man; you're
going to fight; you're very lucky."
Silvere had let her speak on. After a few steps he observed sorrowfully:
"You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger. You shouldn't rebel against
justice.
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