“Nonsense, girl, nonsense!” said Michael; “I don’t find any fault with you. Don’t think of getting yourself married till these wars be over, that’s all,” and he kissed her forehead, and patted her cheek as though all the difficulty were over.
“But, father—?” continued Annot, with her apron still to her face.
“Well, child, what is it? By the blessed mass, M. Chapeau, I don’t know what the girl’s crying for.”
“Do you love your own little Annot so very, very much?” said she, and she put her soft arm round his rough neck, and placed her cheek quite close to his.
“There, Annot; why what nonsense, girl! Don’t you know I love you? didn’t you hear me say so this minute? Leave off, will you, you little slut! why, what will M. Chapeau think of us? Well, I declare she’s crying still!”
“But if you really, really love me, father—”
“Bother the girl! she knows I love her better than anything else; God forgive me.”
“If you really love me,” repeated Annot, nestling her head in her father’s bosom, “you must, you must, you must—do something that I’ll ask you, father.”
“And what is it, child? I doubt much it’s nonsense.”
“You must love Jacques Chapeau too, father,” and having uttered these important words, Annot clung fast to her father’s arms, as if she feared he was going to throw her off, and sobbed and cried as though her heart were breaking.