“They’ve no liberty,” said Michael, “though they usually take a deal too much licence. They never are allowed to call their time their own, though they often misuse the time that ought to belong to other people.”
For a long time Chapeau combatted such arguments as these, but without avail; the smith declared that now, as his two sons had become soldiers, it would break his heart if his daughter also were to marry one. He assured Jacques, with tears running down his rough cheeks, that he could not bring himself to give his daughter his blessing, if she left his house without his leave to marry a soldier. He declared that he also loved her better than all the world, and that he could not bear to part with her; and his tears and kindly words had such an effect upon Annot, that she could not restrain herself: she burst into tears herself and running out of her little room, threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Get up, thou simpleton; get up, thou little fool,” said he. “Why, Annot, what ails thee?”
“Oh, father! dear father!” said she.
“Get up then, Annot, and I’ll speak to thee. I never saw thee in this way before.”
“Oh, father!” she said, sobbing violently, “do you love your poor daughter so very, very much?”
“Love you, Annot! why yes, I do love you. If you’ll be a good girl, that is, I will love you.”
“I will be a good girl, dear father; indeed I’ll be a good girl; at any rate I’ll try. But then—” and she stood up, and commenced wiping her eyes with her little apron.
“Well, what then, Annot?” said the smith.
“But then—I wouldn’t anger you, father, for all the world; indeed I wouldn’t, for you always are so good to me, and I know I don’t deserve it,” and poor Annot continued sobbing and rubbing her eyes with her apron.