Miette and Silvère/ Emile Zola
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.
Sufferings of Love/ Garcia Marquez
The young doctor was disappointed: he had never had the opportunity to study the effects of gold cyanide on a cadaver. Dr. Juvenal Urbino had been surprised that he had not seen him at the Medical School, but he understood in an instant from the young man’s easy blush and Andean accent that he was probably a recent arrival in the city. He said:
“There is bound to be someone driven mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days.”
And only after he said it, he realized that among the countless suicides he could remember, this was the first with cyanide that had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something changed in the tone of his voice.
“And when you do find one, observe with care,” he said to the intern: “they almost always have crystals in their heart.”
