He became flabbergasted, leaned further, and finally managed to grab the chisel. The little peasant girl began to feel embarrassed. Then, they stayed there, smiling at each other, the child below, her face still raised, the young boy half lying on the wall cap. They didn’t know how to part. They hadn’t exchanged a word. Silvère even forgot to say thank you.

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Marie,” replied the peasant girl, “but everyone calls me Miette.” She raised herself slightly and, in a clear voice, asked,

“And you?”

“My name is Silvère,” replied the young worker.

There was a silence during which they seemed to listen complacently to the music of their names.

“I’m fifteen,” Silvère continued. “And you?”

“I will be eleven on All Saints’ Day,” said Miette.

The young worker gestured in surprise.

“Oh well,” he said, laughing. I took you for a woman! You have big arms.”

She began to laugh, too, lowering her eyes to her arms. Then, they said no more. They remained there for a good while, looking at each other and smiling. As Silvère seemed to have no more questions, Miette left and went back to pulling weeds without raising her head. He stayed a moment longer on the wall.