Nothing could have been of more sovereign grandeur.
Then the young people, having leant against the parapet of the bridge, gazed beneath them.

The Viorne, swollen by the rains, flowed on with a dull, continuous sound.

Up and down stream, despite the darkness which filled the hollows, they perceived the black lines of the trees growing on the banks; here and there glided the moonbeams, casting a trail of molten metal, as it were, over the water, which glittered and danced like rays of light on the scales of some live animal.

The gleams darted with a mysterious charm along the gray torrent, betwixt the vague phantom-like foliage.

You might have thought this an enchanted valley, some wondrous retreat where a community of shadows and gleams lived a fantastic life.
This part of the river was familiar to the lovers; they had often come here in search of coolness on warm July nights; they had spent hours hidden among the clusters of willows on the right bank, at the spot where the meadows of Sainte-Claire spread their verdant carpet to the waterside.