“Annot,” said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringly looked straight before her, determined not to know that she was followed. “Annot, stop awhile. You are not in such a hurry, are you, to see Dame Rouel?”
“Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you?—in a hurry to see Dame Rouel. No—I’m in no particular hurry.”
“Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? Heaven knows when you and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough before I see Echanbroignes again.”
Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which led through the fields to the mill.
“I suppose it may,” said she, determined, if possible, that the amende should be made by Jacques and not by herself.
“I see you are indifferent about that,” said Jacques, with a soft and sentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; “well, when you hear of my death, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?”
“Oh, I will, M. Chapeau! Of course I’ll think of you, and of all my friends.”
Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the heads of the blue-bells with his little cane. “I am not different to you then from any one else, eh, Annot?” said he.
“How different, M. Chapeau?”
“You will think as much of young Boullin, the baker?”